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Table of contents | Previous chapter Playing with Fire A novel by Scott Lazenby
Chapter 19  ake Wildavsky came ambling into my office and folded himself into my side chair.“So did you hear the one about the Englishman, the Scotsman, and the Irishman in the bar?” he said. “Uh, no.” “Well, you see, they’re sitting there drinking their beer, and a fly drops into the Englishman’s glass. So he pushes his glass away in disgust. A while later, a fly drops into the Scotsman’s beer. So he sticks his finger in and flicks it out, and keeps on drinking. After a while a fly lands in the Irishman’s drink. He reaches in, picks it up, holds it over his beer, and starts hitting it. ‘Ah, spit it out, ya beggar, spit it out,’ he says. Pretty good, huh?”  I laughed. Jake did a fairly decent Irish accent for a Polish guy.“You want to hear the latest?” he said. “I’m not sure. Is it good news for a change?” “Of course not. When do you ever hear good news from me?” “Got a point there,” I agreed. “Well, Dyson’s giving me a hard time about this privatization deal.” Frank Dyson was a crew leader for the public works staff in field operations, and the shop steward for their union. “Why does he care?” I asked. “They haven’t been that sympathetic with the fire department in the past.” In fact, several of the public works staff had told me privately that they thought the firefighters were acting like a bunch of prima donnas. “Yeah, well apparently they’re getting spooked that we might do the same thing in public works. And I think they’re getting a lot of pressure from the OPEU.” I tried to clear my head. The Oregon Public Employees Union wasn’t affiliated in any way with the Firefighters Association, but they would certainly be sympathetic, and support the cause of union solidarity. “There isn’t much threat,” I said. “We’ve already privatized about as much as we can there. We contract out for all major improvements, street sweeping, meter reading, the works. The only thing that’s left is the small stuff like maintenance and pothole patching. So what’s the problem?” “Think about it. Suppose you were in their shoes, and someone came up to you and said, ’You know, there are a lot of private companies that do maintenance work, and they have next to zero pension costs.’ How would you feel?” “I guess you’re right,” I said. “So assure them that we have no intention of doing that. Tell them that we’re proud of their efficiency and hard work, and we know there’s no private company that could beat that.” Jake cracked his knuckles. “Okay, I guess I could. But it would be better coming from you.” “You mean they can never tell if you’re being serious?” “Aw shucks, Ben. I’m always serious. I’m a really serious guy. I’m hurt that you don’t know that about me.” I smiled. “Jake, as long as we’re being serious here, how’s your daughter doing?” He was silent for a moment, then sat up in the chair. “Up and down. The chemo was working and the leukemia was in remission, but now she’s sliding back again. I guess the statistics are pretty good — the recovery rate is decent — but it isn’t 100 percent. I just hope she isn’t on the losing side of the percentages.” He took off his glasses and polished them on his shirt sleeve. “Well, we’re all praying for her,” I said. “Well, thanks. I do appreciate it. Sue and I are doing a lot of that ourselves.” • • • Brian Gallagher and Red Rogalsky looked wary. I had called them into my office — no reason to look for neutral ground for this meeting. I didn’t bother with small talk.“Chief Oakley has asked me to convey some information to you. Briefly put, you’ve pushed him too far on this no-confidence issue. So this is what he told me he’s going to do. Brian, he intends to sue you personally for a million dollars. And he intends to sue the fire association for five million dollars.” “He can’t do that,” Gallagher said. “He doesn’t have a case.” “Oh, I don’t know about that. Max says he has a hotshot attorney from L.A. One who specializes in cases like this, and who has a great track record. Apparently this attorney smells blood and is eager to file.” “Doesn’t matter. We’ve got attorneys too. We’ll call his bluff.” “Well, you might want to think about it. Max told me he doesn’t care about whether he wins or not. He said he plans to bury you so deep in attorneys fees that you will be personally bankrupt, and the union will be bled dry. He said he doesn’t need the money, he’s got plenty.” “Aw, shit, he’s just blowing smoke. Tell him to screw himself.” “Hold on, Brian,” Rogalsky said. “What is it that Oakley wants?” “He wants all allegations and insinuations about his character and management ability to stop. He wants you to publicly refute your prior statements. There may be some other terms, but those are the ones I know about.” “I see. Of course, we stand behind our statements.” “Of course.” I tried to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “This is crap,” Gallagher said. “Forget about it.” “This isn’t coming from me, Brian. I’m just passing this on from Max. Do what you want.” “We’ll have to think about it,” Rogalsky said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” I gave the same message to Rob Titus, in his office. It was a little more awkward, since I had to avoid the appearance of threatening one of my own bosses. “He can’t do that,” Rob said. “He’s one of my employees. He can’t sue me.” “Well, Rob, you’re the attorney, not me. But apparently Max’s lawyer said that being a council member doesn’t give you