by Ian Lewis
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 27th, 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 gonn
a 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 27th, 2002 12:59 PM
The Driver somewhere in the Upper Territory
Coastline. Someone’s view of summer, but faded and washed out. The level, gray slice of road stretches farther than I can see. On either side, flimsy grass stands calm, the barest hint of green.
From my vantage point on the shoulder, the dull, listless water seems like something from an old photograph—flat and without texture. It lies beyond the low-slung structures that dot the shallow properties every few miles. Small vacation homes—overgrown shacks—stand in ruinous shame, almost as if they are a sorry excuse unto themselves.
Before me lies the Shoreline Motel, a longish one-story affair. The crusty shingles curl not from the sun but from the memory of whoever left this place behind. Who were they? Someone young and free of worry? Someone old with regrets? I’ll never know.
Thick steel benches line the cement walkway, one in front of the window of every room. A brown, numbered door stands to the right of each. The parking spaces before them comprise a dusty, gravely void.
A slanting sign planted in the front lawn advertises cable in crude block letters. The neon vacancy indicator hangs dormant in the office window. This is where my search for Grimley led. He’s here, somewhere.
All night I drove from one waypoint to the next, following the path where I last saw him. The first was a dense vineyard—gnarled grape vines wrapping themselves in choked circles. Sometimes wanderlings play among the tangled growth.
I stumbled through the field for what must have been an hour. Moving on from there, I scoured back alleys and a crumbling cathedral, anywhere the little ones might hide. The far end of that urban dreamscape melted into a rainy, industrial strip of decaying smokestacks and warehouses.
There I found a pack of them, stomping in puddles and acting out something from someone’s dream. Their voices rang out on repeat as they mouthed their own sing-song version of what they’d seen the night before.
I stood among them. Each of their deformities was unlike the next—one with a concave chest, another with stumps for ears. Several minutes passed before they all stopped to stare at me.
They all knew me, or at least knew of me. It wasn’t difficult to coax what I needed from them. The promise of a ride in the Camaro purchased where Grimley was headed: Summerland.
Most places in the Territory aren’t named, but now that I see how this lazy vacation scene evokes what many associate with the warmer months, it makes sense. I’m told Grimley favors the motel.
I shove off from the front fender of the Camaro leaving the heaviness of the car behind. Sometimes it feels like a prison, the amount of time I spend in it.
The office is nearest. The brass knob on the door gives way with an easy twist and I peek my head in. Silence. A dingy laminate counter rests above a sign that says “Ring for service,” but there’s no bell.
Backing out, I close the door and step a few paces to the first unit. It’s locked, as is the second.
The third opens to a muted scene, darkened with the shades pulled tight. The brown bedspread lies immaculate with a small bed stand beside. A simple, studious desk sits opposite. It’s as though I’ve interrupted a world unto itself, one I shouldn’t disturb.
Closing the door, I work my way down the remaining units, and it’s more of the same. Some locked, others a forgotten world of tidiness. At the end of the motel I step off the edge of the walkway into the overgrown grass. A sideways glance off the back corner reveals a small figure sitting near the rocky ledge overlooking the water. Grimley.
He doesn’t turn as I approach, preoccupied with whatever lies before him. His sallow head tilts as he whispers something to himself that I can’t make out.
I stop a few paces behind so as not to startle him. “You’ve got one of my souls.”
The small figure jumps, wide eyes darting over a lumpy shoulder. “Oh, it’s you.” Coarse, matted hair hangs over his rounded head. A puggish nose rides over a dimple of a mouth.
“I think it’s time you gave it back.” I move alongside of him and crouch near.
Grimley sits Indian-style in the dirt, pudgy hands clasping the fringes of a wispy gray apparition. His mouth cements as he pulls it away so I can’t see.
“What have you got there?” I nod toward his hands.
“Nothing.” Grimley’s lower lip juts out, stubborn.
“Is that the one you took from me?”
&nb
sp; A soul is just a glimmer, a loose semblance of a slack, lifeless, humanoid form. Over time, it will fold into chaos and disarray if left unattended—a mind without a body.
Grimley continues his pout and then looks away. “Yeah, it’s one of yours. I just wanted to play with it.” He turns enough that I can see the pale shimmer. There’s no way to actually grasp it; it’s more of an attraction—like a magnetic field.
“I know it. But it doesn’t belong to you. It doesn’t even belong to me.” I pause to let that sink in and then hold out my hand. “Are you going to give it back?”
Grimley looks up with a puckered smile. “Tell me a story first.”
I nod in agreement, but inwardly sulk. This is a delay I hoped to avoid. I’ve become so focused on the goings-on of Halgraeve that tearing away to haggle with Grimley seems a great inconvenience. The time for me to intervene there approaches at a relentless pace, so I opt for something simple.
“Adam lay with his wife Eve, and she became pregnant and gave birth to Cain. She said, ‘With the help of the LORD I have brought forth a man.’ Later she gave birth to his brother Abel…”
“I’ve already heard that one,” Grimley cuts in. “Tell me something different.” He drills into me with insistent eyes.
Annoyed at his demand, I concede and switch narratives—a story someone once told me. “Years back—a time when man lived in fear of his neighbor—the Night Drivers rode. No one knew their number or who they were; people knew them only by the roar of motors howling in the night.
“They drove dual-exhaust monsters belching a raucous tune. Flat black and muscular, their vehicles tore through the region ousting the wicked from their hiding places.
“Some said they were concerned citizens who took a call to arms. Others thought they were restless spirits returned to visit punishment on evil man. Whatever their origin, the Night Drivers meted out justice as they saw fit.
