The first fire engine, a brand new GMC ladder truck, growled down the main street of Tully at five in the morning, coming slowly through a thickening vortex of snowflakes, its air brakes huffing, the big diesel engine snarling in a low gear. It was followed closely by a station wagon, bright red, with its roof lights whirling, sending red and white flickers flying around on the old brick buildings, scattering broken-glass glitters of light into the midst of the falling snow, so that the whole street took on the feel of a nightclub painted with stars, a glitter ball twirling insanely in the center of a cloud of white sparks. The ladder truck came to a wheezing chuffing stop outside Apex Muffler. The static and crackle of radios sounded in the stillness of the snow-filled night. Lights began to come on in the set of railroad flats over the muffler shop.
A county cop car pulled up in front of the big ladder truck, and two cops got out. They walked over to the fire truck and had a short muted conversation with the fire captain. Their breath plumed out into the headlight glow. Steam began to rise off the slick shiny metal hood of the big engine.
After they had their talk, the county cops sighed and began to walk around the side of the building, shining their Mag-Lite into the windows of the darkened garage, then upward through the blowing snowflakes toward the upper windows, most of which were now lit, with the silhouettes of tenants showing black against the soft amber glow from inside the apartments.
One of the tenants, an old man with a thick head of frowzy white hair, leaned out the front window of apartment E, overlooking the idling fire trucks, and asked what the devil was going on. Smoke alarm, said one of the men standing on the ladder truck. Got to check it out.
Damn, said the old man, pulling a faded blue housecoat around his bony shoulders.
At the rear of the building the two county cops were trudging up the staircase toward the hallway door. A young couple was waiting for them at the top of the stairs, the woman holding a baby. The cops spoke to them, their radios crackling with cross-talk. Finally, the couple began to come down the staircase. The cops went on into the hallway and began to knock on various doors. The front door to apartment A jerked open, and a young Chinese male was standing there, fully clothed, his short muscular frame blocking the doorway, a belligerent look on his face.
The county cops made their explanations, said they were sorry, but he’d have to leave the building until they could find the reason for the alarm. It was an old building, all wood inside, a firetrap. It didn’t even have a sprinkler system, said one cop, looking up at the stained tile ceiling.
The Chinese man said something vulgar in an unfamiliar language and slammed the door shut. The cops walked away, continued knocking on doors. One of them laughed.
A few minutes later, the county cops knocked again at his door. He had been sitting at this chair overlooking the side street, watching a state police car. He’d been watching that car for hours. Now and then another cop would drop by, have a cigarette with the man at the wheel. It was simply routine, he felt, but it had nagged at him, and he had not been able to sleep. Now he was irritable, uneasy, and his temper was not good at the best of times. That was why he was in this dull little town, working at a peasant’s job with those Hakka morons—because of his temper.
Now this stupid alarm. There was no fire. These old buildings had bad wires, bad plumbing, bad bones. They were like old people, always creaking around at night, always going to the bathroom, always with some bad trouble keeping them up in the middle of the night. It was never anything important. When the knocking at the door got more insistent, he slammed his hand on the tabletop and told the people outside the door to go away.
“Can’t do that, sir,” said the voice through the thin door. “Got to check all the rooms.”
“No, all fine in here!” said the man, his voice thin with anger.
“Sir, I have a key here. I’m sorry to bother you and all. But it’s the law. I gotta do a walk-through. I’ll be in and out, sir. You’ll never notice.”
The Chinese man looked over at the bedroom, where he had a weapon hidden. He considered going over there and stuffing it into his pants. Decided against it. Down in the street he heard the voices of the other tenants, half-asleep, half-excited at the break in the monotony, there was a party feel in the street. If he did not go down there, he realized, he would have people wondering about him. Not to go would be to attract attention.
He got up, pulled on a jacket, and walked over to the door. He jerked it open, saw the man in the big gray cowboy duster standing there, his dark Italian face bright and happy, his eyes wrinkled from his grin—everybody thought this was a party—then he was saying something—still a huge grin—he was yelling something in a cheerful voice—he was saying—“It’s a happy Fizzies party!”—stupid idiot Howli peasant—and Wu Xsin Gi began to say something cutting and nasty, when the man raised his left hand—still a big smile—was the man a fool?—and Wu Xsin Gi stepped back reflexively, torn between two sensations, two instincts, between contempt and caution—thinking gun?—the man smiling still, the smile confusing him—and then Wu Xsin Gi looked at what was in the man’s hand—it was a spray can? What did—
Luke gave him a five-second blast of the Mace foam—it hit Wu Xsin Gi square in the face and stuck there. The man staggered back, screaming through the bright purple foam covering his mouth and eyes and his nose like shaving cream. He rubbed at it frantically—still bellowing—his lungs were searing his ribs—a thousand hornets were stinging him—rubbed it into his eyes—now the pain was huge—he scraped some of it away—was turning—fumbling—heading for that bedroom—gun gun gun—when something very heavy bounced off the back of his skull—lights blew up in his eyes—his knees went wobbly, and the floor rushed up at him. He hit it square with his face, breaking his nose, bounced once—flattened again—and a black wave drove him down.
Luke stood over him, smiling down at the back of the man’s head. He had a big black steel Mag-Lite in his left hand. His finger bones were still a little buzzy and numb from the impact of the blow he had given the man. Head blows were against departmental policy. Too dangerous. You might kill a guy. There were rules about it. If you were going to kill a man, you had to do it according to the rulebook. Well, thought Luke, you only go around once in this life. If you can’t have some fun in life, why bother?
He nudged Wu Xsin Gi with his boot. The man groaned and bubbled a bit, coughing into the mound of purple foam covering his face.
“It’s a happy Fizzies party,” he said again, chuckling softly. “And you’re invited!”