Клео Коул - Roast Mortem

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.

“Excuse me, James?” I pointed to the bulging muscles of Mr. March. “Is that who I think it is?”

“Yep,” he called from the stove, “that’s Bigsie in that cargo net. He’s still so proud of being named Mr. March he won’t let us take it down.”

“Take it down?” I absently repeated, my attention focused on the near-naked, shirtless giant, his arms and chest standing out in bold relief as he clung to a net woven of thick hemp.

Right behind me, I suddenly heard James laughing. “Like every red-blooded American woman who passes through here, you failed to notice that you’re gaping at last year’s calendar.”

Woops. I tore my gaze away.

“Don’t worry about it,” James said. “All the ladies love Bigsie. He’s the wildest wolf in this lair, with the possible exception of our captain. But you already know that, right? I mean...” He lowered his voice. “That’s why you’re really here, aren’t you?”

“What? No! I’m here to help you and the guys with the donated espresso machine, that’s all . I hope you’re not implying — ”

“Sorry.” James put up his hands. “Not my business.”

I changed the subject (fast) and pointed to the thick, wooden dining table. The circumference looked large enough to accommodate King Arthur’s crew. “So how many guys do you cook for on a given day?”

“Twenty or so, I guess, depending on who’s doing a mutual and who’s coming in for a visit.”

“You’re the only cook?”

“I’m the only one who actually knows what he’s doing. A couple of the guys have tried, but when I’m not around, meals come down to microwave reheats or calls for takeout.”

That’s when it hit me: all this trouble he’d gone to with the set up, all this passion he put into the firehouse meals...

“James, it sure looks like you could manage your own restaurant...” Especially if you had the money to back you — like, say, money from a fire insurance payout?

“No. Not for me.”

“You’re that certain?”

“Ms. Cosi, I was raised in my family’s diner. Managing a restaurant’s all about routine — boring, boring, boring routine. And I like to keep things lively. I’ll cook for the guys, sure, but that’s it. I’d much rather be running into burning buildings than running a restaurant.”

Another danger junkie, just like my ex .

But what James and Matt described as boring, I saw as constancy, dependability — maybe even loyalty.

Sure, my trade demanded that you show up every day and perform the same basic tasks. But the customers I served gave up their hard-earned money in exchange for those tasks, and that wasn’t an unworthy thing. To me, maintaining high standards was far from tedious. Every morning, I embarked on my own little war, or at least a series of ongoing battles. Managing the Blend was a continuously renewing challenge.

Of course I didn’t articulate any of this. I wasn’t here to debate James on my view of the food-and-beverage service trade. I was here to fight another kind of battle...

“Excuse me, Ms. Cosi,” James said when a kitchen clock pinged. “I’ll just need a few minutes...”

“Take your time,” I said, and went back to looking around. I scanned the various posters on the wall, but they were mostly job related: official announcements, charts, and instructions. Then I spotted a worn wooden closet door across the room. It was covered from top to bottom with personal photographs.

I moved closer. The pictures were all taken at what looked like annual firehouse picnics. Each was hand labeled by year.

“Looks like you guys have a lot of picnics,” I called to James.

“Guess so,” he replied from the sink. “The guys with families do a thing in August at Six Flags, but our biggest event is the bash right after Medal Day. The captain has a great spot in Flushing Meadow Park on permanent reserve for us.”