CHAPTER 6: PATTYCAKE, PATTYCAKE, PUMPER MAN

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(18 September)

Shivering slightly in the cool dewy morning air, Patty was determined to capitalize on the breakthrough she'd made with Mike a few nights ago. After the taxi cab that had brought her here pulled away, she pulled out the key and opened the door quietly, nervously going over her timetable once more.

At 7 a.m., the morning tones would sound at the station, rousing the men from their night's sleep, no matter how broken by runs. Shift change would occur officially an hour later, although most of the incoming shift would arrive twenty to thirty minutes before and Mike might be lucky enough to be relieved a bit early. In any event, she anticipated that, no later than 8:15 a.m., Stoker would stroll out the side door and head for his truck and home.

At which time Patty planned to make her presence known.

She didn't intend for their meeting to last very long – work did await her at the university after all – but she hoped the few stolen moments could brighten his morning and sweeten his dreams if he needed to recapture sleep lost on shift. The few hours of sleep she'd lost by getting up extra early this morning were a small price to pay for seeing him, even briefly, since their schedules for the next few days would make spending time together all but impossible.

So sitting in his pickup truck, breakfast food warm in the insulated bag on her lap, she waited.

When Patty heard the muted sound of the morning tones inside the station, she watched more closely for some sign of life. Perhaps twenty minutes later, a car pulled into a space at the far end of the parking lot and two men got out, walking toward the building without looking in her direction. By 7:50, she was certain the rest of the new crew – six men in all – had arrived but still no one had come out of the building, other than one man with owlishly large glasses. He had added a bag of trash to the dumpster before returning briskly to the station. When he turned, Patty noticed the paramedic patch on his sleeve but didn't recognize him.

About fifteen minutes later, a Volkswagen Microbus wheeled into the parking lot, executing a smoky three-point turn and stopping beside the rear doors. As Patty watched, five blue-shirted men exited the building, turnout gear in hand, and clambered into the vehicle. The paramedic she'd seen earlier followed with a box of supplies, which he handed in before taking his place and sliding the door closed. The fair-headed driver turned to check his passengers were safely inside then put the red-and-white van in motion, smoothly pulling out into the morning traffic as the rear doors rumbled closed on a deserted apparatus bay.

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"Good morning, sir," the police officer working traffic control said when the VW had slowed to a stop at his signal. He'd been at the scene of the four-alarm fire since it had been called in just after six that morning and was past hoping a cup of hot coffee was in his near future. "How may I help you?"

"I'm ferrying a new crew in for 51s," the man replied succinctly, gesturing toward the firefighters packed into the back. "Can you let the battalion chief know I'm on scene and ask where to drop these guys off?" A few minutes later, the Microbus carefully made its way over a series of hose bridges to where Hank Stanley and his crew waited to be relieved. When he'd changed out his compliment of fresh, clean firefighters for tired, sooty ones, the driver reversed course and headed back to the station.

As he drove, he examined the men's faces in his rearview mirror without success. Finally, he turned to the man sitting in the other front seat, speaking quietly so as not to disturb the others.

"Hey, Hank, wonderin' if I can ask you a question?"

"Sure, Smitty, fire away." Hank stifled a yawn.

"Which one o' these characters thinks he's H-O-T-S-T-F?"

"Ahg-oh-tee — oh, HOTSTF. That'd be Stoker, the tall guy in the back there, the one not yet drooling on his collar. Why? What's up?"

"Just noticed someone sittin' in his truck back at the station, wanted to be able to let the right guy know." Smitty grinned wickedly then, the action stripping years off his face. "In case I needed to drop 'im off somewhere else, give 'im a headstart outta the parkin' lot, whatever."

Hank chuckled. "I doubt that'll be necessary. Did she have dark hair?"

"Now, I don't recall sayin' the someone was a she, but yeah she did. Kinda pretty from what I could tell, although she looked way too young for me." He'd gotten a glimpse of her when she'd hurried around the front of the truck as they pulled out, hand raised to stop them.

"Bet it's Patty, Cap," Chet said irrepressibly, leaning forward from his position in the middle seat to deposit his two cents into the conversation. Without Chet's body wedging them tight, Marco and Johnny both shifted as the vehicle turned a corner, rousing them from the half-sleep they'd been enjoying. Marco shot Chet a dirty look, then pushed Johnny upright and off of him before righting himself with a grunt.

"You're probably right," Stanley agreed, eyes sliding over to the man behind the wheel. "You remember Patty, don't you, Smitty?" When his old stationmate looked puzzled, he chuckled. "Let me give you a hint." Hank cleared his throat and tried to imitate his former captain's booming voice without actually yelling: "'My niece had better not hear that kinda talk, Smitty, or this time I will wash your mouth out with soap!'" Mike and Roy both roused at Cap's stern voice and looked at each other blankly, Roy wiping his mouth of the unbecoming drool.

