The body looked almost comical: bloated, but still dressed in a housecoat
and sweater, slouched in an easy chair in the front room. Rigor had come
and gone. An air conditioning unit sat in the window, running on high but
pumping out nothing but warm air.
John and Roy knew the moment they opened her door what they would find. But
duty pushed them forward, nostrils twitching, until the signs became too
obvious for them to ignore. She was long gone, at least a couple of days.
They stepped back out into the steamy sunshine. As hot as it was outside,
it felt better than the blast furnace inside. John stood on the porch for
a moment, leaning against a column. Sweat pooled on his shirt and dripped
from his hair. Roy walked to the squad slowly, pushing through the heat.
He reached in the open window and grabbed the mic.
"L-A this is Squad 51."
"Go ahead 51."
"L-A, we have a Code F on a well-being check. Please respond ambulance and
medical examiner to our location."
"10-4 51."
He replaced the mic and leaned on the squad door, a mirror image of his partner.
They looked at each other across the woman's small yard. Wavy zig-zags of
heat floated up from the driveway asphalt. The air around them buzzed. Roy
opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and headed around the side
of the squad to get a couple sets of gloves. John took a deep breath and
walked back into the house to see if the woman had any phone numbers for
relatives handy.
"There goes another one, Marco," Chet said as Roy's transmission came over
the dispatch monitor in the dayroom. "I don't get these old ladies. I bet
she was wearing a sweater too. It must be in the old lady handbook; never
go anywhere without a sweater."
Marco felt it was too hot to talk. Certainly it was too hot to answer Chet.
He would have to ask Roy and John later if talking gave off too much heat.
Maybe that would shut Chet up.
Constant brown-outs over the past week had destroyed the "indestructible"
compressor motor in the station's newly-installed air conditioner, and attempts
by C-shift to fix it the night before turned the useless metal box into a
useless metal box that made periodic grinding noises. The ETA for a repairman
was next week. Earlier, Marco had tried to get the guys to turn out the lights.
It always seemed cooler at his house when the lights were out. But Chet and
Mike had nixed the idea.
Now Mike lay on the couch dozing, his feet up on Henry, a towel shielding
his neck from the hot naugahyde. Marco sat miserably at the table, poking
aimlessly through the newspaper. On top of everything else his allergies
were bothering him, and the antihistamine he popped that morning was doing
nothing -- except making him drowsy and grumpy. Chet paced and made unwelcome
comments every time the dispatch monitor perked up. Cap hid in his office,
which had an aging window AC unit. It was still hot in there, but not as
bad as the rest of the station. Marco wished he had an office to hide in
too. Chet was his buddy, sure. But he needed to get away from that incessant
yapping.
"Roy and Johnny have been out all morning checking on dead old ladies. It's
crazy, I tell you. They've had three today already…"
The tones went off. Marco sent a silent prayer of thanks to the dispatch
gods.
"Engine 51, squad 9, car fire, 405 Freeway at the Walton Street exit ramp.
405 Freeway at the Walton Street exit ramp. Time out 11:22." Chet and Marco
headed out to the bay, with Marco surreptitiously turning down the dayroom
dispatch monitor down as he passed. He hoped Chet wouldn't notice when they
got back.
Mike yelped as he hopped up from the couch. The towel had slid away just
enough while he snoozed for his neck to stick to the surface. Rubbing the
irritated spot, he ran to the engine where Marco and Chet were already climbing
into the jump seats. None of the men bothered putting on turn-out coats or
helmets; they wanted to take advantage of a few more cool moments before
arriving at the scene.
Captain Stanley popped out of his office and headed for the radio. "Engine
51 KMG-365," he acknowledged. Then he jogged over to the engine, took his
place next to Mike and they were off.
Roy pulled into the station and shut off the squad engine. His hand dropped
from the keys, and his shoulders slumped. Next to him, Johnny stared out
into space. A tentative breeze floated through the open bay doors and the
squad's open windows.
"Race you for the shower," Roy finally said.
"You're on," John replied. Both men slowly got out of the squad and made
their way to the locker room. Neither had any intention of racing.
Roy stripped and headed into the shower stall. John lay on his back length-wise
on the locker room bench, arms and legs dangling down at awkward angles.
A few moments later, Roy stepped out with a towel around his waist. "Your
turn," he said unnecessarily.
"Ya know Roy…" Johnny didn't continue his thought. It was too hot to
rant.
