CHAPTER 4: FROM COFFEE TO CANASTA

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(5 September)

"Mornin', Mike."

The familiar yet unexpected voice caused Stoker to glance toward the clock on the wall in the kitchen before turning to the couch. Nope, I'm not late today. He's just early. Wonder – . "Morning. What's got you here so early?"

"Oh, it was just a real treat not to clean the latrines so I thought I'd see if I could do it two shifts in a row." Chet yawned hugely then went back to rubbing Henry's ears. "Don't know how you get in at this time every shift, though," he added and took another drink from his cup.

"Habit." Stoker poured himself a cup of coffee, hoping there wasn't too much left in the pot so he could brew it the way he liked. His tentative sip caused him to look over at a grinning Kelly in surprise.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I slipped up and made a decent pot of coffee for a change. Don't expect it to happen again." Took me three pots to get it the way he likes it.

"Well, be sure to let me know if you do it again," Mike replied. "This is a good cuppa joe." He leaned against the counter and took another, longer drink, relaxing as the day started off right. There was plenty of time for him to change and take care of the flags this morning – and enjoy a cup of coffee he didn't have to make.

"Hey, Stokesy, that your coffee I smell?" The B-shift captain stepped into the kitchen and headed for the stove eagerly, followed by two of the other guys.

"Nope," Stoker said blandly and took another sip. "It's good stuff though. Kelly made it," he added and laughed out loud when all three men seemed to wilt at the news.

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"And I say I can bench press more than you, Marco," Chet declared midmorning, following the other man back into the bay with his share of the now-dry hose they were getting ready to put back on the engine. "I know I've got Gage beat by a mile." He glanced over at his pigeon, waiting expectantly for the paramedic's response.

Roy reached across the hood of the squad as Johnny whipped around to face his tormentor. "Now just a doggone minute, Kelly. I can bench press just as much as you can." Johnny waggled a finger at Chet, the polishing cloth he was about to give his partner dancing wildly in his hand. "And you know it!"

Blue eyes innocent and wide, Chet waited until Johnny had turned back to his work before chiding him: "Sure, Johnny, sure." The paramedic spun around again, the cloth slipping through Roy's outstretched fingers a second time.

"Chet," Johnny began heatedly then changed tactics, narrowing his eyes. "What makes you so sure you can lift more than Marco?"

"He's been dreaming again," Marco put in, handing the end of the first hose up to Mike on top of the engine.

"Nah, man, I've been working out," the curly-haired lineman responded, connecting and handing the hose to Marco who continued to feed it to Mike who carefully positioned it in the hose bed. "I'm really getting into great shape these days."

"Trying to catch up with the rest of us, eh?" Johnny remarked snidely, not hearing Roy's cough for attention.

"Leaving you behind in a cloud of dust, Johnny, my boy, is more like it."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Why don't you two just drop it?" Roy said, coming around the front of the squad and grabbing the polishing rag out of Johnny's hand. He replaced the rag with a bottle of glass cleaner so his partner could do the windows on his side of the vehicle. "It doesn't really make much difference anyway, which of you takes the booby prize for bench pressing on this shift."

"Sure about that, pally?" Gage paused mid-squirt, the blue liquid dribbling down his hand instead of shooting onto the surface of the side mirror.

"About what?" Roy returned to his side of the squad, working a gleam into the hood with powerful strokes. "I can bench press more than either of you."

"Gross weight or percentage of body weight?" Stoker quietly asked Lopez who smiled in response, dark eyes twinkling. DeSoto was strong and muscular but battled his weight more than the rest of them.

"Do my ears deceive me or did I just hear a challenge?" Hank said from the doorway to his office, eliciting a groan from his men. Hank just smiled and urged them to finish their chores quickly so they could put the debate to rest.

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"Johnny, how much do you weigh?" Marco asked, chalk in hand. He was making a grid on the blackboard with names, weights, and soon-to-be-determined max bench press. Two runs for the squad, one inspection by the engine crew and lunch had delayed the challenge.

"Enough."

"I need – hey – a number." Stoker took the piece of chalk from Lopez, added a column and labeled it "% BWt" before handing the chalk back with a tiny smirk.

