by Earl Emerson
The psychiatrist dropped his pen, and from across the room Finney heard the soft sound on the carpet. He wondered if Balitnikoff had been chosen randomly as a facilitator at the debriefing. Generally the department chose from a pool of trained officers or firefighters not directly involved with the incident. While Balitnikoff’s unit, Engine 10, had not been on the call, Ladder 1, housed in Station 10 with Engine 10, had. Finney would have thought that was enough to disqualify him.
Three years earlier, when Marion Balitnikoff transferred to Engine 10, he brought with him a thousand and one stories as well as a reputation for being strong as a bull on the fire ground. In firefighting, unlike many other arenas in life, aggressiveness was preferred over most other modes of action. Reactive was bad; passive was not acceptable. Quick, prompt, informed initiative was what the department wanted—and Balitnikoff had always been aggressive.
Finney’s first real firefighting experience with Balitnikoff had been at an apartment-house fire. In a vacant room on the second floor they’d found a hole in the floor; the hazard had been marked off but nobody could see the warnings in the smoke. When Finney found a firefighter sunk up to his chest in the hole, about to fall more than two stories to the lobby, he threw his body across the man’s arms, gripping his backpack, anchoring him. Now only the weight and friction of Finney’s body prevented them both from sliding in. Finney hollered for help, and several pairs of hands pulled them out. The other man said nothing before, during, or after the incident, and he quickly disappeared into the smoke.
Later, Finney realized it had been Lieutenant Balitnikoff. “That was something, huh? That hole,” Finney said to him afterward. “I thought we were going to lose you.”
“You got the wrong guy.” Balitnikoff turned and walked away.
The episode stumped Finney until he realized it had to do with machismo. Firefighters saved other people. A firefighter who needed saving himself was a rung down from the firefighter who’d saved him. That logic was a holdover from the days when neighboring engine companies raced at breakneck speeds so they could brag about being the first to put water on a fire in somebody else’s district, from the days when only “weak sisters” strapped on air masks. Today, people wore masks and worked in teams. Today, safety was paramount, and today, crews worked together instead of against each other.
These days it was a job, not a way to measure your dick.
27. GET OUT THE TAPE MEASURE
The one thing Diana appreciated about stress debriefings was hearing about an incident from the perspective of each individual involved, viewing an identical scene from a Rashomon-like multiplicity of angles.
During the debriefing Finney seemed calm enough, but he was always unflappable. After his laugh, which erupted at the most unexpected times, it was what she liked best about him.
She recalled seeing him at a fire just off Denny Way, where a huge chunk of material sailed off a roof and landed squarely between Finney and a high-strung lieutenant named Gold who routinely took two or three months off every year to let his gastrointestinal ulcers calm down. Looking up and seeing a pair of rookies on the roof, Gold became furious and shouted that he was going to come up and write charges. “Leave this to me,” Finney said, gritting his teeth in a Clint Eastwood grimace. “I’ll fix them.”
Not knowing Finney and fearing the worst, Diana had followed him up the various stairwells in the three-story house and then through a hole cut in the roof. There was no doubt Finney could make life difficult for the two rookies, who were nervously awaiting his arrival. Sizing them up, he spoke in a low voice devoid of emotion, “Next time you throw something off a roof, think big. Skip the lieutenants and captains. Go for a chief.”
It was the sort of dry wit Finney and the rest of the men on Ladder 1 were famous for.
When the meeting finally broke up, just before lunchtime, Diana waited in the lobby.
Robert Kub and G. A. Montgomery emerged from the meeting room, Kub stopping to give her a hug. Montgomery, who had made a studied practice of ignoring her since her first day in the department, continued walking as if he hadn’t seen her.
Kub, on the other hand, flirted with any female who didn’t have a mustache and some who did. “Strange meeting,” he said. “That poor old woman.”
