Amid the industrial tangle of ducts, pipes, and hanging chains, I noticed tire scuffs on the concrete, evidence the fire trucks had been here.
So where are they now?
One thing I knew: Captain Michael absolutely assured me that he would not be here this evening, so there was zero chance of my going back on the promise I’d made to Mike to stay away from his cousin.
I guess a part of me was still curious about the captain (not to mention suspicious), and I wouldn’t have minded a crack at interviewing the man. On the other hand, with him out of the firehouse, I could freely question his men without the threat of a red devil looking over my shoulder.
“Ms. Cosi?”
I looked up to search the vast echo chamber for the source of the familiar, upbeat voice.
“James?” I called back.
“Yeah, it’s me.” James Noonan crossed the track-marked floor to greet me, passing under a high metal catwalk that ran along all four windowless walls. “Sorry the guys are gone. A call came in. But they’ll be rolling back soon.”
Under the banks of hanging florescent lights, the man I liked to think of as my own personal hero looked like a poster boy for All-American footbalclass="underline" glowing skin, close-cropped hair, a dazzling smile. He was as warm and friendly as I remembered, and just about as tall as the two Mike Quinns. By the time he reached my side, I was bending my neck just to meet his translucent blue eyes.
He shook my hand with a wide grin, and then jerked one thumb over his shoulder. “Come on back. I’ll show you the espresso machine.”
I followed him down an industrial green hallway. At the end he opened a stout wooden door, and the taint of diesel exhaust gave way to a much more appetizing array of aromas — fresh, floral herbs and piquant spices intermingled with the pungent-sweet fragrance of roasting garlic and the heavy but alluring scent of sizzling pork fat.
With quick hands James draped a grease-spattered apron over his gray T-shirt and distressed denims, pulled the strings completely around his lean waist, and tied them at his belt buckle. (The front of the apron assured me the wearer was Also Good in Bed.)
I pointed. “Gag gift from the guys, right?”
“You must be psychic,” he said flatly.
I smiled. “My staff gave me one of those.”
“Oh? So you’re also good in bed?”
“No. I Serve It Up Hot.”
He laughed. “Come on...”
James led me around a corner, into a sprawling kitchen area with two huge refrigerators, a pizza oven, a deep fryer, and a grill-and-gas-range combination under a ventilation funnel.
“Whoa, does every firehouse have such great facilities?”
James snorted. “Are you kidding? I put this place together by my lonesome. Over the past two years I’ve gone to every restaurant closing and bankruptcy in the five boroughs to gather this stuff.”
The savory scent of roasting meat distracted me. I pointed to the oven. “Something in there smells amazing.”
“Pork shoulder.” James opened the door to display his handiwork.
“¡Hola, pernil!” I admired the beautiful bone-in pork shoulders, four in all, slow-roasting on two cooking racks.
“A PR classic,” James noted.
“So you’ve got Puerto Rican guys in the company?”
“Only one, plus a dude from Cuba and one from the Dominican Republic. All the guys love the pernil, though. It’s economical, feeds a hungry crew, and leaves enough meat for Cuban sandwiches in the morning.”
“And what’s in the Dutch oven?” I pointed to the stovetop.
James lifted the lid. “A sweet onion and cheddar casserole.”
I sniffed. “Mild cheddar, right? And lots of milk and butter?”
“Yeah. The onions give up a lot of moisture so I use bread crumbs to keep it from getting too watery.”
I sniffed again. “A little bland, isn’t it? Especially for Latino guys. You should try some dry mustard in there. Maybe a dash of cayenne. I think you’ll like the result.”
James nodded, gave me a little smile. “Color me impressed.”
“Fire’s your job, flavor is mine.”
His smile widened. Then he replaced the lid and closed the oven.
“Do you cook like this at home?” I asked. “Val must appreciate it.”
At the mention of his wife, James’s good cheer fell away. “We hardly eat together these days.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
He shrugged. “If Val’s not working late, I’m on a mutual.”
“Mutual? Val used that term. What is it exactly?”
“A ‘mutual’ is when the guys juggle work schedules so we can do back-to-back shifts.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“If you work twenty-four or forty-eight hours straight, you can get three or even four days off in a row. It’s a nice arrangement for guys with kids.”
James glanced at his bright orange digital watch. “I don’t actually start my mutual for another thirty minutes. I came in early to get some dinner up and running before things got hairy.”
“So that’s why you’re still here while the rest of the guys are off on a call?”
He nodded and turned to take another peek at his pork shoulders. He looked so happy to be here on the job — maybe too happy?
Twice now I’d seen the man frown at the mention of his wife. Why? Were James and Val just having the typical troubles of a busy married couple? Or were their problems more serious? It wouldn’t have been my business, except for the fact that Lucia Testa was fooling around with one of the men of this house. Was James’s marriage so unhappy that he’d decided to stray with Lucia?
My God... I hope James isn’t the fireman I’ve come here looking for...
I cleared my throat, brought up the same question in a new way. “So, I’m sure the guys appreciate having a cook like you in the house, but... you must prefer dining with your wife, right?”
“Actually, Val never wants me to go to any trouble. That woman’s happy with a cold beer and a couple of sliders.”
“Yeah, she mentioned her love of microbrews to me the other day. I was surprised. Considering her party-planning title, I figured her for a wine-and-brie girl.”
James folded his arms. “I’m the guy who won’t touch beer, not to save my life. Give me a nice glass of Bordeaux with dinner, a few stinky French cheeses at the end of the meal, and I’m a happy boy.”
An electronic crackle interrupted us. James stepped over to a shelf and turned down the volume on what looked like a small, boxy radio receiver.
“Sorry,” he said, “I was buffing.”
“What is that exactly? I saw a bumper sticker outside — Honk If You’re Buffing!”
“You saw Oat Crowley’s car. That guy buffs in his sleep. When he dies, they’ll probably put an FDNY radio in Oat’s coffin.”
“So buffing has something to do with a radio?”
“Buffing is when you listen to FDNY chatter while you’re off duty. Even civilians do it, hence the title.”
“Oh, buffing is for fire buffs. Like fans?” Or potential arsonists?
“Bingo,” James said. “But lots of firefighters do it, too. You don’t climb the ranks without putting in the time, staying on top of what’s happening — and I’m taking the lieutenant’s exam in a few weeks.”
As James turned back to his cooking, I began moving down the counter, checking things out (snooping really). Despite all the appliances, most of the floor space was taken up by a single scuffed table. My gaze ran over some job-related notices on one wall, then snagged on a colorful calendar taped to a cupboard door. The calendar was one of those famous FDNY specials — hunks in fire hats.