"Yeah, I know Junior," Roy replied gently. He pulled out a fresh uniform
and started getting dressed. John slowly rolled off the bench and headed
for the shower.
Carefully steering around the gapers' block, Mike pulled the engine up to
the burning car. It was fully involved. He jumped out and prepared to charge
a hose. Chet and Marco put on their turn-out coats and ran to the car to
check on the fate of the occupants. The heat from the fire, combined with
the pressing rays of the sun, felt like a sudden slap. The remains of a yellow
police "abandoned car warning" sticker flapped from the burning car's windshield.
There were no signs of victims. They reported their findings to Captain
Stanley.
"L-A, this is Engine 51. The car is empty. Return Squad 9. Engine 51 out
20 minutes. Please respond police to our location for traffic control." The
captain replaced the mic and hopped down from the cab. He grabbed the reel
line, while Chet and Marco aimed an inch-and-a-half at the burning car.
Marco was in front, with Chet's hand on his shoulder. The heat and smell
choked his senses. Although he was not touching the fire, he could almost
feel the flames push at him. A minute passed, and the crackling and hissing
grew louder in Marco's ears, mixing with the sound of the traffic around
him. The sun snaked its way under his helmet, into his brain, blurring the
edge of his vision. He swayed and stumbled, and when he tried to turn around
to tell Chet about his predicament, he instead dropped like a rock.
When Marco fainted, Chet hollered for help and grabbed wildly – first
for Marco, then for the nozzle of the live hose. Mike cut the water pressure
and ran for the radio.
"L-A this is Engine 51. We have a Code-I at our location. Possible heat
exhaustion. Respond a squad and ambulance."
He didn't wait for the reply, but ran over to where Cap and Chet were fussing
over Marco. He was already coming to. They helped him over to the engine
and sat him on the running board in the shade.
"I'm all right. Stop messing with my shirt, Chet," Marco said, slapping at
Chet's hands. "Leave me alone, and I'll be fine. I just got a little dizzy
from the damn heat."
"Yeah, sure you're fine. That's why we just scooped you off the pavement.
Shut up and let us check you out."
Marco looked at Cap, who shook his head and said, "Uh, uh. I gotta agree
with Kelly here. Heat exhaustion is one thing. Fainting is another. You sit
tight, and that's an order."
Resigned, Marco stayed put. Chet used the reel line to cool him off, while
Captain Stanley and Mike went to check on the car. Water and time had worked
their magic, and the flames were just about gone – replaced by smoke
and the oppressive smell of burning rubber and electrical wires. They walked
back to Marco and Chet. Marco looked miserable: wet, shaky and annoyed at
all the attention. Squad 9 and the ambulance arrived, and over his objections
the paramedics whisked Marco off to Rampart for a check-up.
Captain Stanley stood for a moment, hands on his hips, for the first time
feeling the heat trapped between his body and his turn-out coat. He slowly
took the coat off, and reached inside the engine for the mic. "L-A, Engine
51 returning to quarters." He turned to Chet and Mike, who had finished
overhauling the car while the paramedics looked at Marco. "C'mon, Michael,
let's head back to the barn. Coming, Chet?" Chet crawled into his jump seat
and sagged theatrically. Mike rubbed at the small naugahyde burn on his neck
and got behind the wheel. Cap leaned his head and arm out the window and
quietly worried about Marco, as Mike took off at a speed guaranteed to create
a breeze.
When the engine crew came home, they found Roy and John sitting in the dark
in the dayroom. A pitcher of lemonade and half-filled glasses stood close
at hand.
Captain Stanley headed for the light switch. "What, did the power go out?"
"We just thought it felt cooler, that's all," Roy said. "Where's Marco?"
"Heat got to him. He's all right, I guess – that's what Price and Esposito
said anyway – but since he actually went out on us for a minute, I've
gotta call in a replacement, not to mention grab a shower. So if you'll pardon
me, gentlemen." The captain left the light switch alone and ducked out of
the dayroom.
"So let's get the lights back on. I can't see shit," Chet said.
"Leave 'em off, Chet," Johnny said. "It always feels cooler in the dark.
It's psychological, or somethin'."
"I told Marco, and I'll tell you, that's just dumb. It's the same temperature,
no matter what. It's not like the bulbs put off that much heat."
"I know that, ya idiot. I'm a paramedic, don't ya think I know that? But
if it feels better, than what's the big deal. Roy and me want if off, so
leave it off already."
