Mahu Fire by Neil Plakcy Page A

said, as we stopped in front of a black pickup with red and yellow flames in a stripe down the side.
    “Guess you want the world to know you’re a fireman,” I said.
    I can’t be sure because of the darkness but I think he blushed. “I bought it from another guy. I didn’t bother to have it repainted.” He had a big locked case that spanned the bed, and all around it were piles of junk. Scraps of wood and metal, broken down tools, what looked like half a surfboard.
    “Don’t bother to clean too often either.”
    “Please. I grew up in a house with plastic slipcovers on the sofa and a plastic runner on the hall carpet. My mom used to dust every day. I think I’m in rebellion.”
    “My mom would have tried that, too,” I said, as he opened the chest and rooted around in it. “But she had three sons. By the time I was born she’d pretty much given up hope of keeping the house clean.”
    He pulled a big yellow suit out and held it up to me. He looked at me appraisingly, checking out my body.
    I haven’t got anything to be embarrassed about there; I keep in good shape, between surfing, roller blading and riding my bike.
    “I think it’ll fit you.”
    Our eyes met, and I knew. Maybe Mike Riccardi didn’t know it himself yet; maybe he knew but he just wasn’t admitting it. But in that glance, when our eyes locked on each other, I knew. This hunky fireman with the sexy mustache and dancing eyes was just as gay as I was.

THROUGH THE FIRE
    I held his glance for a minute, smiled, and then said, “So where do you think I can go to put this on?”
    We both looked around. It was almost one in the morning by then, and the area had begun to empty out. We were about two blocks away from the offices of the Hawai’i Marriage Project, and the storefronts and office buildings around us were closed and locked. “Just go behind the truck,” he said. “I promise I won’t look.”
    “I haven’t got anything you haven’t already seen.” Our eyes met again and he smiled. This had definite possibilities, I thought. Then I yawned, and felt an ache in my back, and once again I was conscious of the hammering in my head, which had muted. I had enough on my plate without wondering how I could get into Mike Riccardi’s pants.
    I stripped off my jacket and shirt. My back hurt, but I assumed it was because I’d been laying on the pavement. My shirt was a wreck; the back must have caught a stray ember and there was a big hole with brown edges there.
    I did allow myself to wonder, as I pulled my pants off and threw them into the cab of the truck, what Mike Riccardi looked like under all that baggy material. My dick responded, and I had to turn away. In turning, though, I exposed myself to the glare of a spotlight, and I’m pretty sure he saw a revealing silhouette.
    I stepped into the suit, and pulled a pair of booties over my good dress shoes—also ruined. I had some trouble getting the suit buttoned up and Mike came over to help me. “You get accustomed to this after a while,” he said. “At least it keeps half your clothes from smelling like smoke.”
    Together we walked back to the fire site, me clomping along in the ungainly booties and bulky fire suit. A series of high-intensity lights were focused on the ashy remains, but even so Mike handed me a small flashlight. All the engine companies but one had left, and most of the firemen were standing around in the street talking while their last few fellows prowled around looking for stray embers. Mike called out some greetings as we walked in through what had once been the front wall, and I remembered Robert telling me about the rocks that had come through the window that afternoon, the manure on the sidewalk. I wondered if there was a connection, and told Mike about them.
    “My first guess is that this is an amateur bomb, which fits with that kind of shit,” he said. “No pun intended. But let’s keep an open mind as we look around.”
    We started a careful, inch-by-inch