“I’m sorry, Ryan,” Val said, quickly sliding across the booth to let him out.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, picking up his pint. “Thanks for the beer.”
As Ryan moved toward the bar, Val sat back down and leaned across the table. “Josie Fairfield and the captain were supposed to be married. Did you know that?”
I arched an eyebrow. “The leader of the wolf pack was ready to tie the knot? When was this exactly?”
“Oh, like ten years ago,” Val said. “Josie broke it off with the captain just a few months after 9/11. According to Ed Schott, she just didn’t want to deal with the captain’s grief. Six months later she was hooked up with a much older guy who had a lot more money and a lot less baggage, the head of Fairfield Equipment—”
“And now that her husband is dead, she has her freedom and her money, so—”
“She wants her first love back. It’s a very old song.” Val tipped her head toward the bar. “Only it looks like Michael Quinn’s not in the mood to be played.”
“NO! YOU’RE NOT LISTENING!”
Val and I froze, along with every other patron in the pub. Josie Fairfield finally lost it. She was now shouting at the top of her lungs.
Oh God, poor Michael—and poor Ryan. He stood right behind his boss, trying to talk sense into her ear, but she’d belted back too much booze. Her arm windmilled crazily, trying to wave him away.
“NO! I WANT TO KNOW—WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO? START ANOTHER FIRE?”
I blanched, looked to Val. What did that mean?
Val mouthed something, but I didn’t understand her. Then we watched Michael rise from the bar, take Josie by the elbow, and calmly escort her to the pub’s front door. He caught my eye as he past our booth, but I couldn’t read him.
Ryan trailed behind the two. He also made fleeting eye contact with us and, brother, did he look miserable.
“What a job that guy has,” Val said when they were gone. “Now I really need a smoke. You want to come?”
“Sure.”
We crossed the crowded room and stepped out the back door, leaving the warm, golden light for the dark, quiet patio. The hulking outline of a large Dumpster sat a few yards away, but the prevailing smell on this dim square of concrete was stale tar. A carpet of butts had been crushed into the ground below my low-heeled boots, and I considered for a moment the hundreds of conversations (drunken and sober) that must have preceded those ends.
A laughing couple rose from a weathered, wrought iron bench, nodding a greeting as they headed inside.
Now Val and I were alone.
She dug into her bag, put a cig between her lips, and snapped her disposable lighter three times. When the tricolored flame kissed the cylinder’s tip, she glanced my way.
“Want one?”
I was running on a serious caffeine deficit, so I was sorely tempted. But I’d given up nicotine once in my life, and (like my addiction to a certain ex-husband) I had no intention of fighting that battle again. I thanked her for the offer then said, “So tell me. What did Mrs. Fairfield mean when she shouted that stuff about—”
“Starting another fire?”
I nodded.
Val moved to the wrought iron bench and sat down, took long silent drags. “Oh, man, I needed that.”
I pulled up a battered garden chair, checked for beer spills, and sat down opposite her. The metal was freezing and the cold seeped through my blue jeans to the backs of my thighs. I ignored it, along with an increasingly edgy feeling that I simply attributed to a creeping jonesing for my own drug of choice.
“So?” I pressed. “Josie Fairfield is an arsonist?”
“I always thought that story was just a story. Guess we know the truth—I mean, given her little drunken confession in there. But it’s not unheard of, right?”
“What?”
“Come on, Clare, haven’t you heard of that game the occasional whacked-out New York female plays? Setting a fire to meet a fireman?”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
Val released a delicate but toxic plume of white into the black night. “James says it probably happens a few times a year.”
“And that’s how Mrs. Fairfield met Michael?”
“They met when her apartment’s kitchen caught fire. That’s all I knew . . . before tonight, I mean—”
A muffled ring tone sounded in Val’s bag: You spin me right round, baby, right round . . .
Val instantly brightened. She hastily dug into her handbag again then silenced