Cole Fire, page 8
“And exactly how did you come to this astute observation?” Cole prodded.
“For starters, I was sitting next to a woman who looked like somebody sat on her canary. So, in my most concerned counselor voice I asked if there was anything wrong. She told me she was just upset over the death of Jesse Monday. I asked her if she was a follower. No, she was a Catholic. Had she attended one of his meetings? Nope. About that time we were joined by three women from the sports desk. I asked them if they were as upset at my new friend. ‘Oh, yes. He will be really missed.’
“Of the three women, one was a true believer. Up until his death, she was trying to get her co-worker to go see Jesse. She could really talk the talk. Truth, truth, and more truth. I couldn’t seem to get a clear picture of what ‘Truth’ was exactly. The long and short of it was they were all Raiders fans, until the Niners went to the Super Bowl.”
“So your conclusion is a large shot of mass hysteria with a bandwagon chaser?”
“You know how when a rock star dies and they suddenly are number one in the charts, and the week before they couldn’t get arrested? Same thing.” Hanna was convinced in her findings. Cole wasn’t so sure.
“Let’s see if you can get me in touch with Jesse Monday’s right-hand man. His name is Skeeter Evans. See if he remembers me and ask for a face-to-face.”
* * *
Claw Hammer Hardware was a small, old-fashioned, nutsandbolts hardware store. Rows and rows of molly bolts, hinges, clamps and a million and one things you need once or twice in life. When you do, they are there for you. The place is poorly lit and cluttered. The staff know their inventory and where every lynch pin, rubber faucet washer, and eighth-inch drill bit is hiding and how much it will cost. Wiltz was completely out of his element.
“Help you, sir?” asked a man in his sixties wearing a Claw Hammer t-shirt.
“Yes. I need a few things for a project I’m working on. I need two large funnels, with big what-do-you-call-them, the part you put in the tank?” Wiltz asked.
“The spout?”
“Yeah, spout. Four feet of two-inch tubing,” Wiltz paused and tried to remember what else he needed.
“Don’t forget the duct tape.” The sound of Charlie’s voice seemed to come from over Wiltz’s shoulder.
“Some duct tape,” Wiltz said softly.
“You makin’ a Beer Bong?”
“A what?”
“The kids from the college are always coming in for funnels and tubes. They put the tube in their mouth and pour beer down the funnel. Hell, we used to chug-a-lug. This seems quicker!” The hardware man laughed loudly and slapped Wiltz on the back. “Let’s get you some tubing.”
A few minutes later Wiltz boarded the bus and made his way home. On his kitchen table he assembled the parts he bought. One funnel was inserted and duct taped into the tubing. The other funnel Wiltz smashed to make a wide thin exit for fluid. He smiled at his resourcefulness and laid it to the side.
Shortly before six, he pulled up in front of Terri’s apartment building. He had showered, shaved and put on fresh clothes. It had been several years since he was on a date. He wasn’t sure if this counted, but he was excited just the same. At the bottom of the stairs he paused and took a deep breath.
“Well, so where do you do think you’re going?”
Wiltz was jolted by the sound of Charlie’s voice.
“Not now, Charlie,” Wiltz muttered.
“Then when? What is it exactly you think you’re going to do with that woman anyway?”
“We are going to have dinner.” Wiltz said, holding his head up proudly.
“She has a lot more than Chicken Divan on her mind tonight. You are the main course and she wants you served up on fresh sheets!” Charlie laughed wickedly.
“No, she doesn’t!”
“You are such a fool. She drools all over you. Brings you cookies, aspirin. ‘Are you all right?’ It makes me puke!” Charlie’s mocking was almost more than Wiltz could stand.
“If she does offer me love, I accept!” Wiltz said, taking the first stair.
“My legs may have been worthless, but I could do the deed. You’ve peed sitting down for over forty years. Is this your chance to reclaim the manhood the Gooks shot off?” Charlie burst into a fit of fiendish laughter. “She wants a stallion, not a gelding!”
