20
T he next morning, Dillon woke to find three sticky notes attached to his blanket and a fourth, amazingly, dangling from his forehead.
Maud: Arnaud had a delivery of eggs, cheese and soft tortillas. If you move fast enough he’s offering breakfast burritos while they last. Go to the diner’s rear door.
And a second from Maud: Go straight from the diner to the fire station. Look for the fire chief begging on the street out front. He’s collecting pennies for a new ER vehicle. See if you can help.
Bailey: Thanks for last night. Ditto from Elena. We need to talk about feds and shifting timelines. They’re opening their wallets tomorrow. PS, You need to do something about that bear hibernating in your cell.
And finally, this from Olivia: Eleven o’clock. Here. Urgent. Help.
* * *
When Dillon entered the station, Olivia was nowhere to be found. He smiled at how everyone present wished him a good morning. Even Maud. A first.
Dillon left the station, walked the windswept four blocks, and found about a dozen locals standing by the diner’s rear door, squatting on the pavement, seated on a ratty picnic table used by the staff on break. They were a motley West Coast mélange of races and professions—hospital staff, fire crew, construction workers, a cop, and a tuna boat skipper with two deckhands. Dillon greeted several that he recognized. He accepted two burritos and a large coffee, insisted on paying, then bid the crew farewell and headed out. He ate as he walked. He had forgotten how good it felt to be on the clock. A busy day crammed with work that held real meaning. And something more. This was Miramar. The hometown he had fled in frantic desperation. Welcoming him back with a need he was born to fill.
The fire station was down the same side street as the town hall and anchored an entire block. Which was good, because all the fire engines and crew’s personal vehicles and three EMT vehicles were all jammed into the vacant lot next to the actual station. The lot itself was graded and graveled, which meant they did not plow giant tire-size furrows in the earth every time there was a call-out.
All three of the station’s bay doors were pulled up, revealing any number of people scurrying about. The only difference between the fire crew and the volunteers was, the crewmembers wore matching boots and coveralls. The interior was jammed with toys, clothes, personal items, candy—on and on the stacks went, lining the walls and forming colorful mountains where the vehicles should have resided. Volunteers in Santa hats staffed two long tables, filling sacks and wrapping presents. While Dillon watched, a pickup pulled up, beeped its horn, and four of the crew hurried out. They unloaded the rear hold while Chief Hurst chatted with the driver. Then it was the turn of volunteers working the tables. Soon as the cargo bed was emptied, others began carrying out sacks and gifts.
Charlie shook hands with the driver, then sauntered over to Dillon and said, “Back in the late fire season, we served as a focal point for donations. When these storms started piling in off the Pacific, all the churches and other volunteer groups went back to using our station as the staging area.” He pointed toward the town hall. “There’s another crew working in the community center, keeping lists up-to-date, watching for the folks who can’t get out, handling the high-value items like electronics. We gather and sort everything else.”
A faint whisper of an idea began forming, but Dillon could not make out more than a niggling sense that he was missing something important. He stayed silent, trying to figure out . . .
Charlie Hurst went on. “The good news is, we haven’t had an actual call-out since forever. The town is too wet to burn. Which means my crew serve as emergency backup to everybody else. Except Porter. I volunteered. Twice. Porter said the idea of deputizing my bunch and loaning them guns gives him nightmares.”
The chief gave him a quick tour of the vehicles, pointing out the storm’s damage to several, the general weary state of others. They entered the station by way of a side door. Charlie said, “Welcome to the hurricane’s eye.”
In odd contrast to the efficient, orderly, and smooth-running station, the fire chief’s office was a dismal wreck. Piles of unopened letters marked OVERDUE , receipts, catalogues, half-finished fire reports, all jumbled into a tsunami-size mess dominating every flat surface.
Charlie did not even try for a defense. “I guess I let things slip a little.”
“The fire service doesn’t have an accountant?”
“In theory.” He lifted the mess off his chair, searched for a place to set it down, then dropped it on the floor next to a pair of muddy boots. “We share the town’s bookkeeper. What’s a polite way to say the lady is a waste of space?”
“No idea.”
“Last spring she came down with something the doc hasn’t been able to name. Been on sick leave ever since. Tell the truth, she was struggling long before then. Her mother is on the town council and a close personal friend of Bailey’s late mom. Two weeks ago, Mayor Bailey finally shut that door.”
Dillon read the unspoken, in the way Charlie refused to meet his gaze. “They want me to take charge?”
Charlie turned furtive. “Don’t tell anybody I spoke out of turn. Bailey would brand my sorry hide.”
“Tell the truth, I appreciate the heads-up. It’s nice having a chance to think things over.”
“You and I are going to get along just fine.” Charlie led him back through the station, introduced a few of his crew, brought him back outside. When they were standing by the side alcove, staring over the weary engines, he asked, “How hard can we milk the feds’ cow?”
“I need a specific for instance.”
Charlie pointed at the crowded lot. “Can I build us a new station?”
“I haven’t read all the fine print. But my guess is, that would be a dollar or two over the line.”
He dropped his hand. “How about a Christmas bonus for the crew?”
“Nix on the bonus. That’s actually in the statutes.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“I could read you the clause. It’s loaded with wherefores and with-alls. Put you right to sleep.”
“Send me screaming from the station, more like.” He squinted at the open bay doors. “So, nix on the bonus. Shame. They deserve it.”
“What we can do is put them in for hazard pay.” Dillon loved how the chief brightened. He cautioned, “We need to be totally clear how your budget can’t cover that.”
“No problem.”
“That’s the key issue to opening the feds’ spigot,” Dillon went on. “Show you’ve run through your annual budget. Give them evidence the emergency has broken the bank.”
“Which it has.”
“In that case, my job is simple. I just need to put the numbers in the right boxes and write it all up using the proper federal-speak. These guys never met a wherefore they didn’t like.”
“You call that simple?”
“Whiz-o-bang-o, the money flows. I hope.”
“You and me both.” The furtive jerky gaze returned. “So, are you taking the job?”
Dillon loved having a reason to grin. “What job would that be?”