Vic Volente knew Mayor Goodman as well as anyone. The mayor was indeed quick to attempt to make money on the city’s involvement in Vic’s last wishes being made a reality. When Franklin Danbury met him in his office at City Hall and provided the details of Vic’s will regarding the matter, the mayor was furious. He was not one who was often outfoxed, but Vic had gone to great measures to be sure the mayor didn’t make a penny or have any say on the details, and Danbury was astute enough to make sure it was ironclad.
Chief Martin took a drive back out to the cabin a week later. He told Nelda it was just to check on things, but he’d already had yellow tape wrapped around the cabin warning people to KEEP OUT. He’d even had an old squad car in need of service parked at the entrance of the old place. The tinted windows made it impossible to see if there was anyone actually inside, but kept any curious looky-loo’s from seeing how brave they were.
Inside the cabin, Chief Martin poked around in places he had no business poking around in. He told himself he was just checking to be sure there were no firearms or ammunition that could cause problems when they torched the place. But really, it was an itch that a lot of people around Fort Stockton had, but only he had the authority to scratch.
“The ol’ guy really did live simply,” the chief muttered to himself, noting the absence of most of the electronic conveniences that would be found in most anyone else’s home. The kitchen only held the most basic utensils. The pantry was pretty bare. The chief didn’t know whether to take that as a sign that Vic kept only the bare minimum in stock, or whether he might have had a sense that his time left was short and saw no need for a lot of supplies.
Having opened the windows halfway the last time he was in the cabin, most of the smell was gone. But every now and again the chief would catch a whiff of Vic’s mortality and it made him think of his own. It made him ponder what he would leave behind and who would go through it.
At the big old oak roll top desk, Chief Martin opened up every drawer. The files were in better order than Nelda kept at the station. Everything was in alphabetical order. Receipts for everything he’d ever purchased. Property tax records going back as long as Vic had owned the place. Federal tax returns dating even further back. Though he had no business looking, he did. Vic had a much larger estate than he ever let on. The chief made a mental note to ask Danbury about the details of the investments he apparently had, knowing that Danbury probably had already shared all the information he ever would.
Deciding it was time to head back to the station, Chief Martin pushed in the last drawer of the roll top. It wouldn’t close all the way, stopping about six inches shy of being all the way closed. “Don’t ‘suppose it really matters a damn,” the chief said out loud to no one. “Whole place is gonna go up in flames.”
But then something told him to pull the drawer all the way out and see what was causing the thing to be jammed. At the back of where the drawer should close was an old book of some kind. It was wedged in, keeping the drawer from closing. The chief got on his hands and knees, an act he was sorely out of condition for, and bent down to try to free the book from where it had been placed, or fallen.
The light in the cabin was poor, the electricity already having been cut off and the sun going down quickly outside. Chief Martin took the book over to the window to make use of what was left shining in through the front window of the cabin. Opening the worn leather-bound cover, the first thing the chief noticed was the precision with which the lines had been written. Not the handwriting of an old cowboy, he thought. And yet, it didn’t take reading very many lines from the journal to know that Vic had been the author of every word.
Despite the admonition Danbury had given him to be sure everything remained in the cabin, Chief Martin tucked the old journal under his arm as he headed out to the Galaxie cruiser and back to the station.
Two days later the place went up in flames. The 1965 Ford F-350 4X4 brush fire truck from Station #2 of the FSPD was standing by to make sure the burn was controlled and couldn’t spread. Where prior to 1959 all 4×4 Ford trucks were the product of aftermarket suppliers Like Marmon-Herrington, this dually-equipped example was all FoMoCo. The firefighting apparatus was made up of a 200-gallon water tank, along with power retractable hose reels and pumps run by the firemen on duty.
Chief Martin was there to be sure all went according to plan. Franklin Danbury was in attendance to be sure there were no complications. Mayor Goodman drove by slowly, but neglected to get out of his city owned vehicle to actually make an appearance, figuring there was nothing to be gained.
The ’65 Ford F-350 stood idling nearby, power coming from a 352 FE V8 driving both axles via a 4-speed manual. Danbury noted that the interior appeared to be in good order throughout, and everything looked to remain functional as well. “The radio was likely a later addition but seems right at home, and there’s also likely to be a PA system fitted. A few disused mounting screw holes can be found here and there,” one of the firefighters said, noticing Danbury’s interest in the old pumper. “This F-350 runs a part-time 4×4 system which can be shifted into low range if necessary, which should make for exceptional crawling ability in the low first gear,” the firefighter followed up.
Danbury very smoothly and calmly inched away, his interest in the old red F-350 having expired long before the fireman spoke up.
The wood that framed and sheathed the old cabin was old and dry and took no time to burn. The firemen swapped stories while they watched the flames, a spectacle that was counterintuitive to how they normally handled themselves. The burn didn’t take long to finish. There was only the occasional snap, crackle, and pop which brought about ill-timed and disrespectful jokes about Rice Krispie Treats by the firemen.
“Not as many crackles and pops as if Vic would have had his way,” the chief said to Danbury with a nudge. Danbury didn’t reply or even look at the chief. “You know, if he’d been allowed to be in there when they torched it!”
Danbury was wise enough to know that sometimes the best response is no response.
4 responses to “THE LIST, Part II”
Somewhat parallel to the lines of capttnemo’s comment – around 1989 the Cameron, TX VFD had some guys that decided that there really weren’t enough fires happening to keep their volunteer jobs interesting. Three of them picked out structures they thought abandoned and set them ablaze so the VFD could then put them out. One of the houses belonged to a lady that was the mother of the little boy I liked to call my son though he wasn’t. It had been her grandmother’s home and she had dreams of fixing it up and passing it to her son. I drew the job of tearing the remains down and hauling them away. She was a single mother with a crappy job and hence no money to spare. About a year later the Cameron cops figured out what was going on and arrested the three. I hadn’t thought about that in years capttemo, thanks for the reminder.
MarkM
In my long ago memory, the VFD in my area has done a burn on a house or two, but they would light it, douse it, and light it again. Practice making perfect.
Of course, that was back in a simpler time.
Ribbed radiator hose. Sweet.
Vic obliviously wanted to go out in a blaze of glory . . .