protection for making personal attacks. I don’t know. From what Max says, this lawyer has a pretty good track record. I checked with Pete too, and he said you should take the issue seriously. You might want to talk to him.” Rob chewed on his fingernail. “What does he want?” “Just some public acknowledgement that there isn’t any grounds for the comments about his management ability, and particularly about the sexual harassment thing.” “Well, I didn’t make that up,” Rob protested. “It was something I heard.” I didn’t say anything. “Okay,” Rob said. “That’s easy enough. I was obviously given erroneous information. I can say that. Tell Max I’m sorry for any misunderstanding.” • • • Simon’s detective work didn’t yield any results on the hospital crank call. The message at the restaurant had been from a man, probably the same one who had called the office a few minutes earlier. Most of the hospital admissions staff were women, and in any case, there was only a slim chance the call had originated from the hospital. Simon was convinced it was a firefighter — probably one from another city — or a relative of a firefighter, but of course he had no proof.I didn’t have to wait for a call back from Red Rogalsky. The day after I talked to him, Max stopped by my office to tell me that he had already reached a settlement with the union and Gallagher, and that he was pleased with the outcome. That evening, a press release went out, stating that the union had completely resolved it’s issues with the chief, and was looking forward to a positive continuing working relationship. There was more to the agreement between the union and Max, but I never discovered what it was. Rob Titus was quoted in the paper the next day, stating that he had been misinformed about the sexual harassment allegations, and that he had personally apologized to the chief about them. I knew the last part was a lie — Rob had never talked to the chief — but I also knew that Max didn’t care. He had gotten what he wanted. • • • We had had a rare stretch of warm and clear weather. After months of rain, the lawns of Trillium seemed to be growing an inch a day. I tried to get home early enough to mow ours before it got too tall for my lawnmower. Even though the ground was relatively dry, the grass seemed filled with green juice, and Trixie followed me around with a wheelbarrow and helped me empty the grass bag. As small as our yard was, we managed to nearly fill the compost bin on the back of the shed. The sweet smell of the freshly cut grass made me think that spring was here, and that summer was around the corner. It was an illusion: Native Oregonians knew that anything resembling summer didn’t appear until after Independence Day.Just before I had left the office, I had replayed another phone threat. Again, it was a muffled male voice. “Back off of the county-city deal if you know what’s best for you” was all the message said. Simon would scold me, but I just erased the message and tried to put it out of my mind — without much success. Trixie went bike riding with Nathan in the remaining daylight, and invited him for dinner. They talked and giggled about things that had happened in school, and their open innocence was therapeutic for me. “You know what Mittens does?” Trixie asked me. “Mittens?” “That’s my cat it’s his cat,” Nathan and Trixie said simultaneously. “No, what?” “He keeps bringing body parts onto my front porch,” Nathan said. “Huh?” “Yeah, his Mom said, ‘What’s that green thing on your shoe?’ when Nathan walked in the house. He said ‘I think it’s a spleen!’ ” “No, a gallbladder,” Nathan said. “Whatever,” Trixie said. “It was stuck to his shoe! And he was walking around with it flapping like a piece of gum!” They cackled in laughter. “Yeah, Mittens put it there,” Nathan said. “She catches mice and takes them apart and leaves the pieces on our porch. It drives my Mom nuts —” “But I think it’s pretty neat,” Trixie said. “Me and Nathan, we try to figure out what the parts are. Maybe we should take them to our science class, huh?” “Yes, I’m sure your teacher would appreciate that,” Mary said. “There’s a few dozen slugs in our garden you can take too.” “Naw, they’re not as much fun,” Nathan said, with a serious expression. “They don’t have as many parts.” Mary and I did the dishes together. We talked about the small things that seem trivial, but make up the fabric of life. In the middle, Mary put down her drying towel and gave me a hug. I squeezed her back with my forearms, trying not to get her wet with my soapy hands. “Thanks,” I said. “What prompted that?” “You haven’t said much about work, but I can tell it’s getting to you. I worry about you, honey.” I muttered something stoical, but I realized how much I needed her. I sorted through some papers in my briefcase, and Mary quietly played the piano. She got out the music for a Bach sonata that sounded familiar at first, but then I noticed she gently switched to a minor chord and eased into a jazz tempo. I paused from my reading and watched her play. Her hair looked like honey in the soft light. Her head was bowed and I guessed her eyes were closed as she let her fingers feel their way over the keys. Her right hand worked a repetitive pattern while her left hand walked up and down the keyboard in a complex bass line, building from a soft murmur to a powerful crescendo, and switching at the last moment back to a series of major chords that ended in a surprise key change. She sat silently for a moment with her head still bowed, and then must have sensed I was