"Patty Mack? You shi — uh, kidding me?" Smitty exclaimed, surprise lifting his eyebrows and his voice. "I haven't seen her in years but she was always a sweet one. Real polite, too. Patty Mack had an awful poker face, though. Just awful." Noticing how carefully HOTSTF was listening now, he added, "Lousy poker face or not, little Patty Mack has certainly grown up nicely." He wiggled one hand in the air to indicate her womanly shape, winking at Hank.

"Hey! What was that about my girl?" Stoker's voice came from the back of the bus, the comically possessive tone causing everyone to laugh as they pulled into the station parking lot.

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Patty slipped from Mike's truck when she saw him climb out of the back of the Microbus, crossing to him bashfully as she became aware of the masculine grins decorating the other faces still gathered 'round. Before she reached him, however, one strong arm wrapped around her and pulled her into an enthusiastic bear hug. The familiar badge on his chest confirmed the man was with the fire department and when she looked up at him, she squealed with delight.

"Mr. Smitty!" she exclaimed and returned his one-armed hug whole-heartedly.

"So does Cap'n M'Con'kee know you're still hangin' out at fire stations, Patty Mack?" he asked teasingly as he released her. "I don't want to get ya in trouble … again." Before she could do more than blush in response, the HT in Smitty's pocket beeped. "Uh-oh, gotta run," he said and headed briskly back toward the driver's seat. "Good seein' ya, little lady."

"Stay safe, Mr. Smitty," Patty replied automatically and waved as he left the lot. Turnout coat still half-fastened, Mike was leaning against the side of the building now, a faint smile drifting across his face. The others had already started into the station when Smitty fired the van up, Cap nodding to Mike to take his time. "Hey, specialist," she offered when she turned back to him. "I, uh, brought you some breakfast."

"Good," he said, pushing himself from the wall. "I'm starved." He moved to hug her then took in her crisp, light-colored shirt and his own sooty jacket and stopped, holding up one hand. Mike undid his coat and opened it. Patty stepped forward and snuggled up to him under the coat before he could take it off completely as he'd planned. "Well, hi there, Miss McConnikee," he said with a laugh, pulling her nearer and letting the turnouts close over her. In for a penny, in for a pound.

"Mike?" she said a minute later, voice oddly muffled. "Could you let me go for a minute?"

"Sure," he replied and loosened his hold, looking down into her bemused face. "What's the matter?"

"Well, don't take this the wrong way, but you're, uh, all icky."

Mike looked down at his sweat-soaked t-shirt, a familiar work casualty he hardly noticed anymore, plucking the already drying garment off his chest with two fingers, fluffing it slightly. "Maybe a little bit," he admitted, grinning as she pulled back playfully as the odor hit her. "But," he said and leaned closer to whisper in her ear, deliberately sliding his cheek along hers as he did, "I'm also scruffy."

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Hank gave the captain's paperwork a lick and a promise before setting out, thick dark hair still damp from the quick shower he'd taken to keep himself in his wife's good graces. Quickly exchanging bunker pants for civvies, Johnny, Roy, and Marco each headed straight home without a backward glance. Chet dressed more slowly after scrubbing the smell of smoke and sweat from his body, listening to the water gurgling in the shower drain and biding his time until Stoker was done.

About ten minutes ago, Mike had wandered in, peeled off his gear, and sauntered into the shower with a half-smile on his face. Chet brushed his teeth a second time to occupy himself. When he put his damp toothbrush away and pulled out his shoes to kill a few more minutes, he noticed Mike's closed shaving kit was in his open locker.

"Hey Stoker! You want your razor?" Chet asked, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the water.

"What?"

"Your razor, man." Shaving in the shower wasn't Chet's cup of tea but the engineer swore by it.

"No, thanks," Mike replied, shutting off the water. His reflection moved through the lightly fogged up mirror as he crossed to his locker a few moments later.

Chet worked bits of red-colored clay out of soles and seams in his work shoes with a damp cloth then spoke. "So, you got any plans for tonight?"

"Just sleep," Mike answered, pulling on a clean shirt and thinking about Patty's reaction to the aromatic t-shirt now huddled on the floor. Icky, huh?

"Wanna grab a beer at O'Malley's tonight, hang out for a while?"

"Can't. I'm working tomorrow." He rubbed the towel over his hair and finger-combed it into place. That'll do for now. Patty'll probably mess it up anyway. Mike smiled at the thought.

"Oh." Strike one. "Don't suppose you'd be interested in getting together this afternoon, maybe bowl a few frames?" Kelly picked up the brush and attacked his shoe with it, sending small flecks of dirt flying. "I could use the practice and – ."

