Roast Mortem

Nineteen

Locating the captain’s firehouse wasn’t a problem. Amid a sea of tiny clapboard row houses, Michael Quinn’s sovereign domain towered over the landscape like a redbrick citadel.

I parked my near-vintage Honda on the quiet street just off Northern Boulevard. Despite the temperate twilight air, I slipped on my coat and gloves. March was a tricky time in New York. Days might feel bright and balmy, but nightfall could bring the kind of cruel winds that would kill every plant foolish enough to put out its vulnerable buds.

On the face of it, I’d come back to Queens for one reason: Lucia Testa had donated the still-functioning espresso machine from her father’s caffè to this firehouse, and the men needed some lessons in how to use it. With Enzo’s comatose condition, Lucia was too busy to teach them, so I agreed.

Of course, this was the least I could do to pay these guys back for their rescuing of Madame. But the truth was my little visit this evening would give me the chance to question these guys, find out who among their ranks might be seeing Lucia.

Along the curb I noticed a line of parked cars. Every one displayed FDNY-related placards or window clings. One of the SUVs had a bumper sticker that caught my eye: Honk If You’re Buffing.

“Buffing?”

I wondered if it had something to do with weight lifting, that is, becoming buff? Maybe it was something one did in the buff? Did that make it a sexual reference? I craned my neck at the towering red challenge in front of me.

The FDNY certainly counted women among its ranks. They drove ambulances and fought fires right alongside the men, but this engine and ladder company didn’t have a female among them.

This isn’t just a firehouse. It’s a Temple of Testosterone.

A granite cornerstone announced the original use for the building as a station for the Queens Company Rail Yard. But the structure’s odd Gothic flourishes — including carved stone moldings over the doors and a corner turret with a crenellated roof — gave the impression of a medieval strong-hold, complete with castle battlements.

A sudden freezing gust tore at my ponytail. I ignored it, moving with determination into the glowing, cavernous interior of the firehouse garage, the clanking barista supplies in my backpack making me feel like Cervantes’s crazy knight again, embarking on a quest in rusty armor.

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 football: 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.

“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.”

Medal Day... I’d heard all about the tradition at the Quinn’s St. Patrick’s Day bash. Every June, select firefighters of the FDNY were honored with citations for their bravery and heroism.

As James continued working, I examined the picture gallery. The photos were hung year by year in vertical columns that ran from the top of the door to the bottom. One or two group shots of the company were followed by pictures of the men paired with their wives, families, or significant others.

I noticed an older photo of Captain Michael Quinn and got down on one knee for a closer look. The picture was taken during the 2000 picnic. Captain Michael was grinning like a giddy boy. He looked so relaxed, so lighthearted. He had a woman on his arm. She was nearly as tall as the captain with a voluptuous figure and long, straight raven hair. The photographer caught her in the middle of a laughing fit, and her face was partially hidden by her hand. She was in the 2001 pictures, too — or I was fairly sure it was the same woman. In this photo her beautiful windswept hair was off her face and I got a good look — oval face, long nose, slightly pointy chin, wide, perfect, carefree smile.

In the photos after 2002, the woman was gone. Captain Quinn appeared alone, dateless, and far less lighthearted. In some of these later photos he hadn’t even mustered a smile.

My gaze continued moving up through the years of picnic photos — and then it stopped moving. As I stared at one particular photo, taken just three years ago, the tight, forced smile of Lucia Testa stared back at me.

Just then, I heard heavy footsteps walking up behind me.

My gaze still focused on Lucia’s face, I tapped the photo.

“James,” I said. “Did you know that Lucia Testa is in one of these pictures? She’s standing among a group of men. Was she seeing one of these five guys, do you know? I see Oat Crowley is in the group — ”

And about fifty pounds lighter...

I also recognized Ronny Shaw, the fireman who’d ended up in the ER next to Madame. There were a few other faces I didn’t know. One was a Latino man wearing a Puerto Rican Pride T-shirt, and another had a gray flattop — the kind of ’do my Mike called cop hair.

“I see Captain Michael is in this photo. You mentioned what a wolf the man is. Was your captain ever involved with Lucia?”

James didn’t answer, but I knew he was there. I could feel the presence of his large body right behind me.

“And while we’re on the subject of Michael Quinn’s love life, who is that very pretty brunette he’s obviously with in the earlier photos? And why isn’t she in any of the later ones?”

Again, no answer. A little annoyed by now, I turned around and found myself facing the last man I expected to see this evening.

Michael Quinn’s big arms were folded across his white uniform shirt. Beneath his scarlet Lonesome Dove mustache, his jaw was working, and the tendons in his neck were stretched as taut as the cables on the GW Bridge. Even the man’s burn scar was flushing with fury.

We stared at one another so long I could feel my own cheeks getting warmer than the hot plate of a Mr. Coffee.

Finally James returned, drying wet hands with a towel. “There. All done — Oh, hi, Cap. How’s it going?”

“You should be workin’ boyo, not gossiping,” the captain practically spat, still pinning me with his eyes.

James blinked, obviously confused by his superior’s sudden anger. “We were just talking, Cap — ”

“Show the lady the espresso machine. That’s why she’s here, isn’t it?”

“Uh... yeah, sure,” James said. “Right, over here, Ms. Cosi.”

I followed James back to the newly installed machine. Captain Michael Quinn remained beside the photo gallery, scowling silently.