As they spoke, Gary Sadler bumped against Diana’s shoulder and almost knocked her over. He tried to pretend it was an accident, but he wasn’t much of an actor. She’d expected rudeness, had hoped for indifference, but outright hostility was a shock. Not many people were even aware that they knew each other, and Diana preferred to keep it that way.
“Hey,” Kub said, as Sadler walked away. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Let it go,” Diana said.
“That was awful goddamn rough.”
“Forget it. Not to change the subject or anything, but I don’t understand why you and G. A. came to this little soirée.”
Kub’s eyes followed Sadler out of the room, and then he looked away evasively. “Needed to talk to the entry team.”
A group of firefighters from Engine 11 and Ladder 7 walked past, and one or two stopped to say hello. Then Finney appeared from a bank of phone booths down the hall. “Hello, John.”
Finney nodded to Diana and then looked at Kub. “Robert, you get any leads on that fire yet?”
A pair of firefighters came by and slapped Finney on the back. “Great save. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
Kub gave Finney a beleaguered look. “You mean any other leads?”
“Yeah.”
Diana realized something complex was transpiring between these two but didn’t know what it was. They were quiet for several moments, outwaiting each other, the tension building. Finally, Diana said, “Was she living in that vacant house? The old woman?”
“According to the neighbors,” Kub said, “nobody’s lived there for the last eight years. No telling where she was sleeping. We had a witness once, rode buses all day and spent her nights at Sea-Tac. Always dressed up so people thought she was waiting for a plane. Nobody bothers you at the airport. Maybe she was living at the airport.” Kub gave a little wave and left.
Diana took a deep breath. She was aware that since the fire on Riverside Drive her relationship with John Finney had changed. She’d proved herself to him, and there would be no more questions between them. She’d been thinking about this in a casual sense for the past two days, but now that he was in front of her, she plunged ahead. “John, you might think this is an awkward question, and it is, I guess, but are you seeing anybody?”
He looked as if he were trying to remember, then smiled. “Not right now.”
“I feel silly even asking. I talked to Baxter, and he said the last he knew you were dating some college professor, but he didn’t know if that was still happening.”
“A community college English teacher. Her old boyfriend showed up.”
“Sorry.”
“Tell you the truth, I was kind of relieved.”
“The reason I ask is I’m involved in the department’s homeless children’s charity, and we’re giving a costume ball on Halloween. I have tickets, and I’d like you to be my date.”
He took a deep breath, and for a moment she thought he was trying to compose a turndown. “That sounds like a lot of fun. I’ll look forward to it.”
“Look forward to what?” It was Marion Balitnikoff in his black dress uniform, hat pulled low to his eyes.
“Nothing,” Finney said.
“Glad I caught you two together. I know I sounded a little rough in there, but I hope you both take it in the spirit in which it was given. We’re all family, and I don’t want to see anybody else hurt. I mean that. I couldn’t take another funeral before I retire.”
Diana said, “You were awful rough on him.”
“Yeah, well, no hard feelings.” Balitnikoff stuck his hand out to shake, first with Diana, then with Finney. “I just want things to go right from now on.”
After Balitnikoff was out of earshot, Diana turned to Finney. “Don’t forget Halloween. You’ll need a costume.”
“I’m not going to forget.”
28. WHATEVER DOESN’T MAKE YOU STRONGER KILLS YOU
When Finney had left the conference room, Monahan was talking to another short-timer from Ladder 7 about investing in Asian markets, as if Monahan had any money to invest. He was still broke from importing two hundred kangaroos in a scheme to sell meat and hides. It turned out nobody wanted to eat a kangaroo, and after he had all two hundred of them in pens on acreage he’d paid too much for, he discovered he didn’t have the heart to slaughter one anyway.
Monahan emerged from the conference room, took half a minute to get his bearings, then came downstairs and ducked into a public lavatory next to the Garden Room restaurant. When he still hadn’t come out after several minutes, Finney knew he was in for a vigil. In the crapper at the station, Monahan often finished books, paid bills, made phone calls, wrote letters—and had been tardy for more than one alarm after his legs went to sleep.