Mike saw that Johnny was on edge. Roy sat lost in his own thoughts and appeared
unlikely to intervene. Whether it was the heat or something else, the paramedics
were not themselves today. It was time to change the subject, somehow.
"Hey Chet," Mike said, then froze. He didn't know what else to say. Luckily,
that seemed to be enough, as the sheer novelty of his speech threw Chet off
course.
"What Mikey?" Chet said. Then a sudden thought hit him. "Hey Mikey, aren't
you supposed to be making lunch today? I'm starved."
Mike was glad Chet was off Johnny's case, but he was not exactly pleased
with the new turn in the conversation. "Yep," he said, not betraying his
annoyance. Perhaps there were enough leftovers in the fridge to make up for
his lack of planning.
The squad was sent on another well-being check as the crew finished up lunch.
Roy looked startled when the tones went off, while John got up without his
usual bounce. They trotted to the squad and were off.
Their co-workers sat at the table in the darkened dayroom. Chet was finally
too hot and tired to argue about the lights any longer. He missed having
Marco to talk to, since Mike was boring and Cap…well, he was Cap. He
twiddled the melting ice cubes around in his glass and stared at the walls.
Captain Stanley was silently preoccupied with ways to keep his remaining
men from succumbing to Marco's fate. Heat exhaustion was a normal occupational
hazard in firefighting, and this heat wave would outlast the shift, according
to forecasters. But Marco's fainting, going down after just a minute -- that
was weird. He'd have to remember to ask Roy about that when the boys got
back.
As for Mike, he kind of wanted the lights back on so he could get back to
his new book, "Eleanor of Aquitaine and the Four Kings," – a great read
so far, but too difficult to chew through without good lighting, especially
at his usual page-an-hour pace. But he wasn't sure how to raise the subject,
and he didn't want Chet to get started again. So he just sat. It wasn't like
anyone would notice his silence anyway.
As if mocking the three men, the air conditioner compressor chose that moment
to kick on, buzz pitifully, and shut down again.
This was the morose scene that Craig Brice walked into the middle of a half-hour
later.
This time the victim wasn't alone. As Roy, John and the ambulance attendants
loaded the stretcher with a sheet-wrapped body into the ambulance, a car
came screeching up and a young woman ran out. She took one look at the bundle
and collapsed crying on the front yard.
"I called and called and called. She didn't answer the phone. I couldn't
get away from the kids, so I called the fire department. I should have called
yesterday. I promised to call every day, but…."
She resumed sobbing as Roy sat her down in the shade of a large, thorny bush.
John discreetly waved the ambulance off and turned to the woman. "I'm sorry
for your loss ma'am. Maybe you'd want to talk to the medical examiner," he
said, indicating a man walking out of the house. "He could talk to you about
your….mother?" he said, guessing at the relationship.
"Actually she was my aunt, kind of," the young woman answered. "I was the
only one checking up on her. She had diabetes. The rest of her family is
dead, or doesn't care. I tried, but I have my own family, and I…" She
stopped as tears welled up again.
John motioned the medical examiner over, and he and Roy walked to the squad.
They still wore their rubber gloves. Johnny stripped his off and whipped
them at the ground, at some unseen enemy. His extra energy expended for the
time being, he took a moment to pick them back up and toss them into the
squad's trash container.
The sun was high overhead now, pressing through the haze, and bugs screeched
and whined in the nearby bushes. "C'mon, Junior, let's go to Rampart. We
need supplies, and some air conditioning," Roy said, his voice hinting at
frustration and anger. He didn't think he could do this much longer. It was
only mid-afternoon and already the stench of four bodies was firmly entrenched
in his memory. But his actions belied his haste, as he removed his gloves
slowly, carefully smoothing them out and folding them before throwing them
away.
John heard the tone in his partner's voice. "Yeah, we can check on Marco.
He went down awfully fast. I wonder who's replacing him for the rest of the
shift. Did I tell you about the last time I worked overtime, hauling hose
at 110's for Jackson? He got pushed out a window after something flashed…"
Roy couldn't help but smile at Johnny's sudden, inane chit-chat. He appreciated
the effort his partner was making toward normalcy, and he resolved to perk
up during the ride to the hospital.
Captain Stanley looked up. "Thanks for coming on such short notice,
Craig…er, I mean…Brice."
"I was available. Is there a problem with the electricity Captain Stanley?
