Lady in Flames (6 page)

I cram this in between the door and the frame and wrench it back and forth. The soft wood buckles and then gives way as the door snaps open. Looking over my shoulder, I step inside.

It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust. It’s still dark outside, and near impossible to navigate in the back hall cluttered with storage bins and boxes. Once I’m able find my way, I trace a route to the paint counter where three shelves worth of solvents wait to be grabbed.

I wrap my left arm around as many quarts of turpentine as I can hold and then push past the next few aisles to find the wooden stick matches. The glare of headlights waving across the storefront halts my search and I duck, fumbling my armload.

Between the squeak of my wet boots and dropped cans, the racket stops me from breathing as I listen for the rumble of the car to fade. On hands and knees, I wait for my lungs to catch up before I grab what I dropped and move on, certain the car is past.

The gleam of a streetlight leans in the front window; shadows from the shelving stretch with it. I cut across them and dart down the last aisle where I can just make out the stacks of match boxes. One will do.

I’ve got what I need now. Heading for the rear door, I can’t get past the paint counter without thinking about Doppler. I can still see him leaning over the counter in his overalls, gesturing with his crooked index finger the way he did when he wanted to make a point.

I wonder what he’d say about me burning. Probably wouldn’t care…he didn’t think much of the people here. “Give ’em what they deserve, Johnny,” I imagine him saying.

Bursting into the lot, I don’t bother to tidy up the scene, leaving the door hanging. I only stop to grab the crow bar. Snow and slush fly as I high-step through the drifts. I dump my goods onto the passenger seat and wheel the car around.

I’m a few hundred feet before I get the tail end straightened out. Then it’s around a slick corner and up the funnel of a side street that dumps me into the worn-out guts of Halgraeve.

The vacant parking spots hide under the snow. A set of faint tire tracks lead the opposite way out of town. My car’s headlights sneak past blackened windows. It’s perfect, nobody but me.

Steering around the square gets me onto the “bar side.” I slide past Lady Luck and the Ale House to the end of the strip and cut around the corner to the back of the last structure. A narrow alley runs behind, wide enough for a car. The plan is to enter from the rear.

It’s tough going. The play in the wheel jerks me left and right when the tires catch the snow the wrong way. The right front fender bites into brick, scraping me to a stop.

I weasel out of the driver side with barely enough space to open the door. Tools in hand, I slosh the twenty feet to the back of Lady Luck. My mind sets a rhythm my heart can’t keep up with. The dead air can’t silence the warnings going off in my head now.

This is it. The point where you can’t turn back. Buck is your enemy. How bad do you want to mess with him? It’s about revenge. Do you have enough fuel?

Setting aside the turpentine and matches, I shove the straight end of the crow bar between the door and frame, but it’s ten times sturdier than the hardware. A few more useless jabs and I’m panicked that I won’t get in. I can’t go at this for long. There’ll be traffic around the square soon when the diner opens.

I decide to yank down the fire escape and make for the second floor window. Scrambling up the grated steps, I tear my jeans and drop a can of turpentine into the snow. At the top, I lean past the rail and turn the window into a thousand sharp pieces with the crow bar.

I toss everything inside and haul myself into a room where there’s a metal desk, matching file cabinets, and a green safe. It must be Buck’s office. I slow down long enough to douse the desk and the waste basket with turpentine before I’m out the door and hustling down the stairs to the bar below.

Most of the fixtures are wood. The staircase, rafters, bar… Lots to burn. The big screen T.V.s will melt. I take one more quick glance around and then let loose.

I’m a mad man. I smash bar stools into kindling and pile a few in the middle of the room. Crashing into the restroom, I grab as many rolls of toilet paper as I can as well as an old newspaper I find in one of the stalls.

I pile all this on top of the busted-up stools and dump out another can of solvent. Opening the third can, I run a trail of liquid from the pile towards the front of the building where a few booths and high tables sit.

Moving back toward the bar, I smash liquor bottles all across the counter, hoping they’ll catch fire when everything gets going. With the last can, I run another trail from the broken stools through the swinging door into the kitchen.

