I almost laughed. Not so long ago someone as terminally hip as Dante Silva wouldn’t have been caught dead at an outer-borough beer hall. But that was before the Great Recession completely flipped New York’s social scene. These days, slick neon bars with velvet ropes were out. Keggers and kielbasa were in.
Then again, every few years I’d notice my collegiate coffeehouse customers celebrating some kind of music, clothing, food, or art form that had become so outdated and square it went all the way around the wheel to come up hip again: bowling, bacon, sliders, cupcakes, hip-hugger jeans, Tom Jones, Neil Diamond... I dreaded the day preground coffee in a can made a comeback.
“So where’s this roaster?” Dante asked.
“Let me lock this door and I’ll show you.”
“Whoa, boss,” Dante murmured.
He’d stopped in the middle of the room to stare at Enzo’s mural. I walked up to join him. “What do you think?”
“Freakin’ awesome.”
“That’s what I thought.”
In a phrase, looking at Enzo’s mural was like taking a visual journey through the movements of modern art. The narrative began with impressionism, moved to expressionism, fauvism, cubism, Dadaism, surrealism, and abstract expressionism. Layered in among it all were touches of Iberian art, as well as Japonism and primitivism — all of which influenced twentieth-century artistic developments.
Paul Gauguin’s fascination with Polynesian culture and Oceanic art was represented, as well as Parisian fascination with African fetish sculptures. The postmodern movement was explored, with its blurring of high and low cultural lines; the vibrant pop images of spoof and irony were also here, along with the (often misunderstood) reframing of common objects by those visual poets who helped us see with new eyes our cans of soup and boxes of Brillo pads.
Enzo’s work served it all up in one continuous masterpiece that felt (like Pollack’s best) as if it would go on and on, and yet, this fresco was more than a succession of finely wrought forgeries. He’d stirred the ingredients into an epic stew of modernism, simmering iconic ideas to form a wholly new dish, and while some areas of the mural were no more than well-executed servings of familiar flavors, other sections displayed expressions of color, texture, and imagery that I’d never seen before.
“I’ve got to get some snaps of this.”
“Take your time.”
I turned on the lights and Dante clicked away, capturing every foot of the expansive wall art. Then I returned to secure the front door. Unfortunately, the lock started giving me real agita. I jiggled the key several times. No luck. I half opened the door and knelt down to see if I could fix the thing.
“You need help, boss?” Dante turned, took a few steps toward me.
That’s when the bomb went off.
Three
First came the sound, a monumental whoosh followed by a hissing roar. Then the white-hot concussion rippled through the air, the caffè’s front window exploded outward and the blast washed over me.
My eyes were at keyhole level while I worked the stupid, stubborn lock, and the force of the firebomb knocked me right through the doorway.
Sprawled on my back on the debris-strewn sidewalk, I turned my head, stared at the carpet of glass shards. Blood started pumping through my system so fast I could barely recognize voices yelling, a car horn beeping. I was unhurt. Small scratches maybe, a few bruises, a little bleeding — big deal — I was okay otherwise, and I focused on throwing off the shock.
Smoke rolled out of the caffè, the noxious fog billowing upward in a succession of black, misshapen balloons. Wheezing and coughing, I got back on my feet and scanned the sidewalk for my beer-filled barista.
“Dante!” I shouted, rushing to the caffè entrance. “Dante!”
Flames were repainting the caffè’s walls, spilling their colors onto its tables. The searing light in the urban night would have been beautiful if it weren’t so deadly.
“Dante! Answer me!”
Smoke stung my eyes. I gritted my teeth, swiped at my cheeks, peered harder into the chaos.
Up front, the heavy marble espresso-bar counter appeared undamaged. But in the rear of the shop, the embroidered fabric that had masked the utility room was a raging curtain of flame. There was no other way out of the cellar. Madame and Enzo were trapped.
I opened my mouth to call out to them but hesitated. The fire door blocking the stairs was so heavy I doubted they could hear me through it. But will that door be strong enough to keep them safe with an inferno raging above their heads?
Shoving away the unthinkable, I refocused on Dante and finally spotted him — or, rather, his big black Diesel boots — sticking out amid a cluster of overturned tables. Their heavy marble tops had formed a kind of fortress, shielding him from the dragon, but I knew the protection was only temporary.
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.