Report From Engine Co. 82 - Dennis Smith [52]
The night is still warm, and the doors of the firehouse are wide open. There is a slight breeze, and pieces of paper flutter along the cobblestones of Intervale Avenue. Some of the men have gone upstairs to lie down, some are in the kitchen watching the Late, Late Show, and four of us are standing under one of the open overhead doors. Harry Maye is in Engine 85, and he is telling Benny, Billy-o, and me about the fire they had on Hoe Avenue. Suddenly, two shots ring through the air. There is only one sound like the cracking of a pistol, and we all jump toward the street to see where it came from.
A young man is running down Home Street. He is across the street, passing Mother Wall’s Church, and another shot is let off. The man is directly across from the firehouse. He turns north and runs up Intervale Avenue. We can see now why he is running. There is a cop chasing him, and there are about thirty yards between them. The man crosses Intervale Avenue to our side of the street, but the cop continues his chase on the other side. A squad car careens down Home Street, its red light blinking.
“They’ll get the guy now,” Harry Maye says. The car turns up Intervale Avenue, but the driver doesn’t see the fugitive on our side of the street or the cop on the other side. The car passes both men, and speeds up to the corner of Chisholm Street. It stops. The man sees that he cannot continue up Intervale without running into the squad car, so he turns and runs south on Intervale. The cop on the other side lets off another shot, and starts to cross the Avenue.
We are standing outside of the firehouse now. I am against the building, next to a community bulletin board that protrudes three inches from the firehouse wall. The man is running toward us now. Another shot zips through the air. None of us say anything, but we are all thinking the same thoughts. Should we tackle the guy as he runs past? The man is coming, straining with effort as he runs. He is a young man, powerfully built. I can see the desperation in his face as he approaches. Then another shot bursts, and our minds are decided. It has only been seconds since we saw the man running down Home Street, and five shots have been fired. We run into the firehouse for cover. The man passes, and I look to see if he has a gun in his hand. He doesn’t. The cop passes, and falls from exhaustion as the man runs into the building next to the firehouse. He is a young cop. He can’t be more than twenty-two or twenty-three. I feel very sorry for him as he falls, and a little guilty that I didn’t put my life on the line and stop the fugitive. I rush out of the firehouse to help him, but he is on his feet again as I approach.
Ed Shoal of Engine 85 is on housewatch, and he has called for additional assistance. He used to be a cop before he came to our job, and he called as soon as he heard the first two shots. He knows the danger. He knows that there is trouble when triggers are pulled.
The squad car has turned around, and is speeding down Intervale. The cop has followed the man into the tenement, and we wave the squad car down.
“They went in there,” we say, pointing to the building.
An older, bigger cop gets out of the squad car, pistol drawn, and runs into the building.
Sirens are wailing through the neighborhood, and soon there are six patrol cars on Intervale Avenue. Cops go into the building, into the cellar, into the adjoining building. A cop and a Sergeant stand guard at the front of the tenement. I move to where they are standing, and I recognize the cop’s face. It is Knipps’ brother-in-law, and an old friend of mine.
“How ya doing, Whitey,” I say, my voice serious and concerned.
“Oh, hello Dennis,”