"I don't have one. It's not like I weigh myself regularly."

"Brackett won't be happy to hear that," Roy put in. The doctor from Rampart worried about the fitness of all his paramedics, but especially the skinny, spleen-less, injury-prone ones.

"Yeah, well, hopefully he won't hear it." I'm no longer a skinny boot who can't miss a meal without losing five pounds. Geez, Roy!

"Who won't hear what, John?" Cap asked as he came into the day room with the portable scales.

"Nothing, sir."

"Uh-huh," he replied, giving Gage a look before inspecting Marco's work. "Hey, pal, you've left off a name there."

"Cap?" Marco looked over the names he'd printed neatly: Stoker, Lopez, Gage, Kelly, DeSoto.

"Yep, that's the one you left off."

"Oh, right," the lineman said and hastily added Stanley's name. Uh-oh, Cap's doing this too?

"All right, gentlemen, up on the scales, one at a time," Cap ordered, waving a now-reluctant Kelly forward. Hank announced each man's weight and Marco wrote it up the board.

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Although having his men put up or shut up about their prowess in the weight room was an amusing way to spend a slow shift as well as a good team-building exercise, Hank Stanley kept his responsibilities as a fire captain firmly in mind. He led all of them through brief warm-ups and stretches to minimize the risk of injuries, working out an acceptable order in his head to find each man's one rep max on the bench press.

"Unless you want to start somewhere else, initial weight on the bar will be your body weight," Cap said. "Roy, although I understand you're not the one who started this," Kelly squirmed under Stanley's hazel-eyed gaze, "I heard your challenge so you get to go first. John, you'll be next up, followed by Marco, Chet, me and Mike." Hank glanced at his engineer and workout partner. "Stoker? You feel up to spotting these guys?"

"Sure, Cap." Mike stood behind the bar and wiped his hands on his pants, as Roy positioned himself on the weight bench and the linemen began loading the bar.

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"On three, Cap?" Mike asked as he had twice before. Although he wasn't a particularly vain man, the older man couldn't hide the mischievous gleam in his eyes as he nodded. He'd noticed Marco's look at the chalk board and Chet's raised eyebrows when Hank had opted for extra weight on his initial lift. "One, two, three!" Mike said and handed the bar off smoothly, following the controlled descent carefully but keeping his hands out of the way. "C'mon, old man, you got this," he urged when Cap's ascent slowed and was rewarded with a quick surge upward. He grinned as he grasped the bar at its apex and racked it with a satisfying clang as the other men clapped.

"Old man?" Stanley gasped out as he sat up. Old man, indeed.

"It worked, didn't it?" the still grinning engineer retorted.

Before Hank could respond, Sam Lanier did and the four men scurried to do his bidding, one rep maxes, bench presses and challenges forgotten.

"Engine 51. Assist Squad 51. 21328 North Avalon Boulevard. Two-one-three-two-eight North Avalon, cross street 213th. Time out 1447."

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Stoker felt the firm padded surface against his back and sucked in another breath. He carefully positioned his hands, one at a time, a little more than shoulder-width apart and met Kelly's worried eyes. "On three, Mike?" Kelly asked in a tight voice and Stoker nodded. "One, two, three!"

Mike pushed against the floor, exhaling as he lifted himself and the mattresses which had fallen over on him and Chet in the warehouse. The mattresses had been goaded into toppling over like gigantic fluffy dominos by a strung-out teenager named James when he'd cannon-balled into the collection of upright mattresses from above in a mistaken belief that it was a pool of water. He slid between two mattresses, eventually landing on the floor; his struggles to free himself had started the beds in motion, catching Chet and Mike unawares as they approached and knocking them to the floor.

Now, as the load rose atop Stoker's strong back, Marco reached in, grabbed Chet's shoulders and pulled, then scrambled to shove an end table under the edge when it was high enough. Mike lowered himself back to the floor, making sure the end table could take the weight, and began to belly-crawl out, helmet no longer being pressed down by the ticking. Two pairs of strong hands grasped his upper arms when they appeared and slid him out the rest of the way.

"Got 'em," Marco called to Johnny and Hank who were hefting mattresses out of the way to relieve the weight on their crewmates a few feet further down the pile. Johnny slithered over the top of the still unstable pile and headed for Kelly and Stoker without hesitation.