watching her. She turned and asked if she was breaking my concentration. I told her no, keep playing, but she was too self-conscious and contented herself with some simple exercises. On the way to the kitchen to refill my coffee mug, I paused and rubbed her shoulders, then lifted her hair and kissed her on the nape of her neck. Before putting Trixie to bed, I read to her from Orson Scott Card’s Ender’s Game. She was old enough to read it herself, but it was a routine that we had started when she was an infant, and neither of us wanted it to end. She hugged me when I tucked her in, and I thought about how much I needed to count my blessings. But as with most nights lately, I had a hard time getting to sleep. I finally drifted off around one o’clock. The muffled explosion must have become part of a dream I was having. I didn’t wake up until I heard the piercing scream of the smoke alarm. The sound and a faint smell of smoke started my heart racing, and I bounded down the hallway to find the source. By instinct, I pulled open Trixie’s bedroom door. Smoke poured out. I took a deep breath and plunged in and cradled Trixie in my arms. I ran out and closed the door behind me with my foot. Mary was behind me. “Call 911,” I shouted. I carried Trixie downstairs and into the living room and laid her on the couch. A second smoke alarm went off. Trixie’s eyes fluttered open, and she sat up, coughing. “What happ —” She was hit with another spasm of coughing. “Just lie down for a minute, baby,” I said. Mary came through the doorway, her face white. “I called — they’re on their way,” she yelled over the noise of the smoke alarms. “Do you know what’s on fire?” I shook my head. “Stay with Trixie.” I ran up to the bedroom and pulled on a pair of jeans. I looked into Trixie’s room, but couldn’t see any flames. The window, though, was glowing red and orange. I flew downstairs and ran out the door and around the side of the house. The shed was fully consumed, and it looked like the back wall was about to fall in. The fire was intense enough that it had ignited the house siding, and flames were licking under Trixie’s open bedroom window. I went for the garden hose, but it was on the other side of the shed, and the heat was too intense for me to run to it. I jumped the fence into the neighbor’s yard, giving the burning shed a wide berth, and jumped back into my yard. I yanked the hose out of the reel and twisted open the faucet. The water turned to steam as it hit the fire but I could barely hear the hissing over the roar of the flames. I had to shield my face with my arm, and hoped that the spray was going in the right general direction. I heard a shout. On the other side of the shed, a figure in yellow turnout gear and a helmet was waving me away. The heated air between us made him shimmer like a ghost. I dropped the hose and made my way around the back side of the house, stumbling in the dark. “We’ll take over from here, Ben,” Captain Phil Tucker said. I nodded. After the heat of the fire, the cold night air made me shiver. Tucker reached into his command vehicle and pulled out a spare coat. “Here, this’ll warm you up.” “Thanks.” In a practiced series of movements, the firefighters quickly and calmly began their attack on the fire. A line was run to the hydrant and coupled. At the same time a pair of firefighters ran out with a hose from the pumper, getting into position, one in front on the nozzle and the second a few feet behind, ready to absorb the recoil from the pressure. Using only hand signals, the firefighter on the hydrant opened the valve, while the engineer operated some controls on the side of the pumper and the two firefighters on the end of the line braced themselves. The engine growled under the load and a blast of water smashed into what was left of the shed. Mary was huddled on the front steps under a blanket, watching as two paramedics bent over Trixie. “How come you came out here?” I said. “Too smoky in the house?” “No, I had to get away from the smoke alarms,” she said. “You know, they probably saved your lives and your house,” one of the paramedics said. “How is she?” I asked. “Just fine,” he said. “I’m going to give her a little oxygen to clear out her lungs, but it looks like you got her out in time.” I could see the fear in Trixie’s eyes, and I bent over her and stroked her forehead. “It’s going to be okay, sweetie,” I said. “What happened, Dad?” “I don’t know, hon. It’s just the shed — it caught on fire somehow.” The paramedic slipped the oxygen mask over her face. I held her hand. Mary squeezed her shoulder. The houses on our street were washed in a red strobe light from the sweeping beams on top of the vehicles. I became aware that all our neighbors were on their porches or driveways, watching the commotion. They stood in clumps, talking to each other and shaking their heads. There wasn’t much left to see; the fire was out in minutes, and the firefighters were digging around in the wet ashes, looking for any remaining embers. Captain Tucker and another firefighter went up the stairs and into the house. After a few moments, the smoke alarms went silent. The paramedics checked Trixie’s vital signs, and removed the mask. They tucked her into her blanket and quietly started packing up their equipment. Tucker rejoined us on the porch. “We’re airing out the house,” he said. “Doesn’t look like you have any smoke damage, but it may take a few days for the smell to completely clear out. No damage inside, and it looks like we got it before it got past the siding on the