Don Wiltz threw his hands over his ears and from his throat rose a guttural soul-shredding cry. He spun about and ran to his car. He sat for several minutes in the parking lot, sobbing, swearing, stomping, and pounding the steering wheel.
“Let’s go home,” Charlie whispered gently.
After taking off his new shirt and splashing his face repeatedly, Don Wiltz microwaved a chicken pot pie and laid out two of Terri’s cookies for dessert. Shortly after eight o’clock Wiltz went to bed. He set his alarm clock for two a.m.
As he loaded the tube and funnel in his trunk, Charlie spoke for the first time in hours. “Don’t forget to buy gas.”
“I won’t forget,” Wiltz snapped.
“Cranky after our nap?” Charlie mocked.
“Leave it,” Wiltz said sourly.
“Yes, sir. Just trying to help.”
Gasco is a twenty-four-hour mini-mart with six gas pumps. It is dirty, half the hoses have been cut and the clerk sits behind two inches of bullet-proof glass. The appeal to Wiltz is the video camera was shot out months ago and never replaced. He would never have known about the place if one of his clients didn’t work there. The man joked that “if he had been that protected in Afghanistan he would still have two arms”.
Five gallons of gas sure pump slowly, Wiltz thought as he watched the dials rotate. He paid for the gas in cash and tried not to make eye contact with the attendant. He needn’t have bothered; the attendant was more interested in the infomercial on the snowy 12-inch TV above the counter than the sale.
The Happy 3 Nail Salon was cordoned off with yellow tape. One front window was covered with plywood. The carbon black of the fire showed above the wood. On the other side Wiltz could see the sky through the roof. Wiltz kept rolling past. .
The street was dark and only a few cars were parked here and there. Wiltz rounded the block, trying to decide who posed the greatest danger.
“They can’t eat, they can’t fight. Let’s starve them out. Like my guys used to do in the tunnels.” Charlie’s voice was an unwanted interruption. Wiltz was feeling in charge and ready for the attack.
“I’m one step ahead of you,” Wiltz said. “Pho is on the menu for tonight!”
Wiltz tuned off his lights as he entered the alley. The only light came from the reflection of a street lamp bouncing off the few remaining windows in the derelict warehouse that ran nearly the length of the alley. The back doors of the shops were protected by security doors. Some were blocked by broad steel cross-bars, chains, and heavy padlocks. The merchants of this block were firmly committed to stopping break-ins.
To be able to reach an access ladder, Wiltz parked his car close to the wall. The ladder was installed with a six-foot metal covering. The idea being that would-be climbers couldn’t get past the smooth, slick surface. The padlock, if there ever was one, was gone. The ring it once went through was drawn back and the protective cover took Wiltz only seconds to swing open.
He climbed on the roof of his car to reach the ladder. Quickly realizing he couldn’t climb the ladder and carry the five-gallon gas can, Wiltz put his belt through the handle of the can and buckled it. He put the strap over his shoulder and draped his tube and funnel around his neck. The weight of the gasoline made climbing difficult, but within a couple of minutes he was on the roof.
The cool air felt good as Wiltz filled his lungs in an attempt to catch his breath. From the rooftop it seemed he could see for miles. As he approached the center of the roof above Viet Pho, something was not right. He looked down the length of the building in both directions. It seemed every space had an air conditioning unit except this one. For a moment he panicked.
The plan that seemed so smart and simple was falling apart. Should he choose another business?
“What’s your problem, soldier?”
“I don’t need your help, Charlie!”
“That’s not very nice, we’re partners.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“Doesn’t look like it from here.” Charlie laughed heartily.
Wiltz frantically looked around the roof. Why was there no air conditioner? He began moving to the center of the building.
“Whatcha lookin’ for?”
“That!” Wiltz, said proudly, pointing at a blue tarpaulin on the roof.
In the spot where the air conditioner must have been was a four-by-six-foot sheet of blue plastic tarp securely duct-taped to the roof. Wiltz set the gas can and tubing on the roof and began tearing back the tarp.
“You see?” Wiltz asked.
“I see two big holes in the roof. So?” Charlie said sarcastically.
“It’s all I need.”
