by Earl Emerson
Iola wore jeans and a sleeveless sweater vest, her auburn hair loose and windblown. We were going to have sex. She knew it and I knew it. When we kissed, her skin smelled of onions and pipe smoke, the latter probably from her father. We ended up making love in the dark on the couch without bothering to close the living-room drapes. This was just the sort of licentiousness that made Iola exciting to me.
Afterward, we lay cheek to cheek, our perspiring bellies stuck together. I said, “My battalion chief died Friday.”
Her voice was mocking. “That was so great, Iola. You’re fantastic in the sack. Oh, why, thank you, Gum. So are you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Is that why you were gone all weekend? Because your chief died?”
“If you would ever let me phone you, I could have told you I’d be gone.”
“Where were you?”
“Up at the pass. Hiking.” The one time I mentioned my mother she’d ridiculed me—this from a woman who lived with her father and still called him Daddy.
She didn’t want to hear about me or my problems. What she wanted was a roll in the hay and to have that be the end of it. Once in a while she would grumble about goings on at her work or complain about a driver on the road or some cretin of a cashier she’d run into, but she didn’t want to hear about my problems. Not today. Or the last time we met. Nor the next time.
Iola pushed me off and began dressing, balancing on one foot while she put on her panties, then her jeans, leaving her top for last, not looking directly at me but well aware I was watching.
“By the way,” she said. “You didn’t get a visit from anybody, did you?”
“Who would that be?”
“Oh, nobody.”
Though she’d obviously gotten wind of the fact her stepdaughter had been to see me, we were going to ignore it the way we ignored so many other aspects of our relationship.
“You want to stay? I haven’t had dinner. There’s that place up on California Avenue—”
“You know I’m not going out with you, sweetie. Besides, I only came over because I thought maybe you were sick or something. Don’t look like that. You know I care, don’t you, darling?” She kissed the top of my head and was out the door before I could gather my wits.
Her precipitous exits always annoyed me, but tonight more so than ever. Tonight was the one night I needed somebody to be with me, and for some crackbrained reason I had thought Iola might be that person.
FOR REASONS NOBODY seemed able to elucidate—but probably because Seattle’s mayor was scheduled to leave for a vacation in Mexico on Tuesday—the department funeral for Russell Louis Abbott took place on Monday at noon. A bagpipe team from Canada showed up, along with fire crews from our and a dozen other departments, an honor guard, and hundreds of firefighters in their black wool dress uniforms.
Monday coincidentally happened to also be our next working shift. The first thing I noticed when I arrived at the firehouse in the morning was that neither of my coworkers had returned their new vehicles to the dealer. In addition, Johnson was still wearing his five-thousand-dollar watch. “Geez, Gum,” he said. “What if they ask one of us to say something at the funeral?”
“For years he treated us like dirt,” said Tronstad. “I’m not going to lie and say I’m sorry he’s tits up.”
“Ted, you can’t attend a funeral with that attitude,” Johnson said. “Today’s the day you have to dig deep and go to the wizard and ask for a heart.”
Tronstad laughed. “That was a good one.”
The ceremony was slated for noon, but we were tapped out of service at eight thirty so we could help handle the minutiae that precede any fire department funeral. Sears was to be one of the orators, as well as a pallbearer.
We helped a team of officers from the chief’s union who came by to drape the Battalion 7 Suburban and Engine 29 with black bunting. We were given black armbands and black tape to place across our badges. Tronstad disappeared for long periods that morning, using an old firefighter’s trick to get out of work, sitting on the crapper reading a magazine.
Midmorning I heard Tronstad talking to Lieutenant Sears. “So what was the official ruling on the cause of death?”
“I haven’t seen the report, but from what I gather, he died of smoke inhalation. They’re assuming he went into the smoke and had a syncopal episode. Kirsten says he’s had a couple of episodes in the past year. Apparently he didn’t want the department to know. They figure he fainted and his body closed the door when he fell against it. After that he just took in too much smoke.”
“What a shame.”
“Kirsten’s inconsolable.”
“Nothing sadder than a bunch of rugrats without a father,” said Tronstad. “It’s not like she’s Miss America or anything. They’re never going to have another father. I mean, who would marry a blimp like her?”
“Jesus, Ted. Give it a rest.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
We got to the church an hour early and took up the slack time chatting with other Seattle firefighters as they arrived, some on rigs, some in private vehicles, all in class-A uniforms with uniform hats, looking sharp in the crisp October air.
I’d always thought Abbott was a pompous buffoon, but listening to one speaker after another tell heartwarming narratives about his career and good deeds, I wanted to cry. Despite eight kids of his own, he’d been part of the Big Brother program, had worked at the Rotary, had volunteered at his children’s schools, and was an assistant football coach at the local junior high. The list of accolades and accomplishments went on and on.
I was stunned when Robert Johnson approached the podium and told a series of touching vignettes about Abbott. Tronstad remained next to me on the church pew, maintaining a military bearing throughout the service, his face expressionless. When he bumped into Kirsten in the foyer after the service, surrounded by her kids, he kissed her on the cheek and whispered something in her ear that made her weep.
