Table of contents | Previous chapter Introduction | Cast of characters   Playing with Fire A novel by Scott Lazenby   Chapter 16 t seemed like it had rained every day for the last three months. Most of the time it was a light drizzle — nothing to carry an umbrella for — but as always, the wet winter was overstaying its welcome. Although, come to think of it, I had been able to walk to and from work when I didn’t have night meetings, and I never got really wet.       The firefighters’ effort to stir up public opinion had kicked into high gear. There was an unending chain of letters to the editor in the local weekly paper, most of which I guessed were written by relatives and friends of firefighters or their union brethren. Firefighters, in uniform, started showing up at neighborhood association meetings, even though they had rarely attended in the past. They were ostensibly there to talk about fire prevention, and just happened to be available to answer questions about the imminent threat to public safety that would occur with fewer fire crews. A columnist for The Oregonian took up the cause, with a cynical piece that boiled down to the cliché, “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”       On the other side of the metro area, in Troutdale, someone died in an apartment fire, and the Trillium Firefighters Association jumped on the news like a pack of drooling hyenas, trumpeting the message, “IT COULD HAPPEN HERE.” No one made any mention of the fact that the young single mother had died of smoke inhalation long before anyone called the fire department. Her ten-year-old son had pilfered the battery in the smoke alarm for his Game Boy, and the fire department’s response time was never a factor.       I had a strategy session with Betty Sue Castle and Max Oakley. Betty Sue argued that we couldn’t just sit still, that we had to respond to the allegations and misinformation. Max countered that almost anything we did would be seen as defensive and self-serving, and that we should trust in the common sense of the public.       “Common sense?!” Betty Sue squinted at Max. “P.T. Barnum was right when he said you can’t underestimate the intelligence of the American public. If the public had any common sense, we wouldn’t be in this tax rollback pickle in the first place.”       “But you must admit that some of the staff’s arguments are valid,” Max said. “They do have some experience in this area.”       “Yeah, and here’s my opinion about that,” Betty Sue retorted. “I was at a party last Saturday, and a friend of a friend was there with her husband, who happens to be a firefighter. He didn’t recognize me, thank God. I sat there eating nachos and cheese and listening to this guy spout out drivel to all the assembled guests. He informed us that having fewer fire crews would clearly lead to more deaths, but that the public’s top priority was public safety, and that the city council was coming around and would rein in the city manager any day now. He used big words, like ‘utilize our apparatus more efficiently,’ but it was obvious, at least to me, that he was spouting the party line from rote memory, and — ”       “Now, how can you say that?” Max demanded.       “Easy. Look, here’s a guy that probably barely made it through high school, maybe got good enough grades to pass, as long as it didn’t interfere with his JV football team and going out in the woods killing animals with his old man. So he finds himself with a diploma and no skills, and falls into firefighting because it’s a macho job and not too intellectually demanding. Sure, he’s got to memorize a bunch of responses to situations, like an army private getting drilled on taking apart his rifle, but his knowledge of medicine and biology is at best superficial. And he starts to get a thrill when he shows up at accidents and people treat him like a hero, like an expert. This happens enough times that he gets an overblown opinion of his own knowledge and intelligence, and suddenly becomes an authority on fire and medical strategies and tactics. He can lecture people at parties on the right way to manage a forty-person department, and he comes off as a big expert, but the fact is he couldn’t figure out how to pour piss out of a boot with instructions printed on the heel.” She stopped to take a breath.       “Tell me, Betty Sue,” I said, “how do you really feel about this?” She looked at me for a moment. Then her shoulders sagged and she laughed. So did Max.       “I don’t agree with your characterization of firefighters,” Max said, “but you are correct about one thing. There are belief systems involved here, not just cold hard facts and analysis. And it is hard to use data and logic to change belief systems. For centuries, the Catholics believed it was a sin to eat meat on Friday. Suddenly the pope tells them they can eat meat on Friday, but it was hard for a lot of people to do it. They thought, ‘What if he’s wrong and I go to hell?’ Now, you can dig into the Bible and make logical arguments one way or another on what people should eat, but it is simply a hard thing to change beliefs. And I think you will find that this is true of many professions, not just ours.”       “So exactly what belief is it that we’re up against here?” Betty Sue asked.       “Well, it resists simple definition. But one of them is that it is the firefighter’s job to rescue people, period. They are the ones who are supposed to come to the rescue. That means fires, accidents, medical emergencies. That’s why fire departments rescue cats in trees. That’s why you’re seeing things like water rescue units, haz-mat teams, and teams equipped to rappel off cliffs and perform mountain rescues.”       “Okay, so maybe we just emphasize that what we’re creating is a fire rescue team, and a medical rescue team. What’s the difference?”       “We must go back to the belief system principle. Don’t forget that it is often the same individuals that are on all these units and teams. Again, the belief says, our job is to come to the rescue, and anything that goes against this is an attack on the American flag. Don’t put blinders on, Betty Sue. You’re operating from the belief system that says we should do things based on cold hard logic, but perhaps that is a view that isn’t universally held.”       “Maybe so, but that’s why we’re in the dark ages in so many areas.”       “This may all be true,” I said, “but at this point it’s too late to win over the firefighters. Our challenge now is with the public. What do we do to inject some rational discussion in the hysteria that’s floating around now?”       Max got up and poured himself a cup of coffee. “I propose a forum where these issues can be aired,” he said. “We can share the same analysis with the public that we did with the council. Let them see the data for themselves.”       “Okay, that’s a possibility,” I said. “The only problem with it is that people don’t like to go to forums to learn things, they like to go to forums to talk, to tell other people what to do.”       “Sure, we’ll just get mobbed by the Association and their mouthpieces,” Betty Sue said.       “How about this,” I said. “We’re probably seeing and hearing from the folks on the extreme ends of this issue. I’ve got to believe there’s a large block of people in the middle, who may have some questions and concerns, but generally have an open mind. We’ll never get them to a forum, but if we mail them some information, they may actually read it.”       “I don’t know,” Betty Sue said. “Nine out of ten of them will just throw it out with the other junk mail.”       “Right, but at least we’ve reached the one person out of ten.”       Max shrugged. •      •      •       I met with Matt Monroe at a Shari’s restaurant near the Portland Airport. His company, City/County Fire Services, served as the contract fire department for Las Vegas and several other cities in the Southwest. From what I knew of them, they claimed to be more efficient than city fire departments because they “operated like a business.” But I wondered if it really had something to do with the relative lack of union strength in their part of the country. And it seemed they had independently come to the same conclusion as Betty Sue on the separation of fire and medical services. A former colleague of mine — the assistant city manager of Reno — served as a volunteer firefighter for City/County, and I knew he dealt with fires only, and never responded to medical calls.       The temperature was mild, by our standards, but Monroe had been wearing an overcoat when I picked him up at the airport. He had high cheekbones and hawk-like eyes. We ordered bowls of chowder and talked about the weather and the quality of Oregon microbrews and the UNLV basketball season, before getting down to business.       “So Ben, you’re probably wondering why I came out here.”       “Yes, I’m mildly curious.”       “Well, part of it is that I just want to find out what’s going on with your city — I’ve heard a lot of rumors, but I’d like to get it from the horse’s mouth, if you’ll pardon the expression.”       “Actually, it’s a pleasant change to be associated with that part of a horse’s anatomy,” I said. “I’ve been called a lot worse.” He laughed.       I described our budget challenge, and the analysis that Betty Sue had done. Monroe nodded, occasionally jotting a note in a planner he carried.       “It does make a lot of sense,” Monroe said. “But I can see why the union is fighting it so hard. You know what they say about the fire service. ‘Two hundred years of tradition unfettered by progress.’ “       I chuckled. “That’s about it.”       “And the ambulance company — Oregon Ambulance Service, did you say? — turned you down?”       “Yep.”       “Hmm.” Monroe picked up a salt shaker and turned it in the air, watching the light shine through the facets cut in the glass. I gave him time.       “When you first talked to OAS,” Monroe asked, “did you talk at all about ambulance service and the revenue that brings in?”       “No, at least I don’t think so. My assistant, Betty Sue, handled the discussions. What’s the issue there?”       “Well, here’s how I see it. You were on the right track with OAS, but the contract you would have had with them — if they had had the courage to carry through with it — would have cost you more than it needed to. See, here’s a little secret of the trade. The ambulance service — transporting people to a hospital — is a profit center, and cities are crazy for not getting a piece of that.”       “Some do, actually.”       “Yes, but not very many. And the ones that do always have a lower net cost for their fire department, because for a change they actually have something they can bill insurance companies for. Matter of fact, if a transport is involved, the ambulance fees can cover the whole response cost.”       “Yes, but not everyone has insurance, or the right kind of coverage. Not every transport is going to bring in money. And a lot of emergency medical responses don’t result in a transport, either.”       “True, but how much are you billing for now? You’re making medical house calls for a lot of people who are well off, and for people who have plenty of medical insurance. What kind of sense does that make?”       “So what do you propose we do?”       “Well, here’s the angle I’m looking at. Now, understand I’m just exploring it, and can’t make any commitments until we can take a closer look at it. But if City/County can provide your EMS service, and if you throw ambulance service in with it, I think we can do it at a fraction of the cost you’re paying now.”       “And this is because you’re netting out the billings to insurance companies.”       “Right. Plus, we do operate very efficiently.”       “Well, let’s talk about that. The way we’ve got it now, our crews often beat the ambulance company to an accident. But people have come to expect a quick response, and in fact, that’s something we’ve pledged in the reconfiguration of the fire department. Does your higher efficiency really translate into less service?”       “No, not at all. Response time is simply a matter of having the right resources at the right place at the right time. We can configure our service to any response time you specify. True, the higher the service, the more it costs, but I think you’ll find that we can beat anyone on cost.”       “Would you be able to offer jobs to our firefighters?”       “Of course, we make a point of doing that. It would be at the pay and benefits we set, though.”       Meaning less pay and benefits, no doubt. “So that’s part of the secret to your efficiency?”       “Some, but a smaller part than you might think. Sure, the entry level is lower, but most of our management positions are occupied by people who were previously in the municipal fire service, and I can assure you that they’re very satisfied with their situation. And all of our staff participates in our gain-sharing program, where they receive bonuses based on the financial performance of the company. These bonuses can be very substantial, and this creates a tremendous incentive for efficiency.”       I thought about Max’s observation about belief systems. Maybe it took one set of beliefs about capitalism and profit to trump another set of beliefs about doing things the way they had always been done. If so, it wasn’t a card I had to play, but City/County might be able to pull it off.       “Okay,” I said, “but how about this problem. We’re going through enough turmoil in attempting to reduce the number of fire crews. Turning the whole medical area over to a private company might be just too big of a leap.”       “You were facing that issue with the OAS contract, right?”       “Yes, and frankly, I didn’t know how it would play out. But of course it ended up being a moot issue.”       “All I can say is, come to the communities we’re in now. When you see a pumper or rescue rig roll down the streets of Springfield, it looks exactly like a City of Springfield rig, and when the staff jump out of it, their uniform says “City of Springfield Fire & Rescue.” Think of it as a unit within your own organization. True, it may operate by a slightly different set of rules, but I think you will find that we fit in very well with your government and your community.”       Something he said sent off a warning bell. “You said ‘Fire & Rescue.’ You’re not looking for the fire contract too, are you?”       “No. To tell you the truth, I’m intrigued by the experiment you’ve got going here, and I want to see how it turns out. Contracting that out would just muddy the waters. But I also know that, over time, you and the community will become very supportive of our EMS service. In the future, contracting for fire suppression will be a very different question than it is now, and I would just as soon wait until then before even bringing it up. I don’t like controversial issues any more than you do. That’s probably why I got out of city management in the first place.”       “Oh? You were a city manager?”       “Yes, for a small town in Utah.”       “For how long?”       “Six years.”       “Well I’ll be. So how did you like it?”       Monroe paused and took a long drink of his water. I tried to remember if I had ever seen his name mentioned in the city management newsletter.       