“John?” Kub was suddenly beside Finney again, whispering. “I didn’t want to talk in front of Diana.”
Eyeballing the rest room door, Finney said, “What?”
“You know I can’t act as your inside man.”
“Why not? I’m getting crucified.”
“I will tell you this. In a few days G. A.’ll show photos to that old woman.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Well enough to ID you. In a few days.”
“He thinks I did it, why doesn’t he just arrest me?”
“G. A. doesn’t work that way. He likes to play. That’s to your advantage if you use the time.”
“I don’t see any advantages here.”
“The other morning he went to Riverside Drive and wrote down license numbers of people who routinely drive to work past there. He thinks he has somebody who might ID you. Course, it won’t be as good as the old woman. You were there that morning, weren’t you?”
“An anonymous caller asked me to meet him. Then he never showed up.”
Kub took a deep breath and exhaled. “Christ, John. How did you get into this mess?”
“Forget it. I don’t need your help.”
“I wish I could help.”
“Yeah, I wish you could, too.”
A few minutes later Jerry Monahan rushed out the side door of the lobby.
Finney didn’t catch him until he was at the corner of Fifth and Seneca, catercornered to the YWCA. Monahan was walking briskly, talking to himself, his hands in the pockets of his baggy, corduroy trousers. Under the cloudy sky his skin was gray, the smile lines around his eyes crinkled against the breeze that channeled down between the buildings.
When Monahan smiled, he tried to make it mechanical, but there was a warmth to his smile that he couldn’t conceal.
“How are you?”
“I’m being framed for arson, that’s how I am.”
“What?” Monahan seemed incredulous.
“To start with, that house is not on the dangerous buildings list.”
“Of course it’s not. It burned down.”
“It never was on the list.”
“Sure it was. I put it on myself.” Monahan smiled a concerned smile as if he’d just discovered Finney was mildly retarded and realized he had to be more diplomatic. “What makes you think it wasn’t on the list?”
“Weren’t you listening inside? Caldwell said it wasn’t on the list.”
“Oh.”
“Why didn’t you add that house like you said you would?”
“Well, I guess . . . Hmmmm. Now I’m getting confused. I don’t know what happened.”
“I’m not buying that.”
“Okay, I screwed up. I’m no virgin. It must have slipped my mind.”
“If it slipped your mind, why did you say you put it on the list?”
“I have a lot on my mind these days. My Elevator-in-a-Can is almost finished. I have a deadline—My wife says I’d forget my suspenders if they weren’t attached to my belt.” He smiled, striving to be cordial.
Was it possible he actually thought he’d added it to the list? Finney didn’t think so. There was something else, too. Last Tuesday, Monahan had been far too excited about the department becoming tied up with all those alarms. It was as if he had known about it in advance.
“Jerry, you’re screwing with me.”
Monahan shoveled his hands into his trousers pockets and said, “What are you talking about?”
“You made that call Sunday night. You told me to meet you.”
“What on earth are you—”
“You know where I was that morning, and you know why.”
Like a crime victim trying to flee a robbery attempt, Monahan turned and began walking quickly up the street.
Finney followed and grabbed his arm. “Talk to me, Jerry.”
“Geez-Louise, what do you want?”
“You took my coat out of my locker, didn’t you?”
“Your coat? Now it’s your coat? I thought you were talking about the dangerous buildings list?”
“You took my coat, didn’t you?”
“Go get some help,” Monahan said flatly. “Everybody said you were going to crack up after Leary Way, and now you have.”
“There’s a conspiracy, Jerry. You’re involved. That house was involved.”