Sears went to the cemetery in Bellevue with the cortege while Johnson, Tronstad, and I took Engine 29 back to the station and removed the black bunting. Later, Tronstad said, “You guys see what she did?”
“What?” Johnson asked.
“Kissed me on the friggin’ lips.”
“Come on, Tronstad,” I said. “Give her a break.”
“On the lips!”
For supper that night Johnson prepared spaghetti and meatballs, a tossed salad, and garlic bread on the side. Sears tended to paperwork in his office while the interim chief went downtown to a meeting. Tronstad hid out on the other side of the apparatus bay, in the firefighters’ bunk room, playing video games on the Internet. I did a light workout in the basement—lifted some weights and rode the exercycle—unable to stop thinking about the blue floor mat Chief Abbott had brought in for his sit-ups, marked, Private property. R. Abbott. The rest of his belongings had been gathered up Saturday morning and packed off to his widow, but we’d be looking at that mat in the basement for years.
At dinner we were a crew again, the four of us: Sears, Johnson, Tronstad, and myself. We ate in front of the evening news, waiting for funeral shots on each of the local channels.
After dinner, Sears pulled the Sierre Leone bank bond out of his breast pocket and said, “We need to talk about this. There was only the one, right, guys?”
Tronstad came around the table, took the bond from Sears, and held it to the light. “Yeah. This is the one I found on my boot that night. You see on the news where they’ve been tearing apart Ghanet’s house? The cops might want to know about this.”
“They might want to know how it got in Chief Abbott’s bunking-coat pocket, too, huh? Because that’s where I found it.”
“What?”
“This is the bond I left in my drawer the other day. How did Abbott get it?” We all shrugged. Tronstad did the thing he always did with his eyebrows, raising and lowering them in rapid succession. The officers’ desk drawers didn’t have locks, so Abbott
had no doubt been in Sears’s drawer looking for something else and discovered it, then started putting two and two together. “Did Abbott talk to you guys about this?”
“Heck, no,” Tronstad blurted. “It’s weird that he had it, though. Don’t you think?”
After he’d looked at us each in turn, Sears said, “Okay. I promised I would talk to you.” Sears stood up and walked to the doorway. “You first, Robert.”
“What?” Tronstad asked. “What are you doing?”
“I’m taking Robert into my office to ask some questions. Then I’m going to ask you the same questions. And then Gum.”
“I thought you were going to talk to us all at once. We don’t have any secrets, do we, guys? What are you trying to do, Lieut? Turn this into an interrogation?”
“My office.” Sears cocked his head at Johnson and marched down the corridor, his back and shoulders ramrod stiff.
Tronstad whispered, “He wants to get three different versions so he can compare. It’s an old cop trick. Look, Gum, just say what we agreed on. No more, no less. We stick to the story, we’ll be copacetic. Got it?”
“Yeah.”
The truth was, I couldn’t remember what we’d agreed on. All I knew was that I’d contributed to Abbott’s death, that I was covering up evidence in a criminal investigation, and that I had over twelve million dollars’ worth of stolen bearer bonds salted away.
18. UNTIL I OPENED MY BIG MOUTH
WHILE WE WAITED in the beanery, Tronstad told a story I’d heard before about the afternoon he had sex with a woman in his recruit school—a woman who was now a captain and who by the looks of things would end up a battalion chief. Tronstad related in loving detail how they’d been studying for the midterm at her house and how he took hold of her and kissed her and then had sex with her on the kitchen floor. As far as anybody knew, the captain was an unabashed lesbian. Johnson joked she’d been straight until she met Tronstad.
All in all, if you were a woman, you wanted to avoid Tronstad. Not only would he do everything in his considerable power to seduce you—and maybe turn you into a lesbian—but he would brag about it to his friends for years afterward. No liaison was spared, not fiancées, ex-wives, or the babysitter he claims he screwed in sixth grade. Everything was a conquest with bragging rights.
When Johnson came out of the lieutenant’s office, he wore his standard smiley face, his cheeks hard and shiny as rocks in a creek. Looking at the potpourri of pain, triumph, and resolution in his eyes, I had a hard time figuring out what might have transpired.
Tronstad went in next, rushing down the corridor as if he couldn’t wait, a prizefighter catapulted into the center of the ring by fury and adrenaline. After the door closed on them, I turned to Robert. “What’d you say?”
“We prayed.”
“You what?”
He grinned. “We prayed for Abbott’s family. The lieut’s not a bad guy when you get to know him.”
“What’d you tell him about the bond?”
“He’s not any smarter now than when I went in.” Maybe not, but he was still a heck of a lot smarter than Johnson. Or Tronstad. Or probably me. Even if Robert hadn’t told him anything, I knew Sears would puzzle this out before he was finished.
Tronstad’s interview lasted less than a minute. Just before the door burst open, we heard Tronstad’s voice, loud and petulant. “You know what your problem is? You’ve never been sued for defamation of character! That’s your problem. Well, hang on to your hat, Lieutenant, because I’ll be seeing my attorney in the morning.”
“I will get to the bottom of this,” Sears yelled.
