Seven Deadly Pleasures (18 page)

Melvin reached for the carton of Tropicanna. He would simply go back to his room and unplug the computer. End of conversation. He popped the bird-beak of the container of orange juice and brought it to his lips. He wiped his moustache on his sleeve. The side door opened, and he heard Dot come in. He heard the crinkle of brown bagged packages being thrust onto the kitchen table a few feet behind him, and he slowly took another swig of juice.

"Look at you," she said. "How many times have we talked about leaving the refrigerator door open? And if you are going to drink your juice, the rule is to use a glass, remember?"

He heard her start reaching into the bags and then heard her stop.

"Did you call the plumber like I asked you to?"

Melvin kept his glance focused into the fridge. The door shelves boasted a museum of crudded Dorothy shit; old balsamic vinaigrette, a quart of soy milk with dried wavery stains around the opening, a six-pack of Promise Activ peach drink that actively lowered cholesterol, and a Tupperware tub filled with salmon croquettes floating in two levels of oil, one gray and the thinner one on top almost maroon with small white fat-bubbles skimming the surface. Melvin took another slow swig, then spoke at the fridge.

"Fuck the plumber, fuck the orange juice, and fuck, y'all."

"What?" she said. "Wha . . . what did you just say to me?"

Dorothy's voice was a symphony, an auditory kaleidoscope of emotions, all the colors. There was anger, frustration, righteous defense, and absolute disbelief, but also undercurrents of doubt. Melvin liked that texture very much, but he was filled with complex emotions of his own. Clearly, Floyd Lynch had left a residue. That was a concern. Slowly he turned to face his wife.

Her mouth dropped open.

"My God, what happened to you?"

Melvin looked at her in disgust and her right hand flew up to her face. It fluttered around her cheek.

"What?' he said. He pushed an impatient whistle through his teeth, slammed the fridge door, and bent to look at himself in the reflection of the toaster. He nearly gasped. The image was warped and slanted like a funhouse mirror, but the distortion did not alter the facts. Some of the little hair he had left hanging over his forehead was simply lost, and his eyebrows had gone from graying to bright white. His wrinkles had deepened and his eyes were sunk back in their sockets. He looked insane, as if he had recently seen something not meant for human eyes.

"I want you out of here, Dorothy. I don't care where you go or what you do, but I want you gone now. I want to be alone today."

She put her hands on her hips.

"You know, Melvin, this is all a result of the way you feel about yourself. If you had stuck with engineering and dismissed these silly ideas of becoming an academic—"

Melvin's eyes got huge.

"Don't y'all try that ole psychologic bullshit with me, girl! I said get out, so git the fuck out!" He reached into the sink and grabbed a tablespoon. "Just don't make me use this, you hear?"

Dorothy retreated to her bedroom, eyes locked on Melvin, feeling her way like a drunk. She slammed the door. Melvin could hear the nervous bumps and shuffles of clothes being yanked from hangers. When she emerged, she was wearing an older, heavier winter coat than she had used for the trip to the supermarket. Probably going on an outdoor shopping spree now. The witch. She brushed past him toward the side door, and he growled at her. She slammed that door behind her, oh yes, a great ole door-slammer was she. He watched through the laundry room window. She backed out of the driveway haphazardly, and then she was gone. He tossed the spoon on the counter and stomped back to his own room.

He opened the bedroom door and the computer was waiting for him.

Melvin shook his fist and stormed through the room. He dumped drawers, upended boxes, and routed the shelves in search of his Stanley clawhammer. He crawled on his hands and knees and swiped at the piles of
National Geographic
and
Scientific American
stowed under the drafting board. He shoved over a few Hills Brothers coffee cans that threw splashes of bolts and ball bearings to the carpet. He spied the hammer stuck under a snaked pile of twelve-gauge extension cord, and gripped the handle. Face red, he backed out and stood up. His knees popped. He approached the computer and raised the hammer over his head.

Hard breath swelled in his chest and he dropped the hammer.

He did nothing.

Suddenly Melvin threw back his head and laughed like a stoned junkie who had just gotten a crazy urge to go straight and dump an ounce of prime blow down the toilet. But Melvin knew better, hell, he'd seen all the movies.

Melvin sat in front of the terminal and let his mind wander the path it truly desired. It took all of three seconds.

But that was not quite right either. Entertainers, daredevils, politicians, pick a card, any card, they all seemed insignificant. Hell, who's next was not even the right question.

The right question was lurking beneath the surface and Melvin almost dreaded its acknowledgment. Almost. True, this morning he had been frightened straight through to the marrow, but the events had been a surprise. Now, he was better prepared—that was a cold hard fact. And was he not a symbol of education? Did he not stand right here, right now at the very state of the art, at the cutting edge, at the brink of greatness? Did not the movers and shakers of history press on through the unexplained until it was reshaped by their genius into manageable terms? It was his duty to press on. It was his duty to ask the question,

He put his hands on the desk to push up, go get the newspaper, and scan the obituaries. His face went red hot. He fought a dark urge to strike something.

He grabbed both his earlobes and pulled.

Melvin balled his fists and rubbed his knuckles in his eyes.

An old, buried exasperation washed through him. Melvin turned and swept a wild glance across his collection of inventions. In disgust, he went to shove at his radio scanner and noted the yellow tag on it. Captain Hugh McNulty.

Melvin froze.

