Slide by Gerald A Browne Page A

assortment of homemade tasting cupcakes. Judith and Marion wouldn’t be seeing one another again until Monday, because Marion had to drive up to Bakersfield for an overnight visit with her sister-in-law. It would be another long, lonely weekend. Marion would phone, she promised. They headed for the express check-out. Suddenly, they were clutching one another. Their arms were wrapped and their legs overlapped. They took the shock together.
    Amy Javakian got a bloody nose from a hit, like a punch, from an airborne potato. It knocked her down but not out. Her first thought was to somehow protect her unborn child. She remembered from something she’d read that to relax was best. She ended up among some cartons of macaroni, noodles and dried beans.
    Amy’s husband, Peter, took some painful knocks but was not badly injured. He found himself jammed against a magazine rack beneath a pile of paperback books and egg-shaped containers of panty hose. Some of the hose had popped out right before Peter’s eyes and looked like bunched up patches of shriveled skin.
    Emory Swanson, the insurance man, could have gotten out in plenty of time — if he had left the market as soon as he was told it didn’t carry the brand of toasted coconut chips his wife, Eleanor, wanted. However, Emory, in his fashion, had to get away with something. He helped himself to a bag of Pennsylvania pretzels that had been baked in Glendale, and he nibbled those as he strolled the aisles. On the lookout for something likely. Capers? Anchovies? Tobler chocolate? He settled on Ultra-Brite toothpaste. He had a way with toothpaste. He opened the flaps of one end, inverted the carton and let the tube slide into his jacket pocket. He then put the empty carton back into place on the shelf, and that was that.
    When it happened, Emory survived because he got sandwiched in, surrounded tightly by three other people, who absorbed the danger. Two of the three were killed by well-known nationally advertised flying objects.

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    People wanted to see it.
    Traffic was barely moving on the Coast Highway. A number of drivers had pulled over to park so they could get more than a passing look. Cars were backed up for miles in both directions.
    The state highway patrol got things moving. They promptly cleared and closed that section of highway, a six-mile stretch. Northbound traffic was rerouted via the Crown Valley Parkway. Those headed south had to use Laguna Canyon. Only residents of the area with proof of that fact were allowed through the police blockades.
    The rain was persistent as ever. Actually it seemed to be coming down harder, streaking, and the wind made conditions worse. It had started getting stronger earlier that afternoon and by now it was almost up to gale force. It was the sort of deceitful wind that alternately lulled and gusted, blowing from seaward or down coast from the north or frequently, as though to demonstrate its perversity, from both directions at once.
    The rain tatooed on the yellow raingear of the highway patrolmen.
    The time was five-fifteen.
    The rain rat-a-tat-tatted a slightly different sound on the beige-colored waterproof “turnouts” of the firemen. Four firetrucks — pumpers — had come from Laguna Beach. The Orange County Fire Protection Department had dispatched an aerial unit, more commonly known as a hook and ladder. Because the bluff was partly within the limits of Laguna Beach, that city’s fire chief was in charge of the operation.
    Fire Chief Croy.
    His white helmet stood out. Only a chief could wear a white one. Other fire officers had red helmets and ordinary firemen wore black.
    Chief Croy and his officer assistant, a man named Pinkett, stood on the shoulder of the highway, apart from their men, who had hurried and now had to wait for orders.
    The chief was a thick-trunked man around five eight. He appeared strong, body and face. The butt of a filter-tipped cigarette, extinguished by the rain, was