"Roy?" Hank asked before following the light-footed Gage to check on his men.

"I'm good," the relieved paramedic responded and continued to tend the civilian they'd come to the large furniture warehouse to assist.

The manager of the establishment had called them. He had initially discovered his son wandering through Lighting, apparently hallucinating and having conversations with the various fixtures. James had become agitated after a green-shaded desk lamp had refused to respond to his impassioned questions about quantum tunneling and had taken off, running through the store and hiding. After a few failed attempts to corral the energized boy, the paramedics had called for reinforcements.

He had been relatively easy for the six firemen to find – the random shouts about light bulbs had helped – but not so easy to contain, especially when he began climbing the racks. Johnny had followed James along the high road and clambered down after the teenager had jumped, able to assist Roy in restraining him before Marco's shout alerted them to their temporarily buried crewmates.

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"Well, I'm still going to drive." Hank wiped the side of his face on the way to rubbing the back of his neck. He had his turnout coat buttoned tightly up to the neck, despite the light sheen of sweat that had appeared on his skin while he and Marco helped clean up the scene.

"I'm fine, Cap," Stoker insisted again. They were mattresses, guys, not walls or ceilings. Although he and Chet had been thoroughly checked out by Mother Hen Gage and pronounced injury free, neither had been allowed to help restore order to the wayward mattresses after the paramedics transported their juvenile patient.

"Humor the old man, Michael." The engineer's face pinked slightly. "Besides," Hank added with a grin, "you might find you like riding in the captain's seat." Mike snorted but obediently climbed into the right-hand seat of the engine. Captain Michael D. Stoker, indeed.

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Three hours later, Mike turned off the big diesel engine and let out a small sigh of relief. "It's good to be home," Captain Stanley commented, appreciating the station's familiar embrace more than usual. Back-to-back runs weren't unheard of, but it was unusual to be within sight of the station and be toned out twice in a row.

"Amen to that," Chet piped up from the back seat as the bay doors rumbled shut. Marco grunted in agreement and undid his coat slowly with chilled fingers.

"Marco, get in the shower and warm up," Cap said, turning in his seat to face the lineman who'd gotten the worst of the last run, an extrication from a partially submerged automobile on its side in a large public fountain. For almost twenty minutes, while the rest of the crew unwrapped the vehicle from the victim, he had held the Hispanic grandmother's head and neck immobile. The water he crouched in while reassuring the woman was decidedly chilly thanks to several pounds of crushed ice from the lemonade cart pushed into the fountain by the crash.

"Gracias," Lopez said and slid from the fire engine. Stoker swung down from Big Red's cab at the same time, stripped off his damp turnout coat, and draped it over the driver's side door, spreading it so it could dry a little, then headed for the kitchen. Chet's leftover chili should be just the thing to warm everyone else up.

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(6 September)

Sweat dribbled into his eyes again, causing him to momentarily lose track of the spinning blade. It slipped from his slick fingers to the floor, the axe head barely missing his booted foot. The handle of the unsheathed fire axe thumped against his bare shins then fell to the tan carpet with a soft thwump. Stoker resisted the urge to snatch it from the floor immediately, instead reaching for a towel. The nick from an earlier drop stung as he dragged the cloth over his skin but he ignored it and continued to wipe the perspiration from his face, arms, and chest. When his anger with the axe had dissipated, he picked it up and examined it for damage.

Finding none, Mike began to twirl the axe again, slowly, switching it from hand to hand and grip to grip in a prescribed sequence. When the sequence was finished, he held the axe in front of him formally, stance rigid. Fifteen long seconds later, he relaxed, letting the handle slide through the loose circle of his fingers until the axe head rested against his thumb and index finger. After putting the leather guard over the blade, he stood it in the corner behind his front door and glanced at the clock.

Still too flaming soon to sleep.

Although Mike had a plausible excuse for declining Chet's invitation to go bowling tonight – he was scheduled to report to 8s in the morning and, for about six or eight hours, take the place of a lineman who'd been subpoenaed in a neighbor dispute – time was moving much too slowly this evening and he half-wished he'd gone with Chet. A broken shoelace had derailed his plan to burn off his agitation with a long, punishing run which was how he'd handled last Thursday's too long hours; his axe drills had been an imperfect substitute.