Perhaps we should call headquarters and report the outage." Brice reached
for the light switch and, before anyone could stop him, flipped it on.
"Ow, jeez!" Chet moaned, covering his eyes at the sudden flash of brightness.
Mike ducked his head under his arm. Captain Stanley blinked rapidly.
"Since I'll be on the engine today, I'd like to familiarize myself with its
set-up. It's been a while since I've subbed here in anything but a paramedic
capacity. Excuse me." Brice walked out of the room.
"He's not even sweating! I can't believe it! How can that man be functioning
in this heat without even breaking a sweat!" Chet said.
"We're lucky he came in at all, so keep your voice down, you twit," Captain
Stanley said. "He's off floater status soon…gonna partner permanently
with Bellingham at 16's starting next month. He'd be within his rights to
refuse to haul hose."
Mike said nothing, but quickly got up and headed out to the apparatus bay.
He didn't want a man without sweat glands to mess with his engine.
Beep, beep, beep. "Squad 51, stand by for response."
Deep sigh. "Squad 51."
John and Roy looked at each other. The idle chit-chat had done its job, but
they were still hoping for a little more decompression time – and a
dose of Rampart's conditioned air -- before their next run.
"Station 51, Station 59, Ladder 10, structure fire, Paxton Hotel, 1432 North
LaSalle. 1432 North LaSalle. Cross street Schiller. Time out, 15:30."
"Squad 51, 10-4." John replaced the mic in its holder and looked out the
window. He shut his eyes against the hot breeze. "Well Roy, at least it's
not a well-being check."
"Yep." Roy flipped a u-turn and headed the squad toward the call. He didn't
say what he was thinking; a fire in a hotel in 110 degree heat wasn't exactly
his idea of a good time either.
As they pulled up to the scene, they could hear Cap's report to dispatch.
"L-A, Engine 51, we've got a four-story brick, 75 by 125, nothing showing.
We're investigating. Staging area LaSalle and Schiller."
Roy steered toward the staging area. The unassuming hotel was sandwiched
between other buildings on the block. Neither he nor John could see any smoke
as they passed.
"Whadaya wanna bet it's just some jerk with a hot plate," John said with
disgust.
"Yeah, not exactly cream of the crop living there," Roy said. He parked,
and as they got out of the squad, the radio came alive again.
"L-A, Engine 51. We need a second alarm assignment, along with another
ladd…." Captain Stanley's voice was cut off by the sound of an explosion.
Roy and John looked at each other in shock, then grabbed their gear and ran
toward the scene.
When Captain Stanley had pulled up to the scene and saw no sign of fire,
he was relieved. Just some twit cooking toast in his room. Probably set his
curtains on fire or something.
Then suddenly there was smoke coming from a second-floor window, then screams
and shouts, then he was calling in a second alarm, then he was dodging falling
glass. He directed the ladder truck to the
4th floor, where residents
were hanging out of windows. Stoker, Kelly and Brice were throwing up every
ground ladder they could find to rescue residents on the other floors. Engine
59's crew ran hoses through the front door, but thick smoke kept them from
getting very far very fast. Except for the initial explosion, there were
still no flames to be seen.
Then the Captain Wilson from 59's grabbed his arm and drew his attention
to the ground floor windows. Burglar bars covered them, trapping first-floor
residents in their rooms. He called over Gage and DeSoto. "We got God-damned
burglar bars on the first floor. No one can get out. 59 will run interference
for you, but with that smoke I'm not sure how far you'll get in."
Roy and Johnny nodded assent and headed through the front door, behind the
hoses of Engine 59. Finally the Battalion chief pulled up, along with most
of the second-alarm assignment. Captain Stanley took a deep breath, and prepared
to hand command over to the chief.
Brice and Kelly ducked their heads as the explosion sent glass in all directions.
It was clear that fighting the fire would be secondary to getting people
out of the building. Stoker joined them as they grabbed ladders off the engines
and started putting them up against the building. Brice had a cut on his
forehead, which dripped blood into his eyes and down his face. He wiped savagely
at the cut and kept working – walk up the ladder, get a civilian on
the ladder, walk down the ladder, walk up the ladder, get another civilian
on the ladder, walk down the ladder. His legs burned with fatigue, sweat
poured from every conceivable orifice, and his voice was hoarse from the
combination of the smoke and yelling at the residents when they climbed on
the ladder prematurely. On either side of him, Kelly and Stoker did the same.