In an instant Wiltz removed the cap of the gas can and was pouring gasoline down the hole on the left. After a few moments he righted the can and shook it. Then poured a bit more. Satisfied he’d reached the half-way point of his fuel, he move to the other hole. It wasn’t long before the can was empty.
Wiltz moved the empty can to the edge of the building. He returned to the air duct holes in the roof. For a long moment he stood smelling the gasoline wafting through the air. He took a box of wooden matches from his jacket pocket. Removing three matches he held them close together and struck them on the side of the box. In one fluid motion, Wiltz bent down and stepped back, dropping the matches down a hole.
An orange pillar of flame burst from the hole. He quickly took three more matches out of the box and struck them.
“Fire in the hole!” Wiltz laughed, and dropped the matches.
This time he didn’t wait to see the flames. He felt the heat on his back and neck as he ran to the edge of the building. Looping his belt around his neck and then the unused tube and funnel, he moved quickly down the ladder, and was in his car in less than a minute.
The car bounced hard in the gutter as Wiltz left the alley and turned onto the dark street. He drove without his lights as he turned the corner and slowly cruised towards Viet Pho. Unlike the nail shop, the fire in the small restaurant was raging by the time he reached it. Three car lengths past the blaze, the front windows of the noodle shop blew out. Don Wiltz smiled and accelerated.
SIX
“Tell me again what we got her?”
“Cole, I’m ashamed of you!” Kelly scolded.
“You wrapped them before I saw them, I’m lacking clarity.”
“Clarity?”
“That’s right. I’m not quite clear on what we got her,” Cole said, looking down at the two packages Kelly held.
“I got her two tops and leggings. You got her the Sing-a-long-Disney video game.”
Before Cole could respond, the front door flew open and Jenny came bounding out onto the porch and jumped to the sidewalk just in front of her maternal and paternal grandparents.
“Hola, abuelo” Jenny squealed, jumping up into Cole’s waiting arms.
“Hola, mi princesa! Feliz cumpleaños!” Cole said, giving Jenny a big kiss on the cheek.
“Hola, abuela!” Jenny suddenly lunged in Kelly’s direction and threw her arms around her neck. Cole nearly dropped her. “Are those for me?”
“You are the only birthday girl I see!”
“Hola, papa,” Erin said from the top step. “Jenny, calm down!”
“Hola, anciano!” Ben chuckled.
“Obviously the bilingual school is working out,” Kelly laughed.
“For who, is the question. Hi, Mom!” Ben said, stepping forward to give Kelly a peck on the cheek.
Once inside, things calmed down a bit. Jenny took Kelly into the kitchen to show her the birthday cake sitting on the counter.
The birthday dinner was fast and easy. Jenny had planned the menu which included taquitos, bagel bites, raw broccoli and ranch dip, and frozen yogurt.
“I got a call from my friend Christine today,” Kelly began. “She’s the one that bought the small winery in Paso Robles. I’ve been telling her I would come and visit for ages. Anyway, I’m going down tomorrow to help label and box their first offering.”
“What about Easter?” Erin asked.
“I’ll be back on Saturday afternoon. But here’s the thing. I am babysitting my neighbor Charla’s goldfish while she’s on a cruise. So, Cole...” Kelly gave him her most beguiling smile.
“Will I feed the fish?” Cole grimaced.
“Could you?”
“I suppose so.” Cole was less than enthusiastic in his response.
Presents opened and ice cream eaten, Jenny was off to bed. Kelly and Cole stayed another forty-five minutes. The drive to Kelly’s was chatty and full of good-hearted teasing. The couple enjoyed a place in their relationship where they were very comfortable with each other. Not that there weren’t surprises, but periods of silence were no longer awkward, and their mature affection was not driven by the raging hormones of the young.
Sometimes Cole just delighted in the sound of Kelly’s voice and her gentle spirit. The wit and quick mind that first drew him to her was just the key to opening an amazing intellect that never ceased to invigorate Cole. Tonight was no different. As they moved through traffic and toward the bridge, music playing softly, Kelly spoke eloquently about her faith, and her concern for people’s willingness to follow a man like Jesse Monday. She wasn’t judgmental, just bewildered, and Cole found her knowledge of the charismatic gurus in her lifetime, from Jim Jones, David Koresh and L. Ron Hubbard, to Sun Myung Moon and José Luis de Jesús to be amazing.
