Bronx Noir

It took less than five minutes to reach the firehouse, but it seemed like an eternity. Both rigs were out. A firefighter on housewatch had recorded a 10–75, FDNY code for a working fire. Mike could hear the dispatch reports across the department radio. Box 4311—he’d remember that number for the rest of his life. It was a second alarm now. Fifteen companies. A hundred and twenty men and a deputy chief to boot. Jeez, he was up to his eyeballs in this one.

He couldn’t just be here waiting when the guys returned. Should he call a lawyer? The union rep? He walked into the locker room and stared into his hands. Did they smell of smoke? He couldn’t be sure given the pervasive odor of mildew and chlorine disinfectant. Were there telltale burns? He looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot. He needed a shave. His left elbow and knee had begun to swell slightly but the discomfort was nothing compared to the dizziness and nausea that had overtaken his body. He stumbled to the bunk room and collapsed on his bunk. No rigs. No firefighters. Even Rufus, for once, stayed away.

It was five hours before he awoke—the longest sleep he’d had since he left Gina. He couldn’t recall where he was. A shaft of morning sunlight shot across the bunk room, illuminating dust motes in the air. Tig was drinking a cup of coffee and checking his work calendar in his locker.

“Hey, Mikey, ten minutes more and I was gonna check you for a pulse. We’re on duty at oh-nine-hundred, you know.”

Mike tried to speak, but his throat felt as scratchy as the city-issued wool blanket across his bed. His elbow and knee were tender to the touch.

“I hear we both missed a good fire last night. At that vacant on Tremont Avenue. It went to three alarms.”

“Shit.” Mike closed his eyes. He’d been hoping he’d dreamed that. “Anyone hurt?”

“I think a couple of the usuals tapped out. Back injuries. But you know a lot of that stuff is bullshit.”

“Ummm.” Mike studied Tig tapping a pencil on his work calendar. Tig wasn’t the subtle type. If he suspected anything, he could never have hidden it this well. Then again, he wasn’t on duty last night. They were both working the exact same schedule.

“Are the fire marshals investigating it?”

“Probably. We just put the suckers out. The rest is somebody else’s problem, right?” Tig frowned at him. Mike’s hands were shaking. “You gotta get out of this firehouse, my friend.”

“I get out.”

“I mean for real. They ever find your car?”

Mike shook his head no.

“I got a friend at the police impound lot. Sometimes stolen cars end up there and it takes awhile before anyone gets around to letting the owner know. I’ll give him a call, see if he can find out anything.”

Downstairs, Mike’s presence was regarded with the usual mix of blank stares and indifference. No fire marshals came to the firehouse. No one asked where Mike had been last night or what he’d been doing. No one seemed to miss the bolt cutters. Only Mike felt strange. Clenched and claustrophobic—like he was breathing through a straw. But as the day wore on, as he went into his next tour and the next night with no sleep, only the dull ache of his elbow and knee for company, he began to look back longingly on those few hours when he made the trucks and firefighters and noise go away. He—Mike Boyle, a ghost in his own firehouse—he controlled the shots. Not Tig or Chuck or Captain Russo or some staff chief downtown. They only reacted.

Oh that sweet, sweet sleep. Why couldn’t he get it back? There were other runs that kept the men out, but some of them were during the day when it was too hot to sleep, even with the ancient air conditioners running full blast. Others came during maintenance checks or bouts of Rufus’s barking or times when the guys left food on the stove and told Mike to keep an eye on it. What he needed was a working fire he could count on. A good three-alarmer after midnight. No casualties. Just fire and plenty of it.

So he set one. At E-Z Discount Furniture on Fordham Road. Ten years of fighting fires had given Mike Boyle a pretty good idea how to start them. Ventilation systems were good. Just pry off a cover, stick a road flare and a little kerosene down a shaft, and let it simmer for ten minutes. E-Z was just that. It yielded six hours of uninterrupted sleep. Belmont Air-Conditioning and Appliances was good for another four. They’d ripped Tig off on a busted air conditioner he’d bought a few weeks ago, so Mike felt especially good about gutting their store. A track fire in the subway netted another three and a half.