In his quarters, at the far southern wing of the Great Hall, Mada hadn’t slept, had smelled smoke, tasted it, breathed in suspecting the worst then tripped an alarm; the detectors have never been inspected: no rain from the roof, no sprinklers shpritzing; nothing’s up to code. He’d telephoned the firedepartment, ordered Gelt and Hamm quartering down the hall to rouse everyone, a room to room sweep for guests, to triage them out to the lawn and the ice of the square’s the plan as laid and sleeping; he’d go for the boss, personally, then with him underground, to meet up in the Temple as per protocol exigent. But Die stands outside already, shocked immobilized at this, the image of his panicked form — gazing at himself in a vast window falling whole from its mullions then shattering from the face of the portico wall, his own face burning, lit with shards of flame raging, his guard overtaking him to jump directly into the fire, its Hall, hoping O God to save himself from his reflection, too. Firetrucks are delayed, due, at least in the findings of one inquiry posthumous, executed with a holy indifference, ritually pococurante, to disagreement over emergency jurisdiction, whether Joysey should respond to this disaster or Manhattan, New York State (that it’s Xmas just isn’t a reasonable excuse anymore, is what, we’re tired); the ice, it’s a problem unto itself, it’s not only slippery but too thin and the trucks too heavy, many suspect they’d fall right through, the frazil, the nilas…how the firemenschs would have to hook & ladder themselves on out. For the record, though, a few trucks do arrive, but the Garden’s guards end up slowing them well in advance of the perimeter, pull them over, push for inspection, interrogation, in doing so just following orders, standard practice in the event of siege, compound infiltration, contingent upon what’s contingent, a tactic of delay long reserved for this capacity — until the Army or National Guard would arrive on Shade’s orders, whenever, never: guards roadblock all emergency response at the edge of the ice and go about demanding, examining papers, keeping them waiting, stripsearching, taking bribes, baksheesh, bar them despite, impede every entrance with their guns loaded if only with a wasting list of questions, tonguetipped bulletpoints; the Main Guardhouse down toward Island South surrounded by a squadron of firemenschs uniformed in payos and yarmulkes, making all the lewd gestures you’d expect with their hoses in response to subjected measures, as the flagrancy spreads past them, with an explosion from the western wing of the Great Hall that whirlwinds a host of debris high into the night, even out over the ice to threaten their vehicles, up also toward a low gated fence and its scar of lawn, then up its slate path, wickpulsing, melting the protective plastic slipcovering ice, up to the stoop to His door, yellowgold if on its way to tarnish: His house, His sisters’, too, which Israel and Hanna had paid off long after lawschool, partnerships junior, senior, after all those loans, those payments, the mortgage made month in moon out, it’s going up, too — nothing will be spared; insurance — it’s only a dream.
