Vertical Burn - Earl Emerson [23]
Reese gave him a long, withering look. “He used to go home and laugh about me, didn’t he?”
“I wouldn’t know. I barely spoke to him until after Leary Way.”
“Leary Way? Goddamn. I almost forgot about that. You’re not still bothering people over that fire, are you?”
Obviously it was poor interview strategy to bring up the night he’d lost his partner, and Finney felt like kicking himself for it. Still, the words were out of his mouth, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do. “I’m looking into it.”
“Still?”
“Still.”
“Tell you what,” said Reese, smugly. “Here’s your million-dollar question. Get this right and you’ve got the job. You’re deep inside a fire building. A wall collapses on your partner. You can’t dig him out. You have one radio between the two of you, but neither of you knows exactly where you are, so you can’t tell anybody how to get there. What do you do?”
“Charlie, is this a joke?”
“I think from now on you’d better call me chief.”
Finney felt a rush of heat in his face. Impossible and wrong as it seemed, he knew now that despite having the top score on the list, he wasn’t going to get promoted. Thirty-five lieutenants were going to come off that list, but he wouldn’t be one of them. Maybe Reese wanted an answer to his question. Maybe he didn’t. Finney knew giving him one wouldn’t change his mind.
For a few moments, Reese stared morosely at the wall. It wasn’t a joke, but he didn’t require an answer either. “I’m glad you came up. I needed a breather. You know, this job is like riding a bicycle around the inside of a tornado. Phone calls. Messages. Meetings. The mayor’s office. Carla and I are having dinner with Jon Stevenson tonight. The state senator?”
“I know who Stevenson is.”
“We’re going to see if we can’t get a statewide task force on arson fires moving along in the right direction.” Clasping his hands behind his back, Reese walked to the window, a world-weary act Finney had seen before, an affectation of thoughtfulness and calm, a commander at the helm of his ship. As a young officer, Reese had been mocked for it, mimics duplicating it within days of each new assignment, the wake of his career strewn with uniformed clowns who could ape him perfectly. Finney had always thought the mockery was a little sophomoric, akin to making fun of the teacher when his back was turned, but now he could picture himself mimicking Reese’s self-important pose.
“Am I going to get this job?” Finney asked.
Without turning around, Reese peered at Finney over his shoulder. “You know how long I’m going to be chief?”
“Am I going to get the job?”
“Until they pry my cold fingers off that desk. Meanwhile I’m going to build an officer corps the likes of which this department’s never seen. John, I want you to hear this from me. I figure I owe you that much. I’m not going to promote you.”
Even though he’d seen it coming, Finney felt as if he’d been hit in the chest. Surely this little pissant who could barely cut the mustard in drill school, who’d been promoted at the tail end of each list, who’d been despised by each of his crews, wasn’t going to sink Finney’s career over one fire? Or because of his father.
He tried to concentrate, vaguely aware that Reese was talking, though the words came to his ears as if through water.
“. . . and it wasn’t until I got a few years under my belt and gained some experience that I was able to appreciate what a power-mad, incompetent jackass your old man really was. . . . After what happened I know a lot of people still believe you