I punch holes in the low ceiling with the crowbar to help with the airflow. That should help take the fire straight up into the office. I spin around to grab a tall waste basket and unravel a roll of paper towels I find on the prep counter. This I soak in the last few glugs of turpentine.

I drop a lit match into the basket and place it on top of the stove. Then I lean down to light the oily trail on the tile floor that leads back out to the bar area. For good measure, I light one more match and drop it into the open box of unlit ones. I climb the opposite counter and shove the flaming box into one of the holes in the ceiling.

Jumping down, I race for the rear door. I fumble with the dead bolt and then slide into the alley. The car seems a mile away and I slip and fall twice before I reach it. Snow covered, I drop into the driver seat and slam the door. The fenders bang and scrape down the rest of the way, tires refusing traction.

Once I’m free of the alley, I pull back into the square and head east out of town, wishing I could see the look on Buck’s face when he finds out his stupid bar is ash.

Watching the Lady Burn

February 27
th
, 2002 5:48 AM

Inside Leland Shaw’s pickup

I’ve got contracts. Hand-shaken, spit-on-the-dollar contracts. Each one of them says I’ve got to plow snow, so I’m up before the sun.

The rusty yellow metal scrapes across the asphalt of Spectrum Used Cars as I gas the truck back and forth. The lot’s every bit as small as it looks. Probably only holds fifteen cars. I make quick work of it because I’ve got three others to clear before eight.

I started a half-hour ago and the cab’s just now got some warmth about it. The heater doesn’t work like it used to. Neither do my bones. Getting out of bed is a title match. I never know who’s going to win the next round—me or the old man who swears he’s me.

He put up a fight today, coughing up the stuff that settles in at night. I told him I didn’t much mind the sound of him, so he stiffened up his joints. Stiffened them up like curing cement.

I threw off the covers like it was easy, just to spite him. Cold hardwood on bare feet sent me searching for my wool socks. I labored into the rest of my clothes and wandered down the warped stairs. Skipped breakfast because it always sours my stomach to eat that early.

Out the door and into the cold, the air just went by me. Didn’t feel it at all. The bitterest stuff is inside me today. I suppose it’s because Lilly didn’t come home last night. Don’t know why I expected her to. I should know better.

I push the last of the snow into a dirty mound. Spectrum Used Cars isn’t my first stop. The mill’s near my house so I hit it on my way out. It only runs one shift anymore, so no one shows up till nine. Knocked it out pretty quick because of that.

The muni lot is next on my list, but not before I get coffee. I reverse, turn, and pull out onto the main road. Easy on the gas. I piled sandbags in the bed to keep the tail in check, but there’s still a wobble when I hit a slick patch.

Grady’s Diner stands as the only restaurant in town. It opens at six and I’ll get a large cup to go. Only costs a dollar. A few old timers will be in there already, regulars who’ll go down with the ship. Some of them have every meal there.

My bunker gear still rests on the floor next to me since I’m back on call again. Have to cover for that louse Billy Greener. They arrested him last night for the fire at Amy Armstrong’s house. Said they had evidence he was responsible for the fire at Union Chemical, too.

The story is that Billy did it for the money. We’re only volunteers. We get five-fifty an hour with a two-hour minimum per call. Billy’s so hard-up for cash he thought he’d get us on some more fires.

I guess I should feel sorry for him if circumstances are that rough. Lots of folks are in a bad way. Jobs are scarce. ’Course it doesn’t justify what Billy did. He could’ve killed someone.

Pushing through the white blanket ahead, the truck leans around a bend and onto a straight path. Down the line, an orange glow flickers bright.
Am I seeing things?
No, there’s no mistaking it—we got another fire!

Instinct plants my boot to the floorboard, but it just makes the tires spin. I back off and muster more patience. A little gas here, a nudge on the wheel there.

It’s a painful wait, but I reach the square in a minute or two. The fire is on the “sinner’s side.” That’s the side with the bars. Folks on the opposite side of the square named it that way since their establishments are more family friendly.

It’s a matter of pride or contempt, which side of the square you’re on. None’s likely to volley a Molotov cocktail across the greenery, though. This fire’s got to have a natural cause.