Finally he saw flames, occasionally shooting out the second-floor windows.
'Kelly should catch a whiff of me now,' he thought. 'Then he would have proof
that I indeed perspire.'
John and Roy stepped through the front door and into a surreal, smoke-filled
nightmare. They couldn't see 59's crew; they found their way by crouching
and feeling the hoses with their hands and feet. There was no flame to be
seen.
"It's gotta be in the walls and ducts," John yelled through his mask.
Roy was about to reply when he stumbled into the staircase, where 59's crew
had headed. It was time for John and him to branch off. Each headed off in
the opposite direction, hands on the walls.
John had never felt so hot in his life. Sweat collected under his SCBA mask.
His shirt under his turn-out coat was drenched. He knew he'd have rashes
tomorrow where the tough coat was rubbing his arms and neck. His hair was
plastered under his helmet and the SCBA straps. He focused on his breathing
and moved forward, down what appeared to be a hallway, knocking on the first
door he came to. There was no answer, so he kicked the door in and did a
quick check around. The room was very small, about five by 10, and nothing
was inside but an unmade bed and a small end table. He moved on.
Roy was finding it hard to concentrate as the heat built up. He bumped into
something; it was a man crawling down the hall. Roy grabbed the man with
one arm, felt the wall with the other, and assisted his victim back down
the hallway, toward the front door. Then the man sagged, and Roy lost his
balance and fell to one knee.
"Dammit," Roy said aloud and picked up the man. He tried to start back in
the direction he thought the door was. But when he had fallen, he'd gotten
turned around. Feeling around in the smoke-filled darkness turned up no obvious
clues of where he should go. He froze in place and collected his thoughts,
hearing the voice of his old instructor echoing in his head: "if you get
disoriented, don't make it worse by wandering around like a clueless
idiot."
Meanwhile, John had kicked in three doors before finding someone. A man lay
on his bed, unconscious. Signs of alcohol abuse were littered around the
room. John grabbed him in a fireman's carry and hauled him out of the room.
On the way out he saw more paramedics and hose crews heading in. Backup had
arrived.
Captain Stanley ordered his men back on hose detail. They had done all they
could with the ground ladders, and now there was actual flame they could
aim at. Chet and Brice joined crews from the other companies in showering
the building with water, while Mike headed back to the engine. The captain
saw John weave his way out of the building, look around, and head toward
a newly-created triage area with a man slung over his shoulders.
"Where's Roy?" Captain Stanley shouted.
"Behind me," John yelled back. "He's got the H-T."
Captain Stanley pulled out his own handi-talkie, and thumbed the switch.
"H-T 51 this is Engine 51. Roy? How do you read?"
Back in the smoke-filled hallway, Roy heard the H-T at his side come to life.
He had forgotten he had it. "Cap, I'm in the north hallway on the first floor.
I have a victim with me. I'll need a little help finding my way out of
here."
"10-4 Roy. H-T 8, did you copy that?" he asked, indicating the latest rescue
crew that had entered the building.
"10-4 51, we copy. We're in the south hallway now, so if he sits tight, we'll
get 'em."
"Copy that 8," the captain said. "You hear that Roy? Sit tight."
So Roy sat tight, every so often sharing his SCBA mask with his unconscious
companion. His regulator alarm went off, and just when he was starting to
wonder if a little panic was in order, he saw the faint flashlights of Squad
8.
* * * * *
"Looking for someone?" a voice said over John's shoulder as he sat in the
shade, sucking down a cup of water.
"Hey Roy! I was kinda wonderin' where you got to. When I asked, Cap said
you were OK, but he was too busy for details."
"Got a little discombobulated in the hallway, between the heat and the smoke.
Had to stay put until 8's got me out, and then they made me sit for a while
and get a hold of myself. Where can I get me a couple gallons of that
water?"
"Right over there. Man, I went in a few more times and I must say, I've never
been so hot in my whole life. Got discombobulated you say?" John grinned.
He knew how a little disorientation one minute could turn deadly the next.
But if Roy wasn't going to make a big deal out of it, neither was he.
"Yep, discombobulated is a good word for it." Roy smiled and walked away
from his partner, toward the tent where the Red Cross was providing water
for firefighters and victims alike. Johnny stood up and prepared to enter
the burning hotel yet again.
