A cigarette drooped from the corner of his lower lip, dribbling ashes on his lap, but Pfeiffer didn't notice because he was focused on the abandoned bowling emporium on the corner.  It was put up for sale nearly nine months ago, a hideous eyesore amid all the elegant townhouses and boutiques that had sprung up in the old Italian neighborhood in the past year and a half.  Many who lived and worked here would be delighted to see the dilapidated structure disappear, he suspected, as he drove past it for the third time tonight.   

A block north of the building he pulled over to the curb and parked in front of a Lebanese carpet store.  It was a quarter to eleven and the store was closed along with the other businesses on the block.  Just in case, he sat there for a few minutes, making sure no one else was around.  Then he got out, quietly shut the door, and opened the trunk, which reeked of turpentine.  Hurriedly he gathered up the paper bag of soaked rags, shut the trunk, and walked back to the bowling emporium.  He smelled like a house painter, he thought, glancing around to see if anyone was behind him.  No one was, though, he had the street to himself.  For all he knew, he was the only person awake in the neighborhood.   

He knelt down in front of the back door of the emporium and bunched some rags against it, threw a couple more under a window, went around to the front and piled the rest of the rags against the thick oak door.  Breathing deeply, he looked all around, once more making sure he was alone.  He was so he pulled out his cigarette lighter and lit one of the soaked rags, which instantly flared into an angry orange flame.  Quickly he went around and lit the other rags then hurried back to his car as the old building burst into dragon fierce flames.   

His heart throbbing in his throat, he sat for a moment in his car to catch his breath then pulled out his cell phone and called the central firehouse.  "I'd like to report that the old Timber Lanes Bowling Palace is on fire," he announced urgently.    

"Where is that located, sir?" the dispatcher asked coolly.   

"In the Antonelli District," he replied, "about half a mile from the bus depot."  

"What is your name, please?"  

"Wayne Pfeiffer."   

"Well, thank you, Mr. Pfeiffer."   

"My pleasure."   

Smiling, he rolled down the window, and in what seemed like only a couple of minutes heard the howling sirens of the fire trucks.  His smile deepened.  Seconds later, two trucks appeared in his rearview mirror and, briefly, he considered getting out of his car and introducing himself to whoever was in charge as the person who called in the alarm.  But the dispatcher had his name so someone would probably contact him to thank him for what he did.  So he remained in his car and watched the firemen struggle to contain the blaze, the smell of burning wood filling his nostrils.                                                            *Pfeiffer had only been home from work a few minutes when he heard a knock on his door.  He assumed it was lonely Mrs. Balatico, his neighbor from the apartment at the end of the floor, but instead it was representative of the fire department who introduced himself as Commander Cafferty.  He was not surprised, having expected to be contacted by some official about the blaze.   

"Please come in."   

"Thank you," the burly man replied.  "This shouldn't take more than a couple of minutes of your time but I wanted to speak with you about the call you placed last night.'   

"Certainly.  Take all the time you need."  

"When did you see the bowling alley on fire?"   

"Just minutes before I reported it."    

"A little after eleven, then."    

"I guess."   

"Did you happen to notice anyone outside the bowling alley?"   

He shook his head.  "No."   

"Did you see any cars driving by?"  

"None."   

"It was pretty quiet then?"   

"Yes."   

"How come you happened to be in the area at that time of night?"   

"I dropped someone off at the bus depot and was on my way back home."  

He grinned tautly.  "Lucky for us," he said.  "Otherwise the entire block might have gone up in flames."  

"That would've been a calamity."  

He nodded.  

"So how do you think it got started?"   

He shrugged.  "We won't know for certain until the investigation has been completed.  But the old building was a real tinder box so the slightest thing could have ignited it.  Someone tossing a lit cigarette from a car window, for instance."  

"Well, as I told you, I didn't see any cars when I drove by."  

"Oh, it could've happened minutes earlier," he indicated.  "Whatever the cigarette came in contact with could've just smoldered for while before it caught fire."  

"I see."  

"Anyway, sir, I believe you've answered all the questions I had," the commander said as he stepped toward the door.  "And I thank you.  Also, I thank you for being so alert and for taking the time to stop and call in the alarm.  If you hadn't, we could've had a major blaze down there."  

"I am glad I was able to be of some help."   

The commander extended his hand.  "You'll be receiving a letter from the chief's office as a token of our appreciation."  

"Thank you."  

"No, we're the ones who thank you, Mr. Pfeiffer.  If more citizens were as alert and responsible as you, this would be a much safer community."   

                                                        *Pfeiffer was too excited to prepare dinner, too excited even to walk across the street to the diner on the corner.  Instead, he cracked open a can of beer, sat in the living room, and silently repeated to himself the compliments the commander had paid him a few minutes earlier.  He had not felt this good in quite a while, probably not since he held the winning raffle ticket at the county fair three years ago for a weekend for two in Las Vegas.  He was smiling so much his mouth ached.  He didn't mind, though, he needed some gratification after what happened last week on the Little Knife River.   

He was out in a canoe with his nephew, paddling past a narrow waterfall, when all of a sudden a scream burst above the racket of the cascading water.  His nephew, craning his neck, spotted someone in the water, waving his arms, and Pfeiffer started to turn the canoe then decided not to when he saw how swift the current was in the middle of the river.  He wasn't that experienced handling a canoe, having rented one only on two other occasions, and was afraid he might capsize it in the treacherous current.   

"What about that man in the water?" his nephew asked, sounding concerned.  

"Oh, he'll be all right," he assured him.  "He's probably just horsing around.  Besides, there are people on shore closer to him than we are."  

"But don't you think we should check to make sure?"  

"Nah.  He'll be fine."   

He said a prayer to himself, hoping that he was right, and paddled downstream to the next bend in the river.   

Later, while watching the evening newscast, he learned that a 49 year old man drowned in the river earlier that afternoon.  He was devastated, convinced that was the person his nephew had seen struggling in the water.  He didn't know if he could have rescued him but realized now he should have tried.  At once, he called his nephew who also had watched the newscast and said he was right, they should have tried to help the swimmer, and asked for his forgiveness.  The young man was disconsolate, said he wished he had never gone out on the river today.  Pfeiffer felt awful, somehow wished there was something he could do to change what happened.  But it was too late, of course, the man died from hypothermia.                                                           *The letter of appreciation arrived at the end of the week and he got a maple frame for it and hung it on a wall in his bedroom so it was the first thing he saw when he got up in the morning.  He was proud, felt it represented his true character.  It was one of the best things he had ever received, better than any Christmas gift certainly, and made the risk he had taken the other night when he went downtown worth it.  His only regret about setting the fire was that no one was inside the bowling emporium because then he could have rescued the person and been seen as someone who didn't ignore others in trouble, as happened on the river, but went out of his way to help.  Then he would have received more than a letter of appreciation, probably a medal of some kind, maybe even get a picture of the medal representation published in the morning paper.  People then would know the real Wayne Pfeiffer, they would know he was not the sort of person who would leave someone to drown.  

He reached for a cigarette and sparked the lighter, set the cigarette in his mouth and stared for a moment at the dusty blue flame.  There were lots of tinder boxes downtown, he thought, lighting the cigarette, lots of opportunities to show people he was not the person he seemed on the river.