“You’re worried about him?”
“I always worry when we have new members. Are they going to fit in? What do they bring to the group?”
“But he’s not even on your shift,” she reminded him.
“No, he’s not.” A-shift worked twenty-four hours on and then forty-eight hours off with an occasional seventy-two off if the D-shift evened out the month.
“It’s not your problem. Or at least not tonight.”
“It’s always my problem. Captain’s angling to move up the chain,” he admitted.
“Is he? Then you want to be captain?”
“I’m thirty-seven. I’ve been a lieutenant for almost ten years. I’d like to think I’m ready to run at my firehouse.”
“Aiming any higher?”
He snorted, “Do I have ambition like Cordova? He wants it all—to be fire chief by the time he turns sixty. Being battalion chief would be nice, when I’m too old to do the proper work.” He kissed her cheek. “What about you?”
“Me? Oh, God no. I’m up for sergeant soon and I doubt I’ll go much higher. I’d have applied sooner but,” she hesitated and then went on, “I assume you know my divorce was finalized two years ago.”
“I heard about it a little.” They’d had other problems at the time, specifically the gang war between the Ñetas and the Latin Kings and burying a bunch of their teenagers. A newly single female police officer had been lower on the list of topics.
“He didn’t want me to apply. Told me to pick him or the job. I picked the job.”
“I understand. My sister is always on my case to get married, spend more time with the family. The firehouse is its own family.”
“It’s not the same. We all know that.”
“My niece, her only child, is six. Last week, she was going to be an astronaut. The week before that, she wanted to play in the NFL. Tomorrow she’ll probably be president.”
“I don’t think she’s going to be NFL caliber.”
He coughed. “Hilarious. This is our year, especially now that terrible defensive coordinator is gone—Nick Saban. Modell paid top dollar for new coaches and the salary of the new defensive end, Trevor Hampton.”
“Mr. McRib?” Isadora pointed to a lighted billboard a few streets over. A massive muscular African-American man in a Browns jersey was shoving two McRibs into his mouth. “I wonder how big he is in person.”
“He’s six-five.” Mateo rolled his eyes. Obsessed barely described how into the Browns the firehouse was this year. They’d won the 1994 wildcard game before losing to the Steelers. The guys were betting heavily the Browns would make it to the Super Bowl on the strength of their 1995 team.
She playfully punched his shoulder. “Jealous? Short guy complex.”
Mateo put out his cigarette and snuck a hand under her robe. “I’m big enough where it counts.”
“You are,” she agreed, leaning into his hand. “I didn’t want you to think I was looking for anything serious.”
“Well, since I picked you up at a bar while you were dressed like a hooker, I’d say that would be a fair assumption.”
“You know what I mean, Mateo.”
“So, after one night we’re not ready to go steady? I shouldn’t let you wear my officer’s ring?” He slipped that finger between her thighs.
“Exactly.” Her voice went airy again. “Do lieutenants get officer rings?”
“Nah, you have to be a bat chief, at least. You could wear my pin when you go off into battle fighting for law and order.” He put his cigarette on the ashtray to burn out and kissed her ear.
“Oh, you’re so wearing my handkerchief.”
“Seriously, if you want to play for a while together, just the two of us, we can play.” It was dark enough her neighbors couldn’t see what he was doing.
