[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

my thoughts and more into the forefront of hers. She never tired of talk-
ing about it, using the story almost as an aphrodisiac at each of our liai-
sons. It seemed to be the high point of her autumn, that evening in the
station.
We fell into a disturbing pattern.
She showed up unannounced, parked out of sight around the corner
on the potholed side street, blew in as if I were expecting her, and within
minutes swept me into the bedroom, where we tore each other s clothes
off and went at it. After a while we started having sex on the sofa, on the
floor, in the shower, or parked in her Land Cruiser in various locations
around West Seattle. She was as randy as I was. She d show up at lunch-
time, or midafternoon. Only once did she arrive after supper.
When I suggested we take in a movie or go out to eat, she invariably
declined. What she wanted was sex, pure and simple, and she made no
bones about it. She called me her boy toy, her little fireman, and the non-
stop sex machine. I didn t much care for the way our relationship was
evolving, but her visits were spaced far enough apart that any notions I
had about talking her into a real date dissolved by the time she showed
up: DSB. Tronstad called it the perfect setup, sex with no entanglements.
 Unload your nut sack without having to take her out in public. Aside
from him and Johnson, I told no one.
We never discussed the fire or the deaths, and I hardly thought it pos-
sible she didn t know about them, yet she didn t seem to.
A week after Arch Place, the battalion held a post-fire review, where
44 E A R L E ME R S ON
talk circulated among the troops that I deserved an award for dragging
the two civilians out. Chief Abbott dismissed the idea out of hand, creat-
ing general outrage, but I told everyone I didn t want an award. What I
wanted was to replay that night and get it right. Probably because it was
heartfelt, the sentiment endeared me to all who heard it.
7. CADAVER IN THE CAT HOUSE
CHARLES SCOTT GHANET was one of our regular customers, a
W
man every firefighter in the station knew by name. In fact, at 29 s we
didn t even call him Ghanet but referred to him less than affectionately as
Charles Scott.
Typically he called 911 somewhere between two and five a.m.
Our crew believed his complaints were mostly fictitious, that he
called because he was a hypochondriac and because he was lonely.
Viewed in one light, he was sadder than a lost orphan in a bus station. On
the other hand, getting up at three in the morning because some clown
needed a warm body to talk to got old fast.
Ghanet, who was sixty-eight but looked younger, routinely com-
plained of stomach ailments, headaches, and pains in his joints and had
several times hinted that he might commit suicide, a theme he abandoned
after he was told the SPD automatically responded to suicide threats.
Despite our mixed feelings and the fact that his house reeked of
cats we tried to treat Ghanet with the same courtesy and regard we gave
each of our patients.
It was a Sunday night when we got the call. Charles Scott Ghanet lived
near Schmitz Park in an area of dry yards and treeless avenues, in a house
that was small and nondescript. When we rolled up, I got off and col-
lected the aid and vent kits while Tronstad grabbed the Lifepak. On the
sidewalk, Lieutenant Sears spoke to a Latino man in jeans and an unbut-
toned plaid shirt, then filled us in as we marched up to Ghanet s front
door.  Neighbor said he s worried. He hasn t seen any lights for a couple
of days.
 Charles Scott didn t call this in himself? Tronstad asked.
 The neighbor.
 Don t you think this asshole might have called at noon instead of
46 E A R L E ME R S ON
three in the morning? Tronstad muttered.  Is this whole neighborhood
retarded?
 Settle down, said Sears.
We banged on the barred door, and Lieutenant Sears called out
loudly,  Charles Scott? Fire department! You okay? Charles?
 Maybe he had a stroke, said Johnson, who had a theory about
everything.  My aunt had a stroke.
Tronstad headed around the house with a flashlight, attempting to
peer through the windows. Lieutenant Sears looked at Johnson and said,
 Why don t you go with him?
 A black man peeking in windows at three in the morning? I don t
think so.
I left Sears and Johnson glaring at each other. Together, Tronstad
and I circled the house, pushing through knee-deep weeds. The blinds
and drapes were pulled tight on the other side of the barred windows. Be- [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]