What he wanted, he realized, was Patty McConnikee.

For the past few weeks, his girlfriend's gentle persistence and willingness to spend a few quiet hours with him at his apartment without demanding more had suited him. The rich cadence of her voice as she talked about her latest research project soothed him as he cooked for them, usually making a special dish he knew she would enjoy. As they ate and talked, he would cling to the semblance of normality for as long as he could, usually teasing her about something she'd said in her excited recitation of what she'd done that day. When he felt his composure slipping through his fingers, Mike would drop a gentle hint about being tired only to wallow in his loneliness once Patty had gone.

Ring. Ring.

"Stoker," he said neutrally into the phone. I just may change my mind if it's Chet again.

"Specialist? Are you free tonight?" Patty's voice took him by surprise. He was used to the way she jumped straight into the conversation, as though she'd just walked back into the room, but it was Thursday. Thursday was usually family night. "Mike, you there?"

"Yeah, sorry. I don't have any particular plans, no." He'd felt the tension rising in his chest and shoulders for a few hours now, despite his efforts to wear himself out which suggested the only things on his agenda for the evening were a few – if he was lucky – rounds of bad dreams. "Did you want to come over or something?" A faint hope she would arrive on his doorstep in a due course colored his voice.

"Actually, I was wondering if you could join me. You play canasta, right?"

"Uh, yeah." Canasta, canasta. Seven of a kind, red threes, black threes, jokers and deuces wild, canasta.

"My usual partner is feeling under the weather tonight and I was hoping you could sub?" Her inflection turned her explanation into a question. "Please?"

"I – sure. But, I'm not all that good."

"That's okay, it's not a really competitive league."

"Well, just so you know. I wouldn't want to, uh, disappoint you."

She laughed, a delightful sound to his melancholy mind. "Specialist, I don't think that's possible. Anyway, I'll pick you up in about an hour, okay?"

"Sure thing, hon. I'll be ready." An hour, Stoker, you've got an hour.

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"So, where are we going?" he asked after settling into her car. Unless the seat was all the way back, his long legs had nowhere to go.

"Hilda's Other Place."

"Excuse me?"

"Hilda's Other Place. It's a pub of sorts. Dad's cousin Hilda owns it."

A vague memory stirred. "Isn't that at the airport?"

"That's Hilda's other place." There was a smile in her voice as if she were laughing at an inside joke.

"Weird place to have a canasta tourney. The parking at the airport must be awful."

"Hilda's Place is at the airport but we're going to Hilda's Other Place. It's on West 139th."

"Hilda's Place and Hilda's Other Place."

"Yup."

"Ah. Is this, by chance, A McConnikee Clan Event?" He capitalized the words in his mind, adding a stylized flourish underneath with his mental pen. Of course, it's a Clan Event, Stoker – it's Thursday, isn't it?

"Uh, yes?" She darted a quick look at him, as they passed under a series of street lamps. "You don't mind, do you?"

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"Hey, Stoker, can I ask ya something?"

Nothing to hide, everything to gain, he reminded himself as he addressed his latest questioner. "Uh, sure, Chief." Mike looked up briefly but devoted most of his attention to shuffling the cards. He had been to only a few of these gatherings but he had quickly come to realize he was being scrutinized by various members of Patty's family, just as Henry had promised. The questions were not annoying but they were often random, usually prefaced with a quickly spoken phrase that invariably came out as one long word kenahashyasumtin, and always asked when Patty had stepped away just for a minute. He wasn't entirely sure she knew it was even happening.

This time Patty and her aunt Alice had gone into the kitchen to retrieve snacks for the members of the canasta club gathered at Hilda's Other Place, leaving the two men alone at the green felt-covered card table. The chatter from other tables flowed around them meaninglessly as Tom McConnikee eased back in his chair for a moment, eyeing the other man with a half-frown. Stoker fanned the double-deck of cards together easily, before splitting the deck and working one half then the other adroitly. When he rejoined the halves, he looked up again, clearly waiting for his chief's question.

"Mike, my name's Tom."

