Crook Manifesto (Ray Carney, #2)(94)

The second Molotov cocktail landed on the opposite side of the sales floor in Dining Room, exploding in the center of Sterling’s expandable dining-room table, the anchor piece of their 1976 Glamorous Living line, and splashing flames throughout that section and into Recliners. The four recliners—real beauties, a solid representation of the kind of options out there, whether you were new to the market or looking to upgrade—ignited speedily.

The man who threw the firebombs watched the progress of his blaze, his body rigid. He wore thin leather gloves and a white ski mask that showcased his pink, wet mouth. The driver of the red Cadillac was similarly masked, but not as much of an aficionado: He honked. The arsonist shuddered, kicked out of his dream, and returned to the car. The red Cadillac sped away.

A gob of flaming liquid landed on the jeans of the sole customer in the store, a General Electric appliance repairman named Bill Worth. He did not panic. He grabbed a pink throw pillow and bashed out the flames.

Rusty snatched the fire extinguisher by Dining Room, where it had been dusted but otherwise untouched for fifteen years, and attacked the second fire. The fire was already outside the scope of civilians to remedy. Rusty was in the front of the store, on the other side of the flames. Sterling’s patented polyurethane core, while providing a model of space-age comfort, also produced acrid clouds of smoke upon ignition. The smoke rose to the ceiling, pooled, poured forth in black waves. Soon the path between the two fires would be impassable.

No, no. The scene froze in Carney’s vision—then he snapped on. Robert was downstairs. He yelled after his nephew and unlocked the Morningside door. Had Marie gone out on an errand earlier? He shouted after Marie—she stood in the door of his office. She’d already called the fire department. Robert was out of the basement now. Carney told Marie to warn Walt, the owner of the bar next door—sometimes he was in this early, opening up—and to take Robert with her. He said he was going to get everybody out from upstairs.

He grabbed the keys to the apartments and ran out to Morningside and around to the front door. Rusty yelled, “Oh, Lord! Oh, Lordy!” as he trained the extinguisher on the new Sterling ottoman. The gap between the two fires no longer existed—the showroom was cut in half. Rusty saw Carney and yelled something unintelligible and ottoman-related.

Carney grabbed Rusty’s arm. “They’re coming,” Carney said, “Marie called.” The salesman retreated from the flames. A gust of heat washed over them. He put the keys to 381 into Rusty’s hand. “I got the other one.” They split up.

The entrance to the 383 apartments was on Morningside. He hadn’t used this key ring in a long time. He cursed. By now passersby were starting to stall, what was happening, what was happening. He screamed at them to call the fire department. He got the door open. He remembered 2R and 2F before the tenants moved in, and he was shocked—crazy thought—at how much was going on over his head that he knew nothing about. Harold had a fish tank. Carney bent over his desk all day, tracing tributaries of cash flow in his head, and there were fish in a tank above him, swimming, black ones with long spokey fins, orange-and-white guys with big round eyes. No one was home. Third floor, either. He pounded on the doors, gained access, searched the rooms. Mrs. Ruiz kept their place tidy. The furniture was modest, a hodgepodge of styles. He’d give her a break on a Sterling, except how could he show it to her when it was going up in flames, the entire showroom and the collections, his store? Albert shared a bedroom with his two younger sisters. The girls slept in a bunk bed and Albert had a twin made up in Star Trek sheets. The girls’ beds were unmade. Albert’s had not been slept in.

Phil in 3F didn’t answer. The keys didn’t work. He pounded on the door and ran outside.

Rusty said he’d gotten everybody out of 381. Mr. Stevens had been passed out, he told Carney later, but the racket and commotion made him think he was in Pearl Harbor again, and he was out on the sidewalk in his drawers in seconds.

Carney ran inside through the Morningside door, ducking below the black smoke. He’d cut through the wall years ago to make a side door for his fencing business; now it was the only way to reach the office. The blaze had overtaken the showroom and advanced to the threshold of his office with a crackle and a whoosh. He opened the safe, swept some key documents into the wastepaper basket, and the cash, and since his filing cabinet was too heavy to move he settled for the top drawer containing records for ’74 and ’75. When he emerged, basket balanced on the file drawer, a fireman pushed him away and forbade another sortie.

The first ladder to arrive was parked across Morningside outside the church. Another engine pulled up at the intersection of 125th. Firemen hustled on the sidewalk, clearing the scene and advancing on his store, taking measure of the blaze. Carney gestured to the third floor—he couldn’t get into the apartment on the third floor, there might be someone in there. The sirens had been going for minutes but he didn’t hear them until he saw the black braid of smoke wend its way into the sky and the front windows shattered. Then the sirens filled his skull.



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The fire department talked to him first. A white fire marshal led him around the corner, where Carney would not be distracted by seeing his livelihood go up in flames. “You saw the man throw them into the store?” He had one of those lazy-mouth Long Island accents.

“No. Maybe Rusty did.”