He carefully put down his glass. “I did enjoy it, for the most part. It was interesting — maybe too interesting. The council members hated each other. In a meeting, the mayor publicly referred to one of his colleagues as the worst specimen of humanity he had seen outside an institution. We had to put two armed cops up there, one on each end of the council bench, to keep them from going at each other. The council had a sheet of steel installed into the front of the bench, in case someone brought a gun into the meeting. And they had me put a phone at the staff table, with a direct connection to the police dispatch desk.”       “You’re kidding.”       “No. At some point in the town’s history a guy had come into city hall, waving a gun around and saying he was going to liberate the city.”       I laughed. “So I’m not the only one who gets to deal with kooks, huh?”       “No. And that wasn’t half of it. We had a police officer — a woman — who was in line for promotion to sergeant. She was married to a firefighter. Just before he promoted her, the police chief caught wind that she was having an affair with one of the police officers — one of the officers that she would end up supervising as sergeant. So the chief told her she would have to knock it off if she wanted the promotion. She agreed, but a year later the chief discovered she was still shacking up with the officer. He busted her to corporal, and then she informed him that she had gone to the human resources director for advice, and he had told her that the chief didn’t have any grounds for a nepotism policy if the people involved weren’t married to each other and if the policy wasn’t in writing. Last I heard, the court cases are still dragging out over that one.”       I just shook my head.       “Wait, that’s not all,” he said. “The cops wanted us to buy into a new, expensive state pension plan. And, of course, they wanted a healthy raise at the same time. The council said they could have one or the other, but not both. The cops said, ‘Fine, we’ll strike.’ The council said, ‘Well, y’all go right ahead.’ So they did, but the council stuck to their guns. The cops finally came back to work and settled for a raise but no new pension system. The whole thing had dragged out so long that we were back into the next contract negotiations in three months. I was amazed when they brought the pension issue up again. ‘Are you crazy?’ I asked them. ‘You just took a strike over it and lost.’ So they said, ‘Yeah, but this time we’ve got three more council votes.’ I asked them how they had managed that, not believing a word of it, and they said, ‘Sure, we got three of them to commit to it in exchange for our endorsement in the election. You wanna see the videotape?’ “       “The videotape?” I asked, not sure I had heard him right.       “Yep. Apparently the police union guys told the council candidates that, since the officers worked different shifts, some of the other guys wanted to be at the meeting but couldn’t, so they wanted to watch it on a videotape. The amazing thing is the council candidates agreed.”       “So the cops got their pension?”       “Yeah. After the election. The new council members were even worse than the old ones. They had run on the promise of shaking things up at city hall, and they did — before I knew it, I was out on the street. You know what they say — I left the same way I came: fired with enthusiasm.”       I chuckled and shook my head “Yeah, that’s rough. Happens all the time, though.”       “Sure. And it turned out all right in the end. I did some consulting for a while, then City/County offered me a job, and I haven’t looked back. In fact, I started there about the same time that your Max Oakley did.”       “What?”       “Yeah, I started with them about fourteen years ago. Oakley was hired just after me, at the headquarters in Tempe. He left after a couple of years though.”       “Hmm.” I hadn’t remembered that, but Oakley was already fire chief when I started with the City of Trillium, and he had never talked much about his past.       Monroe glanced up, piercing me with his eyes. “You know, if we start up an operation out here, we’ll need someone to manage our northwest region. You might want to give that some thought.”       “Hmm.” Was it a serious offer, or just a plum to dangle in front of my eyes? “Well, I appreciate it, but I’m doing all right where I am. There are still a lot of other projects I want to see happen.”       “Well, keep it in mind.”       When I got back to the office, I told Betty Sue about the conversation with Monroe, and the possibility of entering into a contract with City/County.       “I gave him a copy of our budget document,” I said, “but he’ll probably need more information before he can give us a proposal.”       “Okay,” she said quietly.       “You might want to forward him the analysis you did on the fire and EMS calls.”       “All right.”       “So, what do you think about this turn of events?”       “It sounds fine,” she said, without enthusiasm.       I looked at her for a moment. “Okay, I’m pretty dense about things like this, but it seems that something is bothering you.”       “No.”       I waited.       “Is that all?” she asked.       “You tell me.”       She sighed. “Okay. Maybe it’s just that you caught me by surprise. But here I’ve been in the middle of this from the beginning, it was even my idea in the first place. You let me negotiate the deal with Oregon Ambulance, and I’ve been slaving away on the PR stuff for you. And then you go and set up a secret meeting that you never tell me about, and don’t even invite me to join you. How would that make you feel?”       I didn’t know what to say. I could have told her that it would have been difficult to include her without including Max, and I had a vague suspicion that it had been Max who soured the deal with Oregon Ambulance. I could have said that it was Monroe who set up the meeting, and I didn’t have any idea what would come of it. Maybe earlier in my career I would have tried one of those excuses.       “You know, Betty Sue, you’re right. I just wasn’t thinking, and that was pretty inconsiderate of me.”       “Well, it’s okay.”       I studied her eyes. “No, it’s not. You should have been in the meeting, not only to keep on top of the issue, but to ask the questions that I didn’t think of.”       “Well, I’m sure I’ll get a chance to talk to this Monroe guy soon. It’s no big deal.” •      •      •       In contrast with Rob Titus, Seth Rosenberg didn’t hang around city hall, and in fact rarely participated in issues and events that were outside the normal city business. So I had to go to his office to seek his wisdom.       The Trillium Business Leadership Committee continued to put out publicity on their phone referendum on whether I should be fired because of my support for Nova’s housing project. They had made arrangements with a real estate office to use their bank of phones, and claimed they had recruited twenty volunteers to take the calls on the day of the big event.       Seth told me not to worry about it. He said the council wasn’t going to get bullied into any rash decisions, particularly when the source was the TBLC.       “So you already think their phone poll will come out negative?” I asked.       “You’ve got to admit there’s a good chance. Who’s going to call in? People who were satisfied by the city’s decision on the housing project? People who weren’t even paying attention to the issue? No, they’ll attract negative responses like fly paper.”       “Great. Thanks for your encouraging prediction.”       Seth laughed. “Like I said, don’t worry about it. It’s irrelevant.”       The small meeting table in his office was piled high with files, glossy brochures with pictures of saws and mill equipment. Seth had pushed a stack aside to clear a space for me at the table. The top half of the pile looked like it wanted to slide onto the floor. I kept an eye on it.       “Well, here’s another hot topic that you may get to deal with.” I told him about the possible option of contracting with City/County.       Seth pulled at his beard for a few moments. “That wouldn’t be a bad alternative at all.”       “You really think so? It’s rough enough with the firefighters association on our case; this will get Oregon Ambulance to jump into the fray too.”       “You’re right, and they were an important source of my campaign funding.”       I looked at him in surprise.       “Just kidding,” Seth said. I figured so. Except for a few yard signs, council candidates didn’t spend much on campaigns, and instead relied on the press and statements in the voters’ pamphlet. People didn’t always realize that there wasn’t much money involved in council campaigns, or council salaries, for that matter. State and national elections revolved around money, but people forgot that that too was a relatively recent phenomenon, and that even national elections used to be fairly low budget affairs.       “So you think it’s okay to pursue this?” I asked.       “Sure. We need to keep all our options open. We’ve got to do what makes most financial sense, even if it means taking some flak. How does the saying go? You can’t see where you’re going if you spend all the time with your ear to the ground? Besides, you don’t even know yet if City/County is going to make a proposal. Let’s stay in the game and see what cards we draw.”       The pile of papers started to slide. I caught it and straightened the stack a little. “How come you don’t get someone to file this stuff?”       “Then how would I know where it is?” Seth said, smiling. “Besides, if I let it sit here long enough, we never have to file it at all — I can just chuck it.”       “Are you getting many irate calls on the fire issue?”       “No, not really. Maggie and Rob seem to be magnets for that kind of thing. For whatever reason, people leave me alone. That’s fine with me.” •      •      •       The foundation was being poured for Nova’s factory, and the utilities were being buried in trenches that generally followed the street right-of-way. We had had a pre-application meeting with Nova’s housing development arm, and for a change, things seemed to be working smoothly.       It didn’t last long, though.       “Listen, Ben, we really need to get our expansion area into the urban growth boundary,” John Collins said on the phone. He reminded me of the jobs that would be produced on the current site, and the potential for more that an expansion would yield.       “That’s right, John. But that’s exactly why you’re safe holding off until later. The state economic development folks will make sure you get the approvals, when the time comes.” Unless, of course, the state government finally figures out that job growth is fueling the population growth that the state’s residents are starting to rebel against.       “Well, you and I may believe that, but the corporation doesn’t like to take those kind of chances.” He paused for a moment. “Look, the head of our land acquisition group wants to fly out from Toledo to talk to you about it.”       I agreed, and let Terri set up the details.       We met a few days later in the city council’s conference room. Anthony Costoso had arrived with John Collins and Ken Ishido. His handshake was a little too firm, and the two massive gold rings on his right hand pinched my fingers. He was a few years younger than I was, with jet black hair combed straight back. He wore an expensive wool suit with a handkerchief carefully folded in the breast pocket, and his argyle socks matched the colors in his tie.       I checked for Bess Wilson’s reaction, but if she was impressed or intimidated, she didn’t show it.       “With all of Nova’s property in California, what the hell are you doing living in Toledo?” Bess asked.       “It’s not such a bad town, and I got family there,” Costoso said. “Besides, we do property work for other companies in addition to Nova, and do a lot of deals on the east coast. So it’s centrally located, see?”       John Collins summarized their situation, which we all knew already. I asked him what they wanted from us specifically.       “I don’t know too much about Oregon land use law,” Costoso said, “but I understand that if your land is outside the urban growth boundary, it isn’t worth jack shit.”       Bess looked at me for an answer. “Well, it can still have value as farm land or forest land,” I said, “but in terms of higher intensity development, you’re basically right. That doesn’t mean somebody might not pay a higher value, on the assumption that it will eventually come within the boundary, but that’s purely speculative.”       Costoso looked at me for a moment “Okay, so here’s how we need your help,” he said, leaning forward. “I assume you — the city — has a lot of influence in this, so we need you to move the urban growth boundary so our expansion property is in it. We’ll pay for any studies, surveys, whatever it takes, but we need your support.”       “You know, Tony, it isn’t that simple,” Bess said. “Our support and two dollars will buy you a cup of coffee these days. Any change in the urban growth boundary has to be approved by the Department of Land Conservation and Development. If we already have a twenty-year supply of vacant land inside the boundary, they’re not going to allow a change. Especially if there’s any opposition at all.”       “No, I just don’t buy that,” Costoso said. “You’re the city, and it’s your urban growth boundary. From what I hear, you’ve made things happen like this before. Don’t worry about the state — we’ve got connections to the governor’s office. They’ll play along. But you’ve got to carry the ball for us here.”       “Bess is right,” I said. “You’re overestimating our influence on this. Besides, it’s got to go through our own planning commission. They know the criteria for a boundary change, so you’ll have to have an argument with more substance than just a vague need to avoid uncertainty for your future plans.”       “We can do that.”       “How? Do you plan to expand on the property in the next five years?”       “Yeah, that’s possible. Depends on the market, but it could happen.”       That would be their angle, then. Hold out an ambitious expansion plan with hundreds of new jobs, and when the expansion never materializes, blame the economy.       “No, it just doesn’t make sense,” I said. “Come to us when you’re ready to pull a permit for a second plant. That will change the whole picture. Moving the boundary will be simple then.”       “Can you guarantee that? What if someone comes in on the other side of town and beats us to it? What about this movement — what the hell’s it called, voter annexation? If your so-called business leaders keep their heads up their ass about Nova, they could jump on that bandwagon and run a campaign against us. There are just too many things that could go wrong. We can’t risk it. And you owe us this, Ben. Nova has done a lot for your town.”       “We owe you??” Bess stared at Costoso. “What do mean, we owe you? We got the access road for your plant, we approved your plans for the plant in record time, and the city manager is facing a public vote of no confidence over your housing project. Don’t give me that ‘we owe you’ crap, Tony.”       John Collins leaned forward. “No, we do appreciate that. Don’t get us wrong. But what Anthony is saying is that Nova took a chance with the location here, and we are investing a lot in your community. We depend on your support, though, to make this project a success.”       