"This afternoon's not good. I'm supposed to go see my folks for a few hours." Maybe, he amended silently.

"Uh, right." Strike two. "Then how about breakfast this morning?" Chet put the brush down and looked for the scrap of cloth he usually used on his shoes. "After that fire, I could eat a – ."

"Actually," Mike said, looking up from tying his shoes, "Patty brought breakfast for the two of us. That's why she stopped by."

"Ah." And strike three. He smoothed the ends of his mustache, considering his options, and sighed softly. He wiped down the shoe, put the cloth on the bench beside him and pulled out the bottle of black shoe polish, shaking it vigorously.

"Chet?" He waited until Kelly looked up, eyebrows raised in inquiry. "You okay?" Mike had slipped on the soft coat he'd worn in the day before and shut his locker, bag over his shoulder, clearly ready to leave.

"Me? Yeah, man, I'm good." He ducked his head over the shoe as he systematically applied shoe polish to the leather, leaving a trail of tiny black bubbles at the edge of the small sponge applicator. The foam was short-lived, wiped out of existence by the next pass. "Or, I will be once I get these shoes clean again." He glanced up at Mike in time to see his expression change.

Stoker looked at Chet's work shoes, one glistening wetly with fresh polish and the other dull and daubed with dry mud, and, remembering why, felt his throat tighten slightly.

The rescue of three teenagers who'd gotten in trouble while exploring up in the hills had been fairly routine, until a farm truck hauling water had stalled on the steep road above where they were working. Several hundred gallons of water had escaped from the leaking tank, cascading down what had been a stable slope and creating a muddy morass between the rescue party and the safety lines they needed to return to the road. Kelly and the others had been forced to cross the reddish brown mud and retrieve the ropes before Mike and the crew from 127s could haul them topside, slippery foot by slippery foot. Five pairs of damp, mud-streaked shoes returned to the station and were left to dry in the bay for a few hours while the firemen responded to a minor apartment fire in backup footwear.

Mike's shoes had remained on his feet, unsullied, throughout the day. Now, they were sitting neatly in his locker, still clean, waiting for the next shift.

"Right." Mike swallowed hard; he'd learned that sometimes helped with the whole can't-breathe-right-now thing. "I'll see you later then." Chet nodded and continued to work diligently on returning his shoes to order until Stoker had left the room.

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Running water and the sound of retching assaulted him when he pushed open the back door a short time later. Stoker's annoyance with himself – shoes, Stoker, shoes would be good to work in – evaporated as he saw Chet doubled up over the kitchen sink, face splotchy and contorted with the effort of emptying his stomach. A half-eaten piece of toast, burnt nearly black, rested on the counter beside him.

Mike approached quickly, waiting until the spasm passed before speaking. "Easy, now," he said, resting his hand on Chet's back. "Think you can – ?"

"I'm okay," he said, scooping water from the faucet into his mouth and spitting it out again a few times. The small amount of emesis left slid down the drain as he directed the stream of water around the metal sink with his hand. He coughed lightly, spat once, and cut off the water, turning away from the sink and from Mike.

Chet's explanation of his illness at the bowling alley last week as relayed by Roy took on new meaning. "This is not okay," Mike said, irritation rising. What is with you?

"Yeah, well, it's nothing serious then. How's that for an answer, Mikey?" Kelly cocked his head to one side, one hand on his hip, the other tapping against his leg in an annoyed rhythm. His bloodshot eyes watered despite his steady gaze.

"It's an answer," Stoker replied after a moment and stalked from the room to get his shoes. On the return trip, he found the kitchen empty and Chet's vehicle gone from its space. He took a deep breath as he crossed to his truck, trying to get a handle on his frustration before Patty noticed. He pulled on a smile as he got in, an apology for the delay forming on his lips.

"Chet asked me to give you a message," Patty said slowly before he could speak.

"Oh?" Mike's gut tightened. He wouldn't.

"He said to remind you more than one kid died in that fire."

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Please excuse the anachronistic use of firefighter vanity plates herein. Apparently Mike's license plate was well ahead of its time here … by about two decades. If you just want to think of them as regular vanity plates, California was awash with them by the late 1970s.

Here's a fun fact-finding story for y'all. So, I called my local fire department and asked how an incident that extended over a shift change would be handled. He explained the shift on duty when the call came would handle the incident as long as necessary and that was just part and parcel with being a firefighter. If someone from the next shift was there already, they'd take the call. When I asked specifically about an extended incident – an ongoing urban search or a multi-alarm fire, for example – he indicated that the new shift would be brought in at some point although he wasn't sure of the details of when or how. A few days later, I happened to catch an incident which happened not long before a shift change and – sure enough – Command did bring in the rest of the C shift to relieve the B shift guys when it was practicable.