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