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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.
    â€œTwo 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?”
    â€œYou know Enzo?” I asked, surprised.
    The lieutenant ignored my question. “Is this lady a victim?”
    â€œYeah, 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?”
    â€œHe’s with the paramedics!” I shouted at the man, barely able to stay sane. “What about my friends? They’re trapped in there!”
    â€œWe 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.
    â€œOkay, get ready with that hose,” Lieutenant Crowley bellowed at the nozzle team.
    A loud crash sounded over our heads. A spectator cried out as black smoke began to pour off the top of the building’s roof.
    I pointed. “Is that supposed to happen?”
    â€œThey’re venting the fire,” my guy replied. “That’s how we begin to control it, release the heat and smoke, direct it up and out—and away from your friends.”
    Away from Madame and Enzo , I silently repeated, clinging to that thought.
    â€œOkay,” Crowley yelled. “Let’s knock this monster down!”
    The flat hose swelled like an overstuffed sausage. The men clutching the nozzle released the explosive water stream. Gripping the engorged hose, they moved closer to the blazing shop while more firemen scurried up ladders braced against the walls of the second and third floor. The sound of splintering glass filled the night as they broke windows and climbed through.
    â€œGo, boys!” Crowley cried.
    The men gripping the hose advanced through the doorway and vanished into the haze. As the first blast of cold water hit the broiling blaze, a sustained hiss filled the air, and the thick smoke pouring out of the caffè’s broken windows quickly faded from black to gray.
    The firefighters moved even deeper, directing the stream of water toward the blazing ceiling as they advanced. Smoke billowed, obscuring everything for a minute. Just as the veil lifted, a hanging fan came crashing down, narrowly missing one of them. The firefighters didn’t appear to care—they just kept pressing farther into the conflagration.
    â€œWhat’s happening?” I asked my fireman.
    â€œThe nozzle team is using the water to cool the combustible gasses at ceiling level. They’re cutting a path through the fire to the basement door, then Dino Elfante and Ronny