ten, fifteen minutes at a time. The radiant he-at will scorch your turnout coat and char hoses; we’ve lost one section already. The fire is spreading on eighteen and we don’t have enough men to contain it.”
“You’ll get them. What about equipment?”
“Standard requirements so far-only more of it. The external standpipe is charged and working; the hoses in some of the stairwells are gone, of course-either burned through or vandals have hacked them through. We’ll need more respirators and masks. And men,” he repeated.
“We need men.”
Infantino caught Fuchs’s eye. There was no smile of triumph on the chief’s face.
“Casualties?”
“Four men to the hospital, smoke inhalation. We might lose one-Murphy, Engine Company 25. Another man was badly cut; a rookie from Truck Company 33 tried to chop out a window to vent the fire on seventeen. He lost a thumb and two fingers.”
The first thing you were supposed to learn, Infantino thought, was how to hold a hatchet. “All right, Chief Verlaine has charge of seventeen.
The next engine company that arrives will be under his command.
Castro, you take eighteen. You’ll get another company as soon as possible. Miller, take care of the cleanup on sixteen.
Fleming, contact Bylson in the communications van and have him set up a two-way communications system in the lobby for in-building contacts; that win take, some of the pressure off him. I’ve asked for more police to help clear the lobby so working conditions down there should improve. Okay, back to stations-I’ll be in touch with each of you as soon as possible.”
They left, leaving the security men and Donaldson behind, as well as Captain Fuchs. Garfunkel was smearing the dirt around on his face with a handkerchief. He glanced up at Infantino.
“You’ve got another problem.”
“What’s that?”
“We’ve got a gas station in the basement.”
Infantino stared at him. “What’s the capacity?”
“Two one-thousand gallon tanks. They were just filled the start of the week.”
“Those permits come over my desk. The Glass House never applied for one.”
Garfunkel was sweating. “Harriman, the super, was going to; I remember him talking about it one day.”
“So you people went ahead and installed it prior to the issuance of-the permit? Who’s your supplier, City Gas and Oil? Call up their night man and have them get a truck over here immediately and start pumping it out.”
Fuchs interrupted. “You sure that’s necessary? We’ll probably have the fire knocked down before they get the gas pumped out.”
“Maybe I’m playing it too safe,” Infantino said slowly.
“But I’m playing it safe. All right?”
“It’s Your show.”
“We could pump it into the sewers,” Garfunkel suggested.
Infantino shook his head. “No dice-gasoline floats on water.
We’d fill the whole sewer system with fumes. A stray spark or a static discharge and we’d have more trouble than we could possibly handle.”
He stood up to go and Garfunkel said, “What about the people in the restaurant at the top?”
“How many?”
“About a hundred and thirty.”
“They’ll be okay so long as they don’t panic-and there’s no reason for them to panic. The fire is forty stories away.”
“Mr. Leroux and Mr. Barton,are up there with their wives.”
“Craig Barton?” Infantino said. Right now, both Barton and Leroux would be invaluable. Nobody would know the building better than its architect and Leroux was ready-made to fill in as building supervisor.
“Get on the house phone and tell em to come down immediately.
We can use them both down here.” He had a sudden thought. “tell them to take the scenic elevator.” To take others, he thought, suddenly depressed, might be murder.
“Yes, sir,” and Garfunkel was gone. Jernigan and Donaldson followed after him.
Once they were alone, Fuchs eyed Infantino silently for a moment, then nodded. “You didn’t ask, but I think you’re doing all right so far.”
“You’re not hoping I’ll fall on my ass?”
A tiny muscle jumped in Fuchs’s forehead and his face froze.
“That’s uncalled for, Infantino. You fall and a lot of people die.
I would hardly wish that if my worst enemy were in charge.”
“You’re right,” Infantino said. “That was uncalled for.”
Fuchs smiled bitterly as he turned to leave. “Someday I’ll tell you about the first real ‘worker’ I was responsible for knocking down.”
Infantino started to follow Fuchs when one of Bylson’s communications men hurried into the room. He introduced himself as Bill Philtron. He was carrying a multiple handy-talky, a heavier version of the single crystal units in use among the fire crews.
Infantino checked it out quickly, then went up to the lobby, followed by Philtron.
The floor was as crowded and confused as before, the firemen fighting their way to the elevators through milling crowds of confused tenants. Where was the goddamned police captain? Infantino thought.
Why the hell hadn’t the lobby been cleared? A young fireman hurried past him, his respirator mask dangling around his neck.
Infantino recognized him and grabbed his arm. “How bad is it up there, Lencho?”
“Damned bad.” David Lencho’s face showed a dirty red pressure line from the mask; the rest of his face was streaked with soot. He looked older than . his years. “The fire’s breaking through to eighteen.”
Infantino grabbed the phone from Philtron’s walky-talky and called Verlaine. “Hal, Infantino-I’m coming up.”
Verlaine’s voice sounded tired and hollow over the phone. “It’s your funeral.”
Infantino handed the phone back to Philtron. “You’re relay station for me while I’m upstairs. Stay on Verlaine’s frequency.” He turned to the elevators as one of the cage doors opened. A fireman stumbled out leading a small, red-eyed boy about four. The boy, crying and gagging, looked wildly about the lobby; he suddenly tore from the fireman’s grip and ran sobbing toward the woman Infantino had noticed earlier. She swept him up and a moment later was joined by her husband. Some of the tightness in Infantino’s stomach abruptly dissolved. The chance of two years ago repeating itself had been diminished by one.
He caught the elevator with two other firemen. A few moments later he was on the sixteenth floor. A steady stream of water drizzled from the corridor ceiling; the ceiling sagged in loose loops from the framing.
Infantino’s boots squished through the sodden nap of carpeting.
The elevator opened directly on an office suite that took up the entire floor. The salvage company had spread canvas covers over most of the office space but part of the ceiling and carpeting by the elevator reception area was a total loss. Portions of the rug and ceiling were black and charred; Infantino guessed that some of the burning solvent had flowed down the elevator shaft from the floor above. It must have been hell stepping out into that, he thought.
Heavy water stains were spreading down the plastered walls; at one point expensive wood paneling had buckled and warped away from the wall. It would b, much the same, though to a lesser degree, for at least several floors below. The insurance companies would be a lot broker after all this was over, Infantino thought.
Several firemen were on the stairwell landing; one of them leaned weakly against the railing, coughing up black phlegm while another tried to help him through the door.
A fireman said to Infantino, “He got a lung full, Chief.
Respirator valve failed.” It was rare enough-every fireman was taught the care and cleaning of respirators until they could have assembled one in the dark, but on old equipment, valves still sometimes stuck.
“Get him below right away.” The landing on the seventeenth floor was slippery with water and the air was