There was a silent moment. From the twinkle in her eye, I guessed that Bess was helping with the “good cop/bad cop” role play. It worked for me.       “Listen, here’s what we can do,” I said. “We can enter into an agreement — a memorandum of understanding, or something like that — that states that when your current site is built out, we will recommend an extension of the urban growth boundary to accommodate your plant’s expansion. We might need to run it by the Planning Commission, but that’s probably a good thing, since the current commission members are still enthusiastic about your manufacturing facility. The same goes for the state folks.”       Costoso’s eyes narrowed. “When the current property is built out? How do you define that? Do we have to build on every square inch of the thing?”       “I don’t know,” I said. “We can allow a certain percentage of the site to be landscaped. It can be pretty liberal — a lot more than our minimum setback requirements — to keep the campus look that you want. We can negotiate it.”       “Hmm.” Costoso reached into his inside coat pocket for a case. He opened it and took out a cigar.       “Uh, this is a no-smoking building,” I said. “Part of the Oregon Clean Indoor Air Law requirements.”       “Yeah, sure,” Costoso said. He proceeded to pull a solid gold lighter out of his side pocket.       “Well, Anthony, you can light it if you want,” I said, “but it may turn into a very expensive cigar.” Ken Ishido watched, motionless. Bess rolled her eyes.       “Look, how about we go outside for a smoke,” Collins said. “We need to caucus on this anyway.”       Costoso paused. “Yeah, let’s do that.”       The three of them left. Bess was silent for a moment.       “You know what’s odd about this?” she said.       “The fact that they haven’t talked about a comp plan amendment?”       “Exactly.”       The land that Nova was looking at for expansion was shown as having a future commercial — not industrial — zone in our comprehensive plan. Getting that changed would be every bit as hard as moving the urban growth boundary.       “Maybe they figure that the prospect of new jobs and a good-looking campus would make a zone change easy” I said.       “Or maybe they don’t have any intention of expanding their plant, but just want to cash in on the higher-valued commercial property.”       “Could be.”       “And they need the UGB change now, since people aren’t going to be nearly as excited about the potential job creation of a Wal-Mart.”       “Possible,” I said. “But let’s not read too much into it.”       After another five minutes the three Nova men returned.       “Listen, Ben, we still want the boundary moved,” Costoso said. “I guarantee you, it will be worth your while.”       “Well, you’re free to try,” I said. “Submit an application to the Planning Commission, and give it your best shot.”       “So is your staff recommendation going to be to support it?”       I hesitated. “No, not until your existing land is built out. It just wouldn’t pass the straight-face test.”       Costoso stared at me. Bess slouched in her chair, waiting to see what happened.       “Okay,” Costoso finally said, “I guess we’ll have to fall back on your proposal for a written agreement. I’m disappointed that you’re not behind us on this, but we have to take what we can get. We’ll have our attorney work up a draft and send it over to you. But we want to move fast on this — the price of the land is locked in, but only for another month.”       Land deals always seemed to be urgent. We weren’t always able to move quickly when land use issues were involved, but when we did, more often than not nothing happened with the property for years. “Hurry up and wait,” they said in the Army. And in this case I had a hard time thinking of anyone else who might make an offer on Nova’s property. So what was the urgency?       “Do you want to include the comprehensive plan amendment in the agreement?” I asked, innocently.       “How’s that?”       “Do you want to get the land use designation changed from commercial to industrial?” Bess said.       Costoso looked briefly at Ishido. “We’ve been working under the assumption that that will be a fairly simple thing to do,” he said. “People go nuts when you talk about different kinds of housing, but they don’t give a shit about commercial or light industrial. I guess its all the same to them.”       “So do you want that in the agreement or not?” I said.       “No, we don’t want to make it too complicated. Let’s stick to the UGB issue, and cross that bridge when we get to it.” Costoso stood up, and the rest of us followed. “Say, we’re going out to see some show playing at the Schnitz tonight. You two want to join us?”       “Sorry, got other plans,” Bess said.       “Same here. But thanks anyway,” I said.       They left. The air smelled of cologne and cigars. Next chapter: threats of a different kind Copyright © 2001, Scott D. Lazenby. Reproduction in any form without the written permission of the author is prohibited. Illustration: Paul Salmon