"Uh, yes, sir."

"Tom."

"Tom?"

"Or Tommy, if you prefer. Either works here." Although he gestured to the establishment run by one of the many McConnikee relatives, Mike knew the chief, no, Tom meant to include most anywhere other than fire department operations or functions.

"I'll … keep that in mind. You had a question?"

"Yeah," Tom said, nodding, and sat up straighter in his chair. "I was wonderin' what you told Patty about that fire, the one on Washburne." She's pretty green when it comes to hearing about that kind of incident. How'd she handle it?

Yup, another random one. Stoker hesitated briefly in his shuffling then continued at the previous tempo, wondering if it was too soon to begin dealing the cards out. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" You guys pulled six dead kids out of a fire and you didn't even mention it to her?

"It hasn't come up, si – Tom. Why should it?" Boy, 'Tom' feels awkward but 'Tommy' would be worse.

"Well, I must say I'm surprised." Why should it?! Hello, Stoker! Tragic fire, six dead kids, emotionally and mentally tough for anyone. Hello? Hello? Geez. Why am I not surprised at this? It is so much easier to talk to Henry; he knows what I mean.

"Sir?"

Tom leaned forward a bit, lowering his voice but letting the Irish brogue he cultivated thicken markedly. "M'brother Henry tells me ye might be thinkin' o' takin' m'niece to wife. If that's the honest truth, then ye better be square wit' her now."

"What do you mean?" Mike was never quite sure what to make of Tom's on-again, off-again brogue. It was one of those McConnikee quirks which just didn't make sense to Stoker.

"Ye need to be up front wit' her."

"About what, exactly?"

Tommy waved his hand, annoyed at Stoker's obtuseness, and dropped the accent like a greasy rag, his diction becoming the precise speech the engineer was used to hearing on the fireground. "Mike, the McConnikees have a long, proud tradition of public service, especially firefighting. As a family, we're not new to the game. We've learned a few things; we've tried to pass them along. One of them boils down to this: Even if you don't share details with her, a woman needs to know your mood is related to the job, not her, especially when the job is firefighting. Trust me on this, I know." He paused for emphasis. "You need to be up front with Patty when something on the job has you torqued up."

"There's nothing to be 'up front' about – I'm fine." Despite the firm even tone of his declaration, Stoker didn't quite meet his chief's eyes.

"That so?" The challenge in Tommy's voice was unmistakable and Stoker wasn't sure whether he was talking to his girlfriend's uncle or his battalion chief. And he wasn't entirely sure which would be preferable at this point. Tommy's hard blue eyes flicked over Mike's shoulder at the sound of laughter from one of the nearer tables, then returned to the engineer's face as he put his hands flat on the surface of the table, deliberately leaning forward into the other man's personal space. "Well, then, let me share a wee bit o' Irish wisdom wit' ye." The brogue had returned, darker. "Ye ken sen' off yer girlfrien' early when yer feelin' blues but ye ken no' do tha' wit' yer wife. No, sirree. Mos' 'specially if the wife is of the Clan McConnikee."

Before Mike could reply or fully process his words, Tommy pushed himself up and stepped away from the table. Smiling broadly, eyes warm and gentle, he greeted his wife in a lighter, playful version of his accent. "Ah, there's m'beaut'ful bride, returned t' me at last! I missed ye, love."

"You silly Irishman! I wasn't gone that long," Alice scolded, blushing nonetheless.

"A single moment without ye is too long," he proclaimed grandly and bestowed a kiss on her hand.

"Aren't they so cute?" Patty said softly in Mike's ear, draping her arms around his shoulders. "To look at them now, you wouldn't think they'd been on the brink of divorce for years, would you?" Despite the accented hyperbole of his romantic words, there was an underlying sincerity in the big firefighter's behavior toward his petite wife as he tenderly handed her into her chair, hands lingering on her shoulders before he resumed his seat across the table from her.

"No, no, you wouldn't," Mike replied somewhat absently. How did McConnikee know Patty's been leaving my place earlier than she used to?

"Patty Mack, if you two have your signals worked out for the next hand now," Tom McConnikee grinned conspiratorially at his wife as he spoke, "why don't you deal the cards?"