She spoke of each one in turn and how they had twisted the Bible and the teachings of Jesus to enslave, bilk, and in too many cases, aid in the deaths of their followers. Cole agreed. He was baffled by people’s willingness to give themselves to a leader to the point of abandoning reason and their own emotional, spiritual and financial freedom.
Cole was prepared to walk Kelly to the door of her floating home, when she leaned over and gave him a slow kiss, her palm gently caressing his cheek, then without a word, hopped out of the car.
As she turned before closing the door she smiled and whispered, “I love you sweetie. Big day tomorrow. I’ll call you.” With that, the door closed and she made her way briskly to the ramp to the pier.
“So much for cuddling on the couch.” Cole smiled and shook his head.
Cole’s morning was delightful, from the perfect temperature of his shower, the homemade ham, egg, and cheese sandwich, the four-star mocha, even the traffic lights on the way to work were cooperative. The sun was shining and the mix-disc in his CD player was just one more sign that the day held nothing but good things ahead.
When he arrived at his office there was no sign of Hanna, nothing unusual there. Her jacket was draped on the back of her chair, so she was in the building somewhere. Continuing his run of morning bliss, there were only two messages on his desk, neither one of which bore the signs of derailing his mood.
“Happy Monday morning!”
“Yes, indeed!” Cole said, looking up to find Hanna in the doorway with two large Styro cups.
“I’m stepping out to the skinny end of the limb here, but I made you a mocha. I have to say the recipe for my last boss’s morning coffee was easier; black, two fingers of Bourbon. Cocoa, creamer, and Sweet and Low is an entirely different kind of mixology.”
“Wow, that’s great!” Cole said, taking the cup. “Have a seat. We’ll see what’s on the docket for today.” Cole took a sip from the steaming cup. “By George, I think she’s got it!”
“Really?” Hanna said proudly.
“Absolutely. You’re hired.” Cole smiled and took another sip. “Again.”
“I got a hold of that Skeeter guy,” Hanna began. “What a jerk. I wasn’t able to get him to commit to a sit-down, but he said he would call back when things were less hectic. For a messiah’s right-hand man he sure wasn’t all about goodness and light.”
“He’s a tough cookie. Keep on him. Give him some space but don’t let him forget us. The film festival is coming up, I know it’s an entertainment thing, but see if you can get me on the press list.” Cole sipped the mocha, “This really is good. What about that budget packet? Did you look at it?”
“It seems that Sports is getting a pretty good increase. I guess that’s what a World Series will do for you. How does Features and Editorial get a bigger cut?”
“Find Jesse Monday,” Cole said flatly.
“Speaking of Mr. Monday, one of the girls I had lunch with sent me a packet of stuff she gathered from various rallies and gatherings. I was just going through it and...”
The phone rang, interrupting Cole’s new “investigator” before she could summarize her findings.
“Cole Sage.”
“Cole! It is Leonard.”
“Hey buddy, what’s goin’ on?” Cole said cheerfully.
“Maybe nothing.”
“Nothing is always better than something,” Cole said, then covering the phone, “We’ll finish later.” Hanna stood, saluted, and made her way back to her desk.
“This is kind of a goofy thing. This morning while two of our guys were having coffee at the end of their shift, somebody dropped a newspaper in the front seat of the squad car. Of course, nobody saw a thing.” Chin cleared his throat and then continued. “There was a yellow sticky note attached to the front page. It just said, ‘Have Cole Sage write the end of the story.”
“What story?”
“We’ve had two arson fires in Little Saigon in the last four days. The sticky note was stuck to this morning’s report of the second fire.”
“What kind of fires?” Cole asked.
“Don’t you even read your own paper?” Chin chided.
“My subscription ran out.”
“Funny. The first one was a nail salon. The second was a noodle shop. Different streets, but a block apart.” Chin was thinking out loud.
