“Good,” O’Neil said with an ornery chuckle. “You never know what someone will confess to when you start off that way.”
“You’re a piece of work, Captain.”
“I’m an old relic, but I’m here and I’m not going anywhere, even if they are making me archive or dump most of this stuff.” He waved huge bear paw of a hand at the mess.
Frankie looked around. “Yeah, I thought it looked like more than normal.”
“Well you won’t be seeing it after today.”
That yanked his attention back to the man behind the desk. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Nope.” The captain’s face lost all signs of humor. “You are.”
For the briefest of seconds, Frankie wished he had taken the offer of a chair. Then, the familiar sizzle of the Hartigan obstinate Irish temper sparked to life.
He stalked over to the captain’s desk and laid his palms down on it. “Are you shit-canning me?”
“Nothing of the sort. It has recently come to my attention, thanks to all of my spring cleaning efforts, that you haven’t taken a leave of absence in I don’t even know how long, which is totally against regulations. I can’t believe human resources and professional standards haven’t ganged up on your oversized Irish ass already about it. The department has gone all in on the mental wellness aspect of firefighting safety, and that includes taking your required leave to mentally refresh yourself.”
Frankie threw up his arms in frustration, wishing like hell that the captain’s office was big enough to pace in because he was about to go off like TNT and needed to let off some steam stat. “That’s a bunch of touchy-feely bullshit.”
“Agreed, but you have three weeks built up and you’re taking it all as of now.” The captain fished around on his desk for a minute and then pulled out a sheet of paper, handing it over. “And here’s the letter from up the food chain ordering you to take three weeks immediately.”
Frankie looked down at the sheet of paper like it was a death sentence.
“This sucks.” The sheer boredom of sitting on his ass for three weeks was going to kill him. He was already to the point where he took extra shifts just to avoid having too many days off in the month to sit around the house he shared with his twin, Finian, and do the same shit he’d been doing since they got the place a decade ago. It wasn’t that he needed the money—although, come on, everyone had too many bills to pay—but the firehouse was his life. The adrenaline. The comraderie. The going out and saving shit. It’s what a guy like him was made for. “What in the hell am I supposed to do for three weeks?”
The captain shrugged. “Get drunk. Get laid. Get a hobby. I don’t fucking care. Just get out of my office and don’t let me see that freckled mug of yours again for three weeks, Hartigan.”
…
Marino’s wasn’t a nasty dive bar, or an outlaw biker bar, or the kind of bar where when Frankie walked in all the patrons stopped what they were doing and turned to give him the stink eye like they were picturing the best way to dispose of his body. Those places would have been more welcoming. Instead, it was a cop bar. And why would a self-respecting firefighter go into such a place of ill repute? Because his poor, confused baby brother was one of Waterbury’s finest, complete with detective shield and annoying habit of always following the rules. Ford did, however, have the night off and a willingness to play wingman as Frankie checked through the captain’s proffered to-do list with get drunk being at the top of it.
“Can you believe this crap?” he asked, taking a drink from his first draught beer. “Three weeks.”
Ford was watching the dartboard in the back, since he was up soon, but he glanced away long enough to roll his eyes at Frankie. “If you’d just taken your leave each year like you’re supposed to, you wouldn’t be in this spot.”
Frankie flipped him the bird. “Wait, not only do I have to drink away my sorrows in this place, but you’re going to tell me I told you so, too?”
“What else are younger brothers for?”
“I should have called Finn.” His fraternal twin, younger by six minutes and forty-two seconds, as their mom reminded them at every birthday, would have commiserated properly with Frankie in a real bar.