Free Pyro by Earl Emerson Page A

checker when I notice a middle-aged woman in front of Wollf. She’s diaphoretic. I mean really sweating. She’s got a hat with a veil and a purple dress and rumpled nylons and these low heels the size of sampans. My God, her feet are huge.
    And the sweat’s running out of her black wig like somebody’s squeezing a sponge on her head. But more than that, she’s staring at Wollf. It’s almost as if Wollf is holding a gun on her. I’m not exaggerating. This woman is terrified.
    There are four firefighters in line, but she’s fixated on Wollf.
    When her turn comes, she pushes her six-pack of soda pop at the cashier and then doesn’t even buy it. She runs out of the store. I mean—runs.
    “You know her?” Jeff Dolan asked Wollf.
    “Hell, no.”
    “You sure?”
    “God, she was ugly,” Towbridge said, chuckling.
    “An old girlfriend, right?” Dolan asked.
    It wasn’t what he said, but the way he said it. We all burst into laughter.
    We’ve been working together two shifts and already we’re a family.
    About ten minutes after we got back to the station, Attack 6 went out on a single to a Dumpster fire behind the Red Apple. I can’t help but think it was that blonde who set it. In fact, I can’t help but think the blonde set those fires at the movie star’s house on Friday night too. I’m no detective, but you think about it, they were the only fires all night that were started
inside
a structure. And who else had access to the inside of those structures besides her?

16. A SLY SILLY BITCH
    According to Earl Ward
             
If you want to be with a woman, you better know some of the tricks. That kind of tomfoolery is just what you don’t acquire in a godderned correctional facility—no sir—not a single one of those profoundly important tricks you need for impressing the feminine mystique.
    You especially don’t learn about the bitch type.
    And Jaclyn is definitely the bitch type.
    Maybe that sounds rough, but hey, I’m trying to change my stripes here, and she ain’t helping any.
    I’ve only got a couple of hours in this part of town while Mom screws around playing bingo with the blue-hairs, so I drive over here and spot her walking up the street.
    Now I’m in the grocery store and I’m following her and she doesn’t even know. She looks right at me and doesn’t know.
    That’s how good I am.
    You’d be surprised what you learn in the joint. I can walk right up to her, look her in the eye, and she still won’t know. I’m that good. Period.
    I’m so godderned invisible it’s almost laughable.
    What’s really laughable is I can do all these things, yet I am still no closer to my goal. It’s hard to believe. You want to be with a woman, you can
want
it all day and all night, but that don’t mean it’s going to happen.
    So I’m following J, and she don’t know it. I’m following her around when in they walk. The bastards in uniform. It’s the same jackasses from Thursday night. Jackie sees them and sneaks off and writes herself a note and then runs back to the produce area at the end of the store, where she’s all over the tall one.
    I mean
all
over him. It was embarrassing.
    I observe the bastard up close, and for the first time they all pass me and I think for a second I know him and then I
do
know him and it’s all of a sudden all I can do to keep from crapping my pants. I mean FILLING MY PANTIES, brother . . . I’m shivering. And sweating. Cold and hot at the same time. I’ve never felt anything like this before. All I can think about is that night years ago when I almost fell into the fire. I can feel the heat. I can feel the heat everywhere.
    Even when they arrested me in Portland it wasn’t like this.
    These minutes in the store are the spookiest since I’ve been outside.
    Because this guy is the spitting image—the spitting image, I’m telling you—of the fireman they say I killed back in ’78.
    Bigger maybe. Taller for sure. But other than that, he’s the guy.