Drinking bad coffee as the Sparks Association—guys who were fans of the flame, too—dropped their dicks and grabbed their coats, all asking: “Hey? Hey, what’s going on? Where is it?”
Johnny shook his head, reached for his coat, this one looking official, with fire patches from all over New England on it, and went out to his red Chevy Blazer, and Kevin to his Crown Vic. They all arrived back at the old triple-decker in Mattapan about the same time. Johnny had even bought a couple dozen donuts to hand out to the boys. He’d jumped in with the boys from Engine 53 and helped them move the hose as they fanned the roof of the building. Neighbors from down the street came to watch. Cops arrived.
Maybe thirty minutes later, Kevin felt Ray in full cop uniform at his elbow. Ray shaking his head. “You crazy fucks.”
Big Ray was smiling. The idea that they’d boosted the game excited the hell out of him.
And it did for Kevin, too. They were doing something. They were bringing meaning and attention to Boston Fire. Someday, when he got on with BFD, he knew things would be different. The city would give the guys real equipment, proper firehouses, and the respect they deserved. This wasn’t just about burning stuff. This was about his own future and the future for Boston.
“Hot, hot,” Johnny said. “Wow. Can you take my picture?”
Kevin took Johnny’s camera and stepped back. Johnny now wearing a firefighter helmet and the patch-covered coat. Ray ambled over and hugged him. In the background, the firemen worked to put out the blaze. They were sweating and breathing hard. But the practice was good for all of them.
Kevin took the shot and gave the boys a thumbs-up. That was the night Mr. Firebug was born.
7
The next morning, I waited at Flour Bakery near the Seaport for the Boston Fire Museum to open. I tried to use my time constructively by polishing off two cinnamon donuts. Simple, elegant, and perfect. At nine, a tall, lanky man with thinning black hair opened up the old brick firehouse and let me inside. He wore pleated khakis with sneakers and a sensible short-sleeved plaid dress shirt. He turned on the overhead fluorescent lights and a portable scanner by a cash register.
Vintage fire engines and horse-drawn pumps shared the wide space with plenty of old axes, and a collection of helmets hung from the rafters.
The man stood behind the counter and plucked a toothpick in the side of his mouth. He studied me through a pair of thick gold metal glasses with the mild manners of a local insurance agent. His name tag read ROB FEATHERSTONE.
Rob Featherstone, head of the Sparks Association, was one of the first at Holy Innocents.
I introduced myself. He gave me a skeptical look and said, “What’s a private cop gotta do with any fire business? Fire business is for the fire department.”
“I’m working with the police,” I said. Sort of telling the truth. “Some people believe whoever torched the church is still out there setting fires.”
“Who said the church was arson?”
“Arson doesn’t have an official cause either way.”
“I still don’t see what that has to do with some private cop,” he said. “Those Arson dicks are sharp. Real sharp. Smart as hell. What’s your name again?”
“Spenser,” I said. “With an S.”
“Never hearda you.”
“Unfortunate,” I said.
“Why’s that?”
“I’m huge in Japan.”
“I really wish I knew something,” he said. “But I’m just the guy handing out water and coffee to our boys. Like I said, I got no freakin’ idea how that fire got started. I’m just the support team.”
“Perhaps you might have something or someone,” I said. “Even if it seems small.”
“I was there all of two minutes before Pat Dougherty and his crew pulled up.”
“Who else was there?” I said. “Did you notice anything strange about anyone at the scene?”
“You know how many weirdos like to watch fires?” he said. “Present company included.”
He smiled. I kept my mouth shut.
He grinned and used his fingers to feather over his few remaining strands of black hair. “Must’ve been a hundred folks on Shawmut that night.”
“How long did you stay?”
“All freakin’ night,” he said. “Never went home. I saw those boys run into the church and I was there when they brought ’em out. Goddamn it. I’ll never forget that. That’s what those men mean to this city. Running into a building to stop the fire, protect this neighborhood. That’s why we do what we do. These guys give their lives. These aren’t sport stars with million-dollar contracts. They do it ’cause they got honor and respect for this town.”
“Especially this summer,” I said. “It seems there’s a fire every night.”
“This is the most action the department has seen in a while. But most of it is a lot smaller than that church. Lots of Dumpsters. Abandoned buildings. Burning for show.”
“The church was abandoned, too.”