Natural seems less probable when I see it’s Lady Luck that’s belching flames. The windows are busted out and the roof’s catching. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Buck’s a target. First his daughter’s house, now his bar. That can’t be right, though. They already have Billy Greener in custody.

A few onlookers congregate on the sidewalk in front of Grady’s. Each has his fingers wrapped in the handle of a coffee mug. Steam mingles with their breath.

I pull the truck sideways against the curb, ignoring the lines hidden under the unplowed parking spaces. Leaning out the door, one foot planted in the fluff, I ask if anyone’s called dispatch yet.

“Yep, we called ’er in.” A fellow with a tubby belly nods without taking his eyes off the Lady.

It’ll be hell trying to get the engine here with the snow. I step the rest of the way out and join the others on the walk. It’s an odd sight for sure, the silent group of them lit up not by the dawn but the blaze across the way. Calm as if they were watching a movie.

A whiskery geezer on the other side of tubby recognizes me. “You gonna do anything?”

I shrug. “Nothing I can do till the engine gets here.”

The geezer nods in agreement, his mouth set in a “damn straight” kind of way. For a second I think he might fight me if I had a mind to do otherwise.

The snap and pop of the flames carries across the square. We hear a crash now and then, parts of the building falling in on itself. The roar of it has a grip on both floors; it’ll be gutted for sure.

The men never look away, sipping on their coffee. Can’t tell if they just don’t care or if they want to see it through. One of them pipes up. “Wonder if it’s arson.”

That’s a weighty question. It comes down to the fire triangle: fuel, oxygen, and heat. Arson is deliberate. Whoever investigates has to prove one of these has been messed with. There’ll be a lot of questions for any witnesses. Might even bring in electricians or plumbers to verify a thing or two.

Once they snuff out the fire, the investigator will look for char patterns left behind by an accelerant. Anything like matches or cigarettes will look suspicious. He’ll even have a thing or two to ask Buck—how much debt he’s under, what kind of insurance policy he’s got.

I reach in my vest pocket to double-check I have my two-way. Should’ve had a call by now. Doesn’t seem like anyone’s in a hurry to lift a finger on this one. I don’t even hear sirens yet.

“Suppose the Ale House will do better business now,” says one of the others.

The rest murmur in agreement. A few coffee slurps.

I grip the two-way. The Ale House won’t be around if the engine doesn’t get here soon. “Fenton, you got your ears on?”

A few seconds pass and then a squawk. “Shaw? Are you plowing?”

“I was. Right now I’m watching the Lady burn.”

Fenton’s voice comes through tinny over the radio. “Sit tight; we got the call and we’re on our way.”

I stuff the radio back in my pocket.

High beams and emergency lights float in from down the road; it’s a patrolman. He parks diagonal from my truck. Steps out from his cruiser all hot and bothered, mouth gaping. “Where’s the damn fire engine?”

“On its way,” is all I give him. I don’t get paid to deal with the local hot shots.

“Well it better get here soon.” He stands in the middle of the street, hands on his hips. He spins around like he’s in control, like he can do something about the inferno.

The men from the diner don’t say a thing; they don’t even see him. They’re glued to the Lady.

I’m not sure what I’m more taken by—the fire or their indifference. Or whether I should be worried or amused. This was Buck’s pride and joy. Probably loved it more than his own daughter. Now it’s crumbling, melting, burning rubble.

There’s no way Buck did this. He’d lie, cheat, or steal some other way. If he even gets a hint that someone did this to spite him, you can bet he’ll be on the war path.

That’s what scares me. This is a tipping point for sure. If this is a work of revenge, there’s no turning back now. Someone’s crossed a line and changed the course of things for good.

The first siren sounds, still a ways off. I step back over to the truck and wrench open the passenger-side door. Hopping in, I strip off my work boots and pull on my black turnout trousers over my jeans. Suspenders and all.

The matching coat and gloves come next. I grab my helmet and step back out onto the sidewalk, ready to jump in when the crew gets here. Not the way I wanted to spend my morning. Happy birthday, Lilly.

Chasing After Grimley

February 27
th
, 2002 12:59 PM