Roast Mortem

Taking a deep breath (and praying to God it wouldn’t be my last), I went in. Choking smoke hovered between floor and ceiling, so I dropped to all fours. The bumpy mosaic tiles bruised my hands and knees; the smoke and heat stung my eyes, but I kept on crawling, half feeling, half guessing my way over to Dante’s inert form.

I tried to revive him by shaking his shoulders; then I saw the bloody gouge in his head and realized he’d been knocked unconscious by flying debris.

Oh, God...

Was he breathing? I couldn’t tell. The fire was sucking the oxygen out of the room, replacing it with toxic gasses, and the heat was unbearable. If we didn’t get out of this oven, we were going to be baked alive.

I couldn’t lift my barista, so I grabbed both of his wrists under his scorched leather jacket and dragged his limp form across the floor. I don’t even know where I found the strength, but I was soon hauling him through the narrow doorway and spilling him out onto the sidewalk.

The cold concrete and fresh night air felt like a sweet arctic kiss, but I couldn’t enjoy it. I knelt beside Dante, preparing to give him CPR — and saw that I didn’t need to. He was breathing on his own.

Thank you, God!

I noticed the sparse crowd then, gathering a few feet away: younger versions of Lucia Testa wearing micro miniskirts, older males behind them with more of that ubiquitous chin scruff, their expressions ranging from blank confusion to morbid excitement — yet no one lifted a spiked heel or overpriced basketball shoe to help!

They’re from the Red Mirage, I realized, but I didn’t see the owner among them. Where is that club jerk now? Mr. Guardian of Happy Hour Parking? Isn’t he at least worried about his club burning, too? It’s right next door!

Two minutes, maybe three, had passed since the initial blast. It felt like hours. I fumbled for my cell, impatient with my shaking hands and pressed a nine, a one — screaming sirens interrupted me. Flashing lights, nearly the same hues as the caffè’s inferno illuminated the shadowy street. The lead fire truck was massive, like a rolling T. rex. One basso blast from its reverberating horn sent tricked-out vans and giant SUVs scampering for the curb.

Seconds later the cavalry pulled up, men bailing out before their ride even stopped. This was an engine, the kind of truck that carried endless canvas hoses folded in its rear. Behind it was a ladder truck, just as big with men leaping off just as quickly. Three police cars and an ambulance rounded out the first responder parade.

With the FDNY here, there was nothing else to do but turn my focus back on the fire and literally begin to pray.

Behind me I was vaguely aware of boots hitting the ground, doors slamming, men yelling, police pushing back onlookers. I stayed on the hard concrete, cradling Dante’s head, my eyes fixed on blazing agony.

“Ma’am, are you all right?” (The first person to ask.)

“My friends are trapped!” I pointed, my focus still on those flames. I was shaking pretty badly now and I couldn’t keep the hysteria out of my voice —

“My friends! They’re in there! I don’t know what to do!”

A steady hand squeezed my shoulder. “Slow down, ma’am. Who’s trapped? Talk to me.”

I glanced up. Under a bulky fire helmet, intelligent eyes were leveled on mine. Wisps of wiry blond hair peeked out from under that Darth Vader headgear. The man’s pale skin was smooth. He was on the young side, late twenties maybe, but his voice and expression were cool and composed, his translucent blue eyes like clear beacons in the middle of this searing, dark fog.

“My friend... an elderly lady,” I said, feeling steadier in the presence of this man’s calm. “She’s in the basement with the owner of the shop. They’re both trapped. There are no windows down there, and the sidewalk chute was bricked up long ago. The only way into or out of that basement is on fire. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes. Anyone else in the upper floors?”

I blanked for a second. “No. There shouldn’t be. Enzo — the building’s owner — lives alone on the third floor, but he’s in the basement now. He mentioned the second floor was being rented, but the business went under a month ago and the space is still vacant.”

The fireman nodded, spoke evenly into a radio attached to his coat. “We have two civilians in the basement. The only means of egress is blocked. Fire is doubtful at this time. Repeat. Fire is doubtful at this time — ”

“Doubtful!” I cried. “You doubt you can save my friends?”

“Easy, ma’am. We’ll get ’em out. Try to calm down.”

While we spoke, three firemen reached the building, a length of hose unfurling behind them. Another man raised an odd-looking tool — like the long, skinny offspring of a crowbar and a claw hammer. Wielding the thing as confidently as a Yankee all-star, he tore the caffè’s front door off its hinges and swept away the jagged remnants of the plate glass window, deftly avoiding the spilling of razor-sharp shards onto the sidewalk’s already twinkling concrete.

“Ma’am?”

My fireman again — the one with the reassuring voice. I turned to find he’d waved over a pair of FDNY paramedics.

Two women in dark blue uniforms lifted Dante out of my arms and onto a stretcher. I rose and followed them to the back of their ambulance, watched them take vital signs, cover his mouth with an oxygen mask.

“Will he be okay?”

“He’s coming around,” one replied. “His vitals are strong, but he’ll need a CAT scan...”

A paramedic tried to take my pulse, but I waved him off. Knowing Dante was in good hands, I returned to the sidewalk to see if there was anything else I could do for Madame and Enzo.

What else can I tell these people to help them?

Another stocky, older fireman approached me. Like the rest, he wore thick, fire-resistant pants under a long, charcoal-colored duster with horizontal stripes of neon yellow, “a turnout coat,” that’s what the firefighters in Mike’s family had called it. Bunker gear was the more common term because they once literally stored it beside their bunks.

“We have a three-story attached commercial building,” the stocky man recited into a radio, “the fire began on the first floor and is going vertical — ”

“Yeah and fast,” my fireman added. He must have seen the shock and alarm on my face because he put a hand on my shoulder once more. “Take it easy, okay? The fire is moving up and away from your friends. Right, Lieutenant?”

The lieutenant threw a deadpan glance at my guy, and I finally saw his face full on. The shape, beneath that large helmet, was more oval than square — as if it had once been chiseled quite sharply, but time had added weight, rounding off the angled landscape. His skin texture was craggy, and he had one of those big, red drinker’s noses, the kind I’d seen among the crowd in my late father’s bookie days. But his celery green eyes were not cloudy or dulled like my dad’s old gambling customers. They were as sharp as his voice.

“Two victims are out, two more are trapped behind a fire door to the basement. The fire is confined to the single structure, and there’s no shared cockloft with the adjacent building...”

After completing his radio report, the lieutenant turned to my fireman. “What the hell were those people doing in that basement past Enzo’s Thursday night closing time?”

“You know Enzo?” I asked, surprised.

The lieutenant ignored my question. “Is this lady a victim?”

“Yeah, Loo. She got herself and another person out. Shaved-headed guy twice her size. That makes her civilian of the week, right?”

The lieutenant barely glanced my way. “Where’s her rescue?”

“He’s with the paramedics!” I shouted at the man, barely able to stay sane. “What about my friends? They’re trapped in there!”

“We know,” my fireman assured me. He was now strapping a bulky oxygen tank onto his back. “But they’re safe behind the fire door for the moment. Right now we’ve got guys on the fire escape. Look — ” He pointed. “And they’re on the roof doing their thing, too. Right, Loo?”

But the lieutenant was already heading for the caffè’s front doorway. I noticed the name Crowley printed in yellow across the bottom backside of his turnout coat.