outside.” “Good.” “We’ve got the fire marshal and arson investigator coming out; they should be here in a minute.” “Arson?” “Don’t worry, it’s routine when it isn’t obvious how a fire starts. You don’t have any ideas, do you?” “No.” With smooth precision, the firefighters rewound the hose and began putting away their gear. Before getting back into the pumper and rescue truck, a few came up the steps to offer their condolences. “Thanks, guys,” I said. An hour after they arrived, only the command vehicle was left in front of the house, and the neighbors had gone back to bed. The fire marshal pulled up, followed within minutes by a police vehicle. They huddled with Phil Tucker for a few minutes, and started sorting through the remains of the shed. Tucker set up a portable light for them, then signaled a firefighter, and the two of them drove off in the command vehicle. A few minutes later they returned, and Tucker carried two cups of coffee in Starbucks containers up the stairs for Mary and me. “Hope you like it black,” he said. “Hey, thanks, Phil.” He sat down on the stairs next to me. “You know, Ben,” he said quietly, “there’ve been rumors floating around the station about people making threats against you.” I just shrugged. “Well, chances are this was just an accident, a coincidence. But you need to know I think those threats are completely uncalled for, and most of the men are disgusted that that kind of thing is happening. We know you’ve got a job to do, just like everyone else, and part of your job is making tough decisions.” Mary looked over at him, silently. “Thanks Phil, I appreciate that.” “Listen, if there’s anything you need, let me know, okay.” “Sure.” He put a hand on my shoulder, and stood up. The fire marshal appeared around the corner of the house and she beckoned the captain over. He talked to her for a few moments, then got in the command vehicle and left. Bernice Jenkins walked over to us, carrying a large notepad. “Hey Ben, it’s been quite a night for y’all, hasn’t it?” “Yes. You find anything over there?” I was almost afraid of the answer. “Naw, things were pretty well burned up. But say, there was a mound of something on the back of the shed — what was that?” “Compost pile.” “Looks like that’s where the fire started. You put any fresh grass in there lately?” “Yeah, just today, I guess it was technically yesterday now.” “Hmm. Not enough time for spontaneous combustion to do its thing. Grass pretty wet?” “Yeah, and there was already a bunch from last week. I saw it steaming a little, but I figured that was healthy, just the bugs going to work.” She made some notes. “Yep, that could be it. The new stuff coulda just put a lid on it, and started cooking the side of your shed. Shouldn’t have it so close, you know.” “Yeah, I guess so.” “You have some gas or something in the shed?” “I don’t know. There was a five-gallon jug that didn’t have much in it, and whatever was left in the lawnmower.” “Uh huh,” she nodded. Police Detective Larry Footen ambled over toward us. One of his areas of special training was arson investigation. He and Bernice made a good team — she specialized in the fire scene forensics, and Larry took the lead on interviews with witnesses and suspects. “So what about arson?” I asked. “If it was, they either knew what they were doing, or the fire obliterated any evidence. Don’t you think so, Bernice?” “Yep.” She ran a hand through her short curls. “The only thing that makes me wonder is the timing. It’s hard to see how it could go from an overheated compost pile to flashover in eight hours without a little help. But heck, it’s possible. I’ve seen a lot stranger things happen.” “I’ll talk to your neighbors when it gets light out,” Larry said. “I doubt any of them would be looking out their windows in the middle of the night, but maybe they heard something.” Trixie shivered under her blanket. “Say, if you folks want to come over to my place, I’ll fix you up some breakfast,” Bernice said. I looked at Mary. “Thanks, but I think we’ll just head back to bed. What time is it?” Bernice looked at her watch. “Four.” “Sorry to get you two out of bed in the middle of the night like this,” I said. They were both on a regular eight-to-five day shift. “Hey, no problem — it’s part of the job,” Bernice said. Inside the house, the smell of smoke was already faint. We put Trixie to bed in the guest room, and Mary and I tried to catch some sleep. After a few minutes, I felt Mary relax and her breathing fell into a steady rhythm. I couldn’t sleep. I felt my way in the dark to the living room, turned on a reading lamp, and reached for a Bible on the coffee table. It seemed like my life was crashing down on me — the threats, the fire, the conflicts at work, the thought of losing my connection with Kate. The Bible fell open to the words, “I lie awake; I have become like a bird alone on a roof. All day long my enemies taunt me; those who rail against me use my name as a curse.” Great. I looked for a familiar passage, and found it. “And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.” That helped. I tuned into a late-night music station, turned off the light, and lay down on the floor. I buried my head in my arms. Jackson Browne was singing, “Doctor, my eyes have seen the years and the slow parade of tears, without crying....” Next chapter: the public speaks Copyright © 2001, Scott D. Lazenby. Reproduction in any form without the written permission of the author is prohibited. Illustration: Paul Salmon |
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