“Uh...”
“It’s okay, honey,” Dino said. “You don’t have to be afraid of handling Bigsie’s spike. I hear the ladies all enjoy the experience.”
Oh, brother. I took the thing — at the very least to prevent more ribbing. It was heavy in the hand, like an espresso tamper, with a flat head (also like a tamper). Its girth was also the perfect thickness to hold comfortably. But that’s where the similarity ended. The spike was a foot long and, well, a spike, just as the name suggested.
“So this can save your life?”
Bigs nodded. “See if you were stuck on the roof, you’d drive you ax into the roof itself, then you’d put the spike end into the cut, hammer it down with the back of your ax. It’s spring-loaded, like a switchblade, so you can trip these prongs to anchor it.” He hit a button and the spring-loaded tool snapped open. “Then you clip your rope to this ring and jump.”
“Well...” I touched the flat end of the tool. “I’m sorry to tell you. For what I need, this head’s too big.”
Dino snorted. “That’s a first.”
“What I mean is we’ll need that tamper to continue. So why don’t we all look for it?” I glanced at the men who just sat staring. “I mean it, guys. Let’s get down on our hands and knees and get it done.
“Okay, Ms. Cosi,” Ortiz said with a wicked grin. “You go down first and we’ll be right behind you.”
Now the men glanced at one another with smirks.
“Come on, guys! Give me a break!”
The men burst out laughing — and finally did what I asked. They found the tamper, I washed it, and we began again.
Thirty minutes later, two out of three attempts by each firemen resulted in a decent (if far from perfect) shot. Another half hour and the guys were producing passable espressos — far from Village Blend quality but a start.
“I feel like I’ve mastered something,” Ortiz said.
“You know the basics now,” I told him. “But you need to keep practicing. You still have a lot to learn. We’ve hardly touched on humidity levels, barometric pressure, heat or cold weather, the characteristics of different beans and blends, and the effect these things have on extraction.”
Ed Schott laughed. “She sounds like a fire-academy instructor.”
“Espressos, gentlemen, are a lot like life, the more you learn the less you know — and the quicker you surrender to not knowing, the faster you will progress.”
“Zen and the Art of Espresso Machine Maintenance by Clare Cosi,” James said with a wink.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
With class dismissed, the men crowded around to thank me, a few of them asking more questions. I pulled out a copy of an Espresso-making guide, one I gave to all of my rookies.
“Damn, even she’s got a manual!”
The men laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“Are you kidding?” Ortiz gestured to a board filled with official notices on procedures and new equipment. “Welcome to the FDNY. Manuals ’R’ Us!”
I smiled, nodded, then quickly broke away and approached Captain Michael.
“Nice job handling the men,” he said softly.
I could tell he meant it. His expression was more relaxed now. Whatever I’d done tonight, it had impressed (or amused) him. His earlier anger at finding me snooping around his firehouse was obviously gone.
“Can we talk now?” I whispered. “Privately.”
“Can’t wait to get me alone, eh, darlin’?”
“Cut the crap, will you?”
“What crap?”
“You know what.”
“Ah, well, maybe I do...” His voice went lower and now his gaze was moving over me. “It’s just that when I see a lady such as yourself with so many feminine charms...” He flashed a grin, his gold tooth winking. “I can’t help myself.”
“Baloney, Captain, and let me tell you something. I don’t like baloney. It’s cheap and indigestible.”
“You’re reading me all wrong, dove. My nature compels me to reveal the truth of my heart. It’s just the way the Lord made me.”
“The Lord made trees. I sincerely doubt divine inspiration had anything to do with your cheesy pickup lines.”
Beneath the crimson trim of his Victorian mustache, the man’s patronizing smirk finally vanished. He chucked his thumb toward the heavens. “Upstairs.”
Twenty-One
Struggling to keep up with the man’s long strides, I followed Captain Michael across the kitchen, down a hallway, and into a narrow stairwell. We traveled north a level then moved along another industrial green hallway, passing an office door with a plastic plaque that read Lieutenant Crowley. The door was ajar and I heard papers rattling, but I couldn’t see the occupant.
The captain’s office was no fancier than mine although it was a great deal larger. A battered wooden desk dominated the room. There were two chairs, banks of metal filing cabinets, and an old leather couch. The dark, heavy office felt warm to me. I attributed this not to my hormones (or the captain’s, for that matter) but to the clanking, hissing radiator in the corner.
Michael felt the heat, too. He opened the room’s only window and gestured to his office door. “Close it if you want privacy.”
I did. Then I settled onto a chair opposite his desk. He leaned back on his creaky office throne and cradled his fingers.
“So, I’m guessing you want to know what the fire marshals are sayin’, right?”
“That’s an ongoing investigation,” I said with a straight face. “I’m a civilian, remember? It’s none of my business until it’s a part of the public record.”
Captain Michael blinked, obviously surprised by my answer.
“I have another matter on my mind.”
He smirked. “My love life?”
“No. The other fire. The one that happened on the very same night as the fire at Caffè Lucia.”
His eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t aware there was a second fire.”
You’re lying again. “It made the papers. A privately owned coffee shop in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. Doesn’t that strike you as suspicious? Two coffeehouse fires the same night, at almost the exact same time?”
Captain Michael opened the top button of his pristine white uniform shirt, and then, almost impatiently, he waved the question aside. “This firehouse caught two bakery delivery van fires this morning. Does that strike you as suspicious?”
“No, but — ”
“There are just about as many coffee shops in this town as bakery delivery vans. Two vans, two coffee joints. I’d call it a coincidence either way.”
“What if both fires turn out to be arson?” I asked. “What then?”
“Then the crimes will be investigated and it’s not your business, right? Isn’t that what you just said?”
I folded my arms. “Yes. I’m a civilian. But I have a coffeehouse, too. I want to know what you think is causing these fires if it’s not arson? I mean, considering the two fires, I’d like your opinion on fire prevention. As a civilian, I think that’s a fair question.”
We stared at one another for a few silent seconds. He was obviously considering how to handle me.
Your move, chum.
He finally made one — a dodge. “You may be a civilian, Clare, but I’ll give you this, you’re a big-hearted one. Coming out here tonight after a long day of work, helping out my guys. It was very kind of you.”
“I was glad to help.” I was, too. Even if I hadn’t come to gather information for Fire Marshal Rossi, I would have come to help these men.
A phone trilled just then. It wasn’t the land line on the captain’s desk. It was a cell phone.
“Excuse me.” Michael didn’t bother checking the caller ID. He answered quickly, and when the other party spoke, his expression chilled, his lively eyes went dead. With an abrupt lurch, he swung the chair around until all I could see was the starched cotton shirt stretched across his hunching shoulders.