It was ten o'clock before the Station 51 crew was back in quarters. Intensive
overhaul had revealed the apparent cause of the explosion – a propane
tank used by a resident to power a small grill in his room. The smoke that
prompted Captain Stanley to call the second alarm was never fully explained.
But given the explosion that happened a short time later, his call was
providential. Between the fire on the second floor and the fire in the walls,
the place was a total loss. Firefighters recovered 19 bodies. Most of them
were on the first floor where burglar bars, and smoke traveling through the
walls and vents, prevented escape.
As for Marco, Dr. Brackett figured out the antihistamine that did nothing
for his allergies did a lot more to contribute to his fainting spell. He
sent Marco home with orders to drink a lot more water next time he took an
allergy pill on a hot day.
Back at the station, Captain Stanley announced shower-by-rank. His crew headed
outside and sat waiting in the humid darkness, out of the way of the bugs
that swarmed around the small parking lot lamps. Johnny's back was against
the wall, knees pulled up, hands dangling between them. Mike opened the gate
of his pickup truck and sat on it. Chet and Roy claimed two broken down yard
chairs. Brice stood. Their muscles ached from hours of knocking holes in
walls.
"Get over here man, so I can clean up your forehead," Johnny motioned to
Brice. Somehow in all the confusion, Brice's cut had never been tended to
– and like most firefighters, he wasn't about to go looking for first
aid when there were more important matters at hand. Brice reluctantly walked
over to where John sat, and slowly kneeled in front of him. The simple act
of kneeling hurt him more than he was willing to admit. Going for a run tomorrow
after work would be out of the question.
"Jeez, isn't there some sort of regulation about ignoring head wounds?" John
teased as he probed the cut. It was smaller than the volume of blood on Brice's
shirt implied.
"Yeah, Craig. Maybe it's time to get that committee of yours to legislate
against flying glass," Chet joined in. Roy and Mike laughed.
Brice said nothing. Sometimes he found it was easier to let people blow off
steam with inappropriate comments. John got up to get the first aid kit.
Brice gave into the pain in his legs, and sat down heavily on the asphalt.
"Your turn, Michael," the captain hollered from inside the station. Mike
hopped off his truck bed and headed indoors. He passed Johnny in the
doorway.
"Man, at this rate I'll get in the shower next week," Johnny whined. "Seniority
stinks." Mike grinned and headed for the locker room.
"Well you stink too, so that's appropriate," came a voice from the
darkness.
"Shut up, Chet," Johnny said. He knelt down in front of Brice and started
cleaning up his cut.
It was midnight, and again John and Roy were sitting in the darkened dayroom
– this time in t-shirts and bunker pants. Cap, Mike and Chet were sleeping.
Brice had fallen asleep sitting against the wall outside, so the guys left
him there. But Johnny hadn't been able to get over the idea that he had missed
supper. So he roped Roy into sitting at the table with him while he munched
a sandwich.
"Hope he'll hear the tones out there," Roy said, into the darkness.
"Yeah. Brice'll be fine," Johnny said through a mouthful of sandwich. "Probably
cooler out there than in here."
There was silence for a moment.
"Johnny?"
"Yeah?"
"As much as I despise Joanne's mom, I'm worried about her. She lives alone.
She takes medication. She could be one of those women we saw today. I wouldn't
wish that on anyone."
Johnny put down his sandwich. "Those women had nobody, Roy. Nobody wanted
to take time to care about them. It's like those guys in the hotel. They
didn't have nobody either. That's why they were living in a flophouse, I
guess. I overheard Cap on the phone when we got back. There were probably
more than 19 dead. They found some spots that looked like incinerated bodies.
But there's no one to report them missing. So we'll never know for sure.
Your mother-in-law, she's got Joanne. And you."
There was more silence. Then Roy heaved a sigh and got up from the table.
"I think I'll turn in."
"Me too, Pally. Just think. Tomorrow you'll be back in your air conditioned
house, and I'll be back in my air conditioned apartment."
Both men smiled wearily at the thought. Johnny dropped his plate into the
sink, and the two men headed for the bunkroom.
The End
Author's footnote: In 1993, at least 19 men died when fire swept through
the Paxton Hotel on Chicago's near north side. The number of dead will never
be known for certain. In 1995, around 600 people, mostly elderly, died in
Chicago during a heat wave. The paramedics called to the scene were usually
the first people to come to their homes in days. A buddy of mine was on duty
for both periods of time. I wrote this for him.
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