©I watched the big Georgian house on the corner of Marcus and 22nd street. Number 3275 was in darkness. The upstairs window panes reflected dancing orange light from a street lamp masked by two large Mountain Ashes waving furiously in the gusty wind. A looping telephone cable slapped rhythmically against the flagpole in the front garden and in the middle of the driveway a rolled newspaper in a polythene sheath, that day’s headline still unread, slid to a halt in a large puddle.
“Say Claude; don’t forget to put the trash at the end of the drive. You know what them guys are like. They’ll tip shit all over the lawn you don’t put it at the end of the drive.”
A woman’s distinctive baritone voice, rising above the noisy elements, came from a house down the street a-ways. I turned my head and watched a small black guy waddle down his driveway and dump a couple of trash bags on the sidewalk, shaking his hand as though dismissing the irritating voice. He turned to face the direction the order came from.
“Missus, you better shut that mouth of yours,” he shouted, “or I swear I’m gonna’ get em to take you away too.”
I pulled the hood closer around my head and looked down at my feet where a piece of paper had wrapped itself around one foot and flapped madly in the wind. I reached down and picked the paper up. It was an official auction notice for the sale of 3275 22nd street. The county was selling the house against unpaid property tax. I crumpled the notice up and threw it away, smiling.
It was damn cold. My eyes watered and my nose and ears stung. Rain and sleet threatened but that wouldn’t be until the morning. For the time being, the gusty wind was playing havoc with anything that moved, whistling through trees and rattling windows as the people of Milford Heights began to sleep through a restless night.
********
A fluorescent buzzed and flickered in the middle of the restaurant ceiling. I propped the Post up against the sugar shaker and read the advert a second time while forking fried egg and grits. Above the front counter chatter, the TV, and noisy A/C unit in the corner of the diner a soft southern voice sounded in my ear.
“You want more coffee, honey bee?”
Without looking up I pointed my fork at the mug. An anonymous hand sporting two large rings and a silver charm bracelet dangling from the wrist appeared in front of me. As the coffee pot was tipped, the bracelet clacked against the glass. The aroma was strong and inviting. Wiping my mouth on a napkin, I sipped the coffee before deciding to make a call to the number listed and apply for the job.
The advert didn’t say too much except it was a one off job and paid five hundred bucks. Only a strong young guy need apply. Out of work for a year since the mill closed down and with no other prospects, I wanted in.
Five minutes later I walked across the dirty lot outside Denny’s to the telephone stand. I put my hand to one ear as an eighteen wheeler spewing diesel fumes passed close by along highway 101. Coughing on the fumes, I placed a quarter in the slot and stabbed the number on the worn keypad. The line was dead for a few seconds and then I heard the far off gentle ring tone. There was a click. A female voice I guessed well into old age answered.
“You ring about the job?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“You see the inside of a cell?”
“No ma’am.”
“Single?”
“Yes ma’am.”
About twenty questions later she surprised me and said I had the job and to expect a letter in the post containing instructions on what she needed doing. She didn’t want to tell me what the job was about over the phone and the details I should keep to myself. Half the money was included inside the letter and the other half wired on completion of the job.
I kept thinking about her last question which intrigued me. Would I like to be famous and could I keep a secret? I guessed she might be a bit cranky and put it out of my mind. She was certainly trusting, sending half the money although despite that, her cracked shrill voice came over stern – like a school mistress.
The address I gave the woman was a flop on the outskirts of Milford owned by ‘Smitty’, an old friend of mine from Nam. He’d been divorced several years and let me crash out for a few months. Money was scarce so we ate whenever we got really hungry but smoked and drank most days.
Three days later the letter arrived and the money with it. The instructions were clear and concise but I wondered what her reasons were for doing such a thing. I’d find out about her reasons in the newspapers later, she wrote. I thought about it for a while and figured I could walk away with the two hundred and fifty bucks but something besides the rest of the money made me decide I’d go through with the job. Maybe it was because I was dealing with a lady, who knows.
I had plenty of time to do the job so I got Smitty to walk across town with me to the smarter suburb where the money lived.
The area was beautiful; trimmed hedges and manicured lawns that sloped down to the edge of clean sidewalks free of weeds poking out of cracked pavements. It smelled nice too.
My instructions said no-one was at home and after twelve at night the whole street was asleep. Residents here were middle to old age; retired couples, their educated kids all married and gone to work for Bill Gates. I found the address and took a good look at the house. The driveway and front garden was as she had described it.
‘Go onto the driveway and cut across the lawn. The trees will hide you until you reach the side entrance. The door has a glass panel to the top and this is the way in. There is no burglar alarm.’
The following day I had her shopping list with me and bought the items listed one at a time from different shops and paid cash. When I got back to Smitty’s I sat in his garage for an hour shaping a small hollow in one side of the balsa wood block and preparing the rest of the materials. I sat thinking about something else the old lady had said; that if all went well she would recommend me to friends. It was a strange remark to say the least but hell, five hundred bucks not only bought my agreement to accept the job but my silence too without trying to understand her motives.
‘It glows for as long as you want, depending on the length of the fuse cord. The tip smoulders red. When the fuse burns down to the top edge of the ping pong ball stuck in the balsa wood, it drops down inside the hole and into the lighter fluid. For a few seconds the light plastic ball will get brighter and brighter until melting plastic allows the burning liquid to spread across the balsa wood.’
All this she explained in the neatly handwritten instructions.
‘The balsa wood burns easily and ignites the pile of crumpled paper you have placed on the floor beneath the window. Make sure you open it a crack. As the fire from the paper spreads, the draft from the window will fan the flames which will then ignite the curtains. Setting everything up at the back in the living room will hide the fire until it is too late.’
********
‘By now the paper should be alight,’ I thought. ‘Another couple of minutes and the room will be engulfed.’
It was five minutes before I saw a few red sparks spiralling almost sideways from the rear of the house. I shivered and walked to the end of Marcus and turned right into McDonalds before I heard the wail of a siren.
The papers quoted the fire chief the following day. The house burned to the ground and nothing indicated arson. Probable cause of fire, an electrical fault.
Two days later Smitty woke me. “You got mail,” he called. “Get your arse down here; it looks like Fargo sent you some dough.”
Sure enough it was and with it another letter from a PO Box in Texas.
‘As my apprentice you succeeded admirably and I want to congratulate you. Should you decide to make this your new career please ring the enclosed telephone number for your next job. I will contact you as each new client contacts me.
Yours, Firefly.
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