The next day was Saturday, the fifth and last day of Ian's first week. He met Marcus in the break room, having a discussion with a man whom Ian recognized as Andy’s partner. “Ian, this is Jeremy,” said Marcus, and the man extended his hand.
Ian took Jeremy’s hand and shook, looking him in the eye and nodding once. “You’re Andy’s partner,” he said.
Jeremy nodded. “He’s off today, though. Angie’s on.” He glanced at his watch, made a few remarks to Marcus from which it appeared that Marcus had asked his advice on a difficult-to-start car, and was collecting his radio from the table when a woman walked in – a rather striking woman, Ian thought, if perhaps somewhat thin. She had a face that nature had intended to be pleased or even jolly, but right now it wore a frown. “Are we ready?” she asked Jeremy, ignoring Ian and Marcus. “Dispatch gave us an EtOH down on Bourbon Street. Hi, who are you?” she said, suddenly noting Ian’s unfamiliar face, “I’m Angie. Are you coming?” She asked, already having turned her attention back to Jeremy. “¡Ándale! ¡Arriba!” she said, banging her knuckle against the table top for emphasis before turning to leave.
“It's probably only Bobby," Jeremy said, slinging the radio holster over his head and shoulder and following her out. Ian and Marcus continued to hear them squabble for another several seconds until they turned the corner into the garage and their voices cut off abruptly.
"Bobby's one of our frequent fliers," Marcus said in response to Ian's questioning look. "We see him several times a week."
Ian crossed to the sink, found a mug that looked to be clean, and poured himself some coffee from the machine on the counter. "Truck isn't in yet?" he asked.
"Truck? Oh, you mean bus. No. Not yet."
Ian nodded. A map of the area hung on the wall opposite the sink. Ian walked over and considered it "I don't see any Bourbon Street," he said after several minutes.
Marcus smiled. "It's Derben Street actually," he said, joining Ian and pointing it out on the map. "Several blocks are nothing but liquor stores, though. They're known as Bourbon Street. Erin and Smiley just walked past; we should get our narcs and radios."
Smiley, who also answered to the name of George, was a short, mildly obese man whose belly bulged out in front of him, pulling his uniform shirt tight. His face reminded Ian of Mikhail Gorbachev, less the port-wine stain. His name tag read Guinness. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. He offered his hand Ian as he walked into the office, introducing himself ("I'm Smiley, three-five X tour one. You must be Steele.") and pumping Ian's hand vigorously.
"Uh, yes," said Ian, allowing his hand to be pumped, "yes, Ian Steele."
"Good to meet you. Marcus here giving you a hard time?" Smiley asked with a grin. "I guess I should be signing my morphine over to you. And here's your radio and keys. Are you driving today? You'll need to get fuel. Good to see you, [Marcus's last name]" shaking Marcus's hand. "You keeping out of trouble? Okay, I have to pick up my kid, I'll be seeing you. Good to meet you, Steele," he called over his shoulder, exiting the room and leaving Ian feeling slightly exhausted.
Out in the ambulance, Ian discovered the Smiley had been right: they did need fuel; the front tank showed just over one-quarter full, and the rear tank showed even less. Once they checked their gear, Marcus directed Ian over Station 16 for fuel.
Once they had refueled (this involved an ancient fuel pump whose mechanical display squeaked as the number-bearing wheels spun) they drifted slowly over to 199 and Maxwell streets, where they parked next the fire hydrant at the corner, locked the ambulance, and stepped into the bodega part way down the block.
When they returned, the computer was beeping, and Ian's heart jumped -- they had missed a call. Marcus seemed unperturbed, though, as he calmly called up the dispatch info. "They want someone to cover a tour three shift, starting at five," he said as he folded back the plastic tab of his coffee cup's lid. "Standard overtime rate. Time-and-a-half," he added, seeing mild confusion on Ian's face.
"But we get off at six," Ian said, "why are they asking us?"
"They're asking everyone, Ian. And sometimes they'll let you do it, if they're really stuck."
Ian considered this. "What's standard overtime?" He finally asked.
"Standard overtime is time-and-a-half for the first 16 hours, then it's double-time after that. If you're mandated, though, you multiply that by one half. There are also differences -- well, increases for low staff levels, very low staff levels, and extremely low staff levels. If the situation was right, Ian, you can make five times your base pay. I don't think anyone's done that."
"Five times," Ian repeated.
"Five times," Marcus nodded.
* * *
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