"We haven't needed signals," Patty replied pertly and picked up the deck, "to beat you thus far. Why start now?"

"Now, honey, we're just getting warmed up," Alice explained, causing her husband to laugh. Even though the easy-going avuncular persona was back, Stoker was cautious as he collected his cards, turning over in his mind the advice Tom had passed along: You need to be up front with Patty.

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"Specialist?" Patty had turned into the apartment complex, pulled into a parking spot and shut off the engine a few minutes ago but Mike hadn't moved yet. In fact, she'd bet he didn't even know they were home.

"Hmmm?" he replied, lost in thought until she touched his shoulder lightly. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Were you planning on staying in the car all night?" She leaned close to him, teasingly. "I mean, I'm game if you are but the backseat is kinda cramped." She laughed and dropped a kiss on his cheek when comprehension dawned. "What's got you so distracted tonight?" Patty rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, trying to ease the tension she felt in his muscles. She'd noticed it earlier but hadn't been in a position to do anything about it.

"It's nothing serious." After a moment of uncomfortable silence, he added, "Sorry about losing the game." Their initial lead had disappeared in the latter half of the game and they'd come up just short when Alice picked up the pile off Mike's discard after he overlooked a stopper in his hand. She'd been able to complete four canastas – two of them red – with the cards and neatly put the game out of reach for Mike and Patty.

"At least we made a contest of it," Patty replied with a smile. "Most of the time those two run away with it."

"That's good to know," Mike replied. Tell her, Stoker, tell her.

"So, do you have any plans for the next few hours? I'm not due at work until noon." Patty let her eyes travel over his oddly tired face, leaning toward him again in invitation. I can work out those kinks in his shoulders if he'll let me.

"Actually, I need to get some sleep," he said reluctantly. His words stopped her mouth just a few inches from his; if she'd been able to exhale, he would have tasted her breath. "I'm sorry, hon. I'm working tomorrow." His eyes darted over her shoulder guiltily.

"It's okay," Patty said slowly, reviewing the department shift schedule in her head as she sat back into the driver's seat. "I understand you've got to work." She frowned. "I thought you were scheduled to be off though…."

"I'm … picking up some OT to cover part of a shift for a guy at 8s."

"Oh, okay." She pushed aside her disappointment and pulled on a cheerful smile. "Well, then, specialist, you'd better take yourself off to bed. Do you need a bedtime story?" Patty's tone was deliberately playful as she reminded herself to be grateful he'd been able to spend as much time with her as he had, especially if he'd be working tomorrow and the next day.

"No, I'd better skip it this time. But thanks for the offer." Mike opened the car door and began unfolding himself from the car. "Good night, Patty," he said once the task was accomplished, bending down to be able to see her.

"Night, Mike." Her mouth was dry, like sandpaper, and her heart hammered in her chest when he nodded then shut the door firmly. Did I do something? Is that the way he usually shuts the door? Or did he slam it a bit? Maybe he didn't want to play cards. Or maybe Uncle Tommy said something to him while we were getting the snacks. Did Cousin Terry corner him in the men's room and ask his opinion about ostrich farming? Or, maybe it was me – he didn't want to see me tonight and I – .

A tap on her car window interrupted the jumbled flow of doubts and self-recriminations. Mike.

"Change your mind about the bedtime story?" she asked hopefully after rolling down her window and sticking her head out.

"Sorry, hon, no," he said with a tiny chuckle, hunching down to be at eye level with her. "I just – ," he took a deep breath and let it out, glancing away. "I know I wasn't the best company tonight. I just … wanted to tell you – ," he met her eyes then, " – I'm glad you called me." I needed you. The words stuck in his throat but he reached out to tuck a wayward strand of dark hair behind her ear, fingers lingering on her skin.

"I'm glad, too, specialist." Relief flooded through her.

"But I really do need to get some sleep," he added, after kissing her with gentle restraint.

"Uh-huh, I know," she replied, reassured and calmer. "I'm gonna get outta here now so you can. Sweet dreams."

"You, too, hon." Stoker stepped back and watched until she had gone, then climbed the concrete and steel steps to his apartment. Here's hoping they're sweet. I'm tired of the bitter ones.

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