Monahan looked at him intensely and said, “Don’t try to tell me about conspiracies. I’m an expert on conspiracies. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought there were conspiracies against me, when I found out later there weren’t. Always when things go wrong, it feels better to believe people made it that way. It feels better to think you’re not small and insignificant and wandering around an aimless universe like a bug that can have a big shoe snuff out its life at any moment. If there’s a conspiracy and it’s centered on you, then you’re not insignificant. Somebody’s watching. Somebody’s paying attention. It’s the conspiracy syndrome. I grew out of it. You will, too, John. And don’t accuse me again, understand? I hear this once more, I’m going to the department, and after that I’m going to court to get a restraining order.”
Monahan gave him one last mournful look, and walked to the corner, where he turned back. “They say, ‘Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’ That’s not true. When trials come along, they make you weaker. The next trial comes along, it kills you. Listen to me. Get help.”
PART THREE
29. TWO MEN NOT FIGHTING OVER THE REMOTE CONTROL
His night at Station 26 had been bad enough that Finney was numbing himself with Katie Couric on the NBC morning show. He had tossed and turned until four A.M., when a heroin addict from one of the local biker gangs OD’ed in a cramped one-story apartment directly across the street from the station. By the time Engine 26’s crew walked through the door, his pals had, adhering to street legend, stripped him and packed him in a bathtub filled with cold water and ice cubes. Finding a slow pulse but no respirations, Finney and Lieutenant Sadler fished him out of the tub and bag-masked him in a puddle of water on the floor. When the medics came, they tied him to a stretcher and shot Narcan into his veins. As usual with Narcan, he bounced back in seconds, cursing all involved for “fucking up” his high.
Finney wished he had somebody to talk this over with. He knew he had been surly and self-pitying in those weeks following Leary Way, growling at people who wanted to console him, going so far as to denounce God and the church to the department chaplain when he visited, making certain everyone knew he wanted to be alone.
For five months he had been alone.
What he’d known all along but seemed powerless to change was how Leary Way had turned him into the supreme egoist. He’d become a self-centered jerk, and what was worse, he didn’t know how to change.
After making a few phone calls, he realized he couldn’t confide in those he didn’t trust, and he didn’t trust the few he could confide in. Th
omas Baxter, who was riding Ladder 1 with Finney the night of Leary Way, had turned to Jesus and now seemed to be breathing rarefied air from another planet. Finney didn’t know whether his conversion was a form of self-hypnosis or a true immersion in spirituality, but whichever, it had propelled Baxter out of Finney’s reach.
Finney was closer to his father now than he’d ever been, but he didn’t want to put any more rocks on the wagon his father was pulling. His brother was supportive on the surface but continued to throw darts at him in small ways. His mother did not willingly take on problems, and rarely expressed an opinion that wasn’t on lease from her husband. In the last five months he’d grown distant from all of his other friends.
There was no one else.
The doorbell rang, and as he scuffed his feet across the carpet, his loose wool socks becoming snug as condoms, he glimpsed himself in the mirror—unshaven, disheveled, eyes bloodshot.
His father was on the dock, nonchalantly puffing away on a cigarette.
Gil Finney was small, wiry, his face weathered from forty years of inhaling unfiltered cigarettes and Dumpster fires. Six months of cancer and a lifetime of quarreling with strangers about right-hand turn lanes and parking spots had given him a drawn look, as if he were made out of wire. He’d been showing up unbidden lately, a routine Finney had become rather fond of.
“Hey, John. Everything skookem?”
“Yeah, fine. Come in.”
“I know you guys worked yesterday, but I thought you might want to shoot the breeze. I been up since five.”
“Me, too. How’re you doing?”
“Not so bad. God, last week I thought I was dying.” He laughed and then coughed. Then laughed again. For reasons unfathomable to Finney, his father, who’d never seen much humor in life, now found hilarious almost everything having to do with death, particularly his own. For months he’d been unnerving people with jokes about coffins and cemeteries and had even threatened to play a gag on his pallbearers, who would all be chiefs, by having his casket weighted with six hundred pounds of lead. “Make their fat asses do some real work,” he said, laughing until the phlegm rattled in his lungs with a wet, evil sound.