Melvin smiled and turned back to his computer to tab through the subject directory of Passive Passenger. He found Hugh McNulty's social security number and entered it into the Subject mode after entering his own in the Operator space.

His system was ready. He fired up his homemade radio. He sat. He listened. He patiently waited for someone to die.

"Box 2173, Five Star Refinery. Reported to be oil tank on fire. The following companies will respond. Engines 38, 44, 29, 32, Ladders 15 and 23, Medic 4, Battalion 6, Deputy 1, respond, over."

Melvin bolted upright in his chair. It had been a two-hour wait, but the fire at the oil refinery was perfect.

"Engine 38 responding to Five Star Refinery, second in, over."

"McNulty," Melvin whispered. He scrambled to the computer and hovered over the RETURN button. The scanner was silent for twenty minutes.

"Engine 38 on location. We have a heavy fire, one tank. Unit has been ordered to northwest side to lead off with master stream devices, over."

Ten more minutes ticked by. Melvin was salivating. McNulty's voice suddenly shouted over the tinny speaker,

"Fireman down! Northwest side! Send rescue squad now! Fireman is down, respond!"

Melvin silently cheered.

Melvin struck the RETURN button.

Captain McNulty hopped out and watched Zac pull a five-inch hose from the back of the truck.

"Tie it tight, kid," he said. "Signal when it's firm." The young fireman ran to put a wrap on the hydrant and Tommy Green followed with the wrench. The kid had forgotten it. McNulty turned to his driver.

"Eddie, once the hose is secure drive straight eighty feet up to that big black gate valve by the cooling tower there. Get parallel to it." Old Eddie waited for a thumbs-up from the kid and McNulty turned with the stiff wind to eye the tank of crude that was active. It was the worst fire he had ever seen. Oily heat blanketed the air in ripply waves, and flecks of black ash swirled in the sky. Melted snow ran down the gradual three-inch grade and made small whirlpools under the grid work of piping. The oil tank towered over it all and was speaking in smoke signals.

A football field high and ninety feet across, "Crude #43" vomited upward a furl of black smoke thick as chocolate mousse. The two-inch-thick steel at the top was melted, split, and bent inward with the iron spiral staircase swung out to the side like a loose strand of hair.

The wind shifted and a dense wave of smoke splashed the equally large naphtha gas tank thirty feet to the left. The thick plume stained it spotty black.

"Just in time," McNulty thought. It was their job to protect the exposure of that tank of naphtha, so close to #43 that they shared the same dike. Seven engines were already on the front side of #43 with deluge and foam units, and McNulty had been ordered to put up a defensive stream on the neighboring tank. Fast.

McNulty spun around to check the progress of his two field men and glanced up to the Rt. 95 overpass. A news van had pulled up on the shoulder and its crew was setting up tripods.

It should not have bothered him, but it did. He still had a foul taste in his mouth from being selectively edited on channel 9, and his boys deserved better. Tommy Green had been with him for fifteen years, he was family. Old Eddie was six months from retirement and though Zac could be a bit of a wildcard, he listened pretty well under pressure. They were a rare collection of men that this business hadn't turned sour. They all deserved better than this and they were heroes just being here.

Melvin agreed. Though he felt relatively safe inside the brave exterior of Captain McNulty, there was something absolutely terrifying about that smoking tanker. It was a god, and Melvin could draw enough from McNulty's experience to know that the neighboring tank of naphtha was the angel of death.

Still, the scene was mostly chaos to Melvin's unpracticed eye and the old professor understood only parts of it, especially as McNulty began running his drill. McNulty's mind was far advanced when compared to that of Floyd Lynch, and much of his decision making was based on an instinct of expertise rather than a visible hierarchy of principles. Melvin went through the motions and only caught some stuff on the surface. Time flew.

Eddie drove the truck and that motion unsnapped the hose. They set the pressure at 220 psi. With help, McNulty struggled a thing called a "Stang Gun" off the roof of the truck. Zac went to set up the water cannon and Tommy Green shouted orders at him concerning locking devices, wheel locks, and pins.

McNulty was checking off Tommy's commands in his head, and he stole another peek at Naphtha #2 and Crude #43. The conditions had not changed, but the sloped eight-foot dike surrounding the bottom perimeter of the two seemed awfully full. McNulty went up on tiptoes. The water and foam units from the other engines had been overpumping Crude #43 and the collected water in the dike was far too high. It was five feet deep at least, with a layer of foam floating the top.

It seemed significant for some reason, but McNulty could not nail it.

"Pressurize," he ordered. Eddie worked the controls and the hose fattened with water. Thirty feet east of the truck, a burst of spray suddenly came through the nozzle in Tommy's hands. Zac helped him stabilize and McNulty looked at his watch.

"Four minutes,"
Melvin thought.
"Here we go, oh boy, oh Jesus."

Commotion. Tommy and Zac were shouting in each other's faces and fighting for control of the live nozzle between them.

"Report!" McNulty yelled into his radio. The plea was ignored.

"They're not fighting for control!"
Melvin shouted to no one.
"Tommy's trying to hand it over, and Zac won't take it. Oh boy, which is going to get it, the vet or the kid, oh Lordy!"

Zac lost the argument. With obvious protest, he took hold of the nozzle and fought for a moment to keep it controlled. Tommy broke away to a run and made straight for the tanker, his boots kicking up dirty splashes. McNulty looked to where Tommy was headed and frowned. A refinery yard worker in brown coveralls was crawling atop the lip of the dike.