A jilted lover, out of his mind with rage, had splashed a couple of gallons of gasoline at the entrance. Then he lit a match. The club, which catered mainly to Hispanics, was operating illegally, with the windows boarded up and only one door operational. As the club erupted in flames, the crowd stampeded to the rear and was trapped.
Until last Tuesday, this was the worst thing John Morris had seen in 23 years on the job.
Then a handful of madmen flew two jetliners into the shimmering towers of the World Trade Center, and suddenly Morris saw horror on a whole new level. Suddenly Happy Land became just another sad memory for the firefighters in Ladder 27 as they dealt with a catastrophe of such epic proportions it was almost unimaginable.
Now, every other day, on numbing eight-hour shifts, they report to Ground Zero and pick through the gray, ash-covered rubble where the twin towers collapsed, searching for anyone trapped there, including more than 300 of their fellow firefighters missing and presumed dead.
"We're still not without hope" of finding someone alive, Morris, 53, said over the phone yesterday, his voice thick and weary. "Over the years, we've heard stories of mud slides and collapses and of them finding people.
"We know it's a long shot to find somebody now. But it's not deterring the guys. When a brother's in need - and that's what we call ourselves, brothers - everyone pitches in."
With each day, though, the psychological strain grows. I could hear that in Morris' voice, too. He sounded different from when I'd talked to him two days earlier, when he'd pulled his first shift in the rubble and said, in an awe-struck voice: "I don't think a nuclear bomb could have done more damage."
The work continues to be hot and dirty and dangerous. The air is filled with choking dust. The smell of decomposing bodies grows stronger.
The firefighters wonder:Will we find one of our guys today? Will we find any civilians? Where are all the bodies?
There's also the constant threat of nearby buildings collapsing, of the mountains of rubble shifting and swallowing the rescue personnel perched atop them. A young firefighter slipped the other day and did a triple gainer onto a jumbled mass of concrete and steel, Morris said. Screwed his back up good.
"It's affecting all of us," said Morris, who lives with his wife, Eileen and their two kids in Middletown, 75 miles north of New York City. "I'm