the kids have something to drink, the kids running around, squirting each other with the garden hose. Trips to Shea Stadium (without the girls, without Mrs. Molloy), Mr. Molloy springing for ice cream and Cokes for everyone. Scary carved pumpkins and the best candy take on the block at Halloween, Mrs. Molloy dressed like a witch, green hair, extra-long teeth, but you knew it was her so you were never afraid. A Fourth of July pig roast in the middle of the street, the street closed because Mr. Molloy asks the cops to close it. And then the cops who close the street disappear, every year called away on urgent business, so that they never notice the fireworks Mr. Molloy sets off as the violet sky goes to black; a convenient thing, as fireworks are illegal in New York.
But Jimmy's father, a steel-muscled Teamster, though also spooked by nothing, has always grown uneasy in Mr. Molloy's presence. His eyes will narrow, his talk become short, and he drinks at another place, not at Flanagan's.
And it is whispered that Michael Molloy became Mike the Bear when, at Jimmy's age, he crushed a man to death in his arms.
Jimmy's beer is halfway gone when Mr. Molloy walks into the bar. Tribute is paid, in
Mr. Molloy calls for a beer, and another for Jimmy. He inspects Jimmy, he asks how life is treating him.
Fair, Jimmy answers, returning his smile, nodding his head, to show Mr. Molloy he's appreciative that he's been asked.
Fair? Mr. Molloy pulls back in his seat, as though surprised. What I hear, you're hot shit, kiddo. What Tom tells me, you're the balls.
Hey, and now Jimmy's smile widens.
The waitress brings two more mugs, both full, both cloudy with frost. Jimmy's momentarily confused, not sure what's called for. He makes his choice, abandons the old beer—the one he paid for—in favor of the new one, from Mr. Molloy.
Mr. Molloy takes that first cold sip of beer. No, really, kid, it's what I hear. Last week, the Chinese restaurant, that guy in the fire, you rolled him in the tablecloth? Saved his life?
Yeah, says Jimmy, guy'll smell like moo shu pork for a year.
Mr. Molloy laughs with Jimmy.
Jimmy sips at his beer, but for a minute he doesn't see Mr. Molloy.
Last week: dark street, locked restaurant, smell of smoke even before they pile off the truck. Probably a grease fire in the kitchen, Jimmy's captain says. Calls for Door Man to bring the irons and the others to stretch a line to the front door. Door Man's Jimmy, he's right there. He pops it and they go in together, the captain and him. Place smells, smoke's banked halfway down. No one here, says Jimmy's captain. Bring it in! he yells to the men ready with the hose. He heads toward the kitchen. Jimmy stands for a second, takes it all in, thinks, that's wrong. Wait! he shouts. The kitchen door bursts open, flames push out. Jimmy's captain jumps back as the fire rolls over the ceiling into the room, looking for something to devour. And there's this guy staggering out from the kitchen, screaming, running around, covered in flames. Worst thing you can do, run: it feeds the dragon.
And then for Jimmy it happens, what he loves so much: time slows to nothing. Every sound is clear, every sight is sharp, like he can see each thing and its deepest secret, too. Jimmy feels fire under his skin, that fire that's his, inside. He knows exactly what to do, and he has time, all the time he needs, to do it.
He yanks on a tablecloth, soy sauce and teacups flying. He sees how the burning guy's running, takes a few steps, and the guy runs right into him, right where Jimmy knew he'd be. Jimmy throws the cloth over him, knocks him down, rolls him over and over and over. The guy's still screaming, but the fire's out. Jimmy's brothers open the line and the fire hisses, throws billows of steam at them. Finally it gives up, angry like always, but defeated once again.
His captain calls in the EMTs, claps Jimmy on the shoulder, says, Good work, Superman. But you better knock off that smile. Your teeth'll turn black from the smoke. Jimmy feels the grin stretching across his face, tries to control it, but it gets wider from his captain's praise. Jimmy's glad he saved the guy, glad no one else is hurt, glad the fire's out. But the fire under his skin is fading, too, and like every time, he's sorry to see that go.
Jimmy? Mr. Molloy asks. You okay?
Oh, hey, yeah. Jimmy says. Yeah, just thinking about something. He nods and Big Mike nods, and they drink beer together.
Jimmy asks after Mrs. Molloy, how's she doing, everything's good?
Tell you the truth, Jimmy, Mr. Molloy says, that's why I called you. Mr. Molloy stops to lift his beer, takes a long pull, wipes the foam from his lip with a napkin.
Jimmy says, Something wrong? Mrs. Molloy, she's okay?
Oh yeah, Peggy, she's fine, she's okay—he smiles here, Mr. Molloy does, the same smile the kids have been seeing forever when Mr. Molloy looks at his wife, mentions her name, the kids thinking he probably doesn't even know he does it—but she's worried, she's worried about something.
Sorry to hear that, Jimmy says, and he is.
Mr. Molloy says, I need a favor, kid.
Jimmy lifts his beer, too, drinks, does not answer. Sees in his mind his father's narrowed eyes, thinks:
Hey, Mr. Molloy, he says, trying lightness. I'm just a fireman.
Yeah, maybe so. But the guys, they look up to you. You know I've always thought the world of you, Jimmy. Mr. Molloy sounds serious now, leaning his big body forward, his eyes locked on Jimmy. The two of them are being watched by other eyes at Flanagan's, and Jimmy knows this.
Mr. Molloy pulls two cigars from his shirt pocket, offers one across the table. No, thanks, says Jimmy, I don't