“You know what this is? This is a goddamn witch hunt. You’ve had a hard-on for me since the minute you walked through the door.” Tronstad stalked out onto the apparatus floor.
Sears stared after him for a few moments, then turned and signaled me with a glance. I walked down the corridor with a sense of foreboding. In his office he flung himself into the swivel chair, while I sat carefully in the straight-backed chair next to his bunk. It was a small room, cramped and intimate, with a tall window in the corner on the west wall. The light coming through the window was the same pinkish hue as it had been the evening we killed Abbott. Thank God he wasn’t questioning me about that. I would have folded like a garage-sale pup tent. In fact, thinking about it made my hands sweat.
Stroking his thick mustache with two fingers of one hand, Sears stared at me. It was chilly in the station, but Sears was wearing his immaculately pressed short-sleeved uniform shirt.
“I don’t know if this bond is worth anything or if it’s play money, but you three gave me a story a couple of shifts ago about how you came to have it. Frankly, after talking with Robert and Ted, I don’t believe you.” He stared at me.
“You don’t?”
“No. For beginners, when I asked him about it, Robert went into a song and dance about the Lord and a bunch of other peripheral issues to put me off the scent. Tronstad pretended to be enraged over the insult to his integrity, as if Tronstad has any integrity. I’ve seen both guys use those same defense mechanisms before when they were feeling uncomfortable about a situation. What I want from you, before I turn this over to the police, is for you to tell me what really happened.”
“You’re turning it over to the police?”
“As soon as we’re finished talking. But right now I want you to be as honest and forthright as I know you can be. Make me proud, Gum. I don’t want to see you go down on a sinking ship with those other two.” He’d chosen an apt metaphor. A sinking ship was exactly what it was.
Sears, who’d been tilting back in his chair with his hirsute arms folded across his chest, leaned forward and placed both elbows on his knees, his face three feet from mine. “Tell me what happened,” he said, “and don’t try to pass off that bull about Tronstad finding the bearer bond on the floor of the crew cab. I know that didn’t happen.”
I inhaled deeply. There were a lot of paths to take, and for a split second I wasn’t certain which would have my footprints.
“The other night,” I began, “at Ghanet’s place, while you were talking to the neighbor, Tronstad brought three garbage sacks out of the house. I told him to put them back, but he said all they had in them was useless paper. At the station I found out they were full of bearer bonds. I didn’t even know what a bearer bond was. Robert wanted to take them back, too, but by morning Tronstad persuaded him they might be worth something. That was when things got complicated.”
“Three bags? Are you sure you don’t mean three bearer bonds?”
“No, sir. Three bags. Stuffed full.”
“Holy shit. Where are the bags now?”
“I hid them.”
“You hid them?”
“It was only until we figured out what to do. We were planning to give them back.” I could tell by his tone of voice, the look on his face, and the way he scrunched his bushy eyebrows downward that my level of involvement disappointed him.
“It’s been two shifts, Gum. You could have given them back a hundred times over.”
“I know. But a lot has happened.”
“Gum, you’ve let me down. I figured those two were a bad influence, but I never thought they would drag you into something like this.”
“It isn’t what you think. They were going to get into a fistfight over them, so I agreed to hold the bonds, but only so we could give them back at a later date. That’s all I was doing. Heck, they were only in my possession a couple of hours. I didn’t think they were worth anything.”
“But you hid them away somewhere?”
“Yeah.”
“Gum, you’re as guilty as they are.”
“I would have turned them in if I could have figured out how to do it without Tronstad losing his job. I didn’t want to see him flush everything away because of one mistake.”
“You know as well as I do that Tronstad hasn’t made just one mistake. He makes a mistake every time he turns around. The first thing Abbot
t told me when I got here was that there was a thief in the station and he thought it was one of you three.”
“What?”
“Oh, yeah. A bunch of stolen items.”
I was flabbergasted. If station members were losing personal articles, I had not heard of it. In fact, although Sears obviously did, I didn’t believe it. It was typical of the sort of unverified gossip Abbott had been in the habit of spreading.
“I’m afraid this little escapade is going to send you to the calaboose.”
“I know I should have come to you right away, but you were out of town and then at that meeting all day. And then Abbott died. Maybe those are lame excuses, but can’t you see the bind I was in?”
“Who has the bonds now?”
“I do.”
“Jesus, Gum.”
“Lieut, they wanted to fight. That was the only reason I took the bags. We were going to give them back.”
“And that’s why you guys all bought new vehicles?”
“I didn’t. Listen, I’m not a thief.”
He swiveled around in his squeaky chair and picked up a pen and legal pad from his desk. “Okay. What I need from you are details. When exactly did Tronstad remove these three bags? And who saw him do it? Was it just you, or did Robert see him, too? Or did Robert help?”
“There’s gotta be a way we can work this out. You said we were going to work this out. They’re your friends, too.”
“Gum, this isn’t a game of tiddlywinks where you got caught cheating and everybody starts over. This is the real world. You men took something that might be worth thousands of dollars from a private residence. Don’t be naive, Gum. You’re going to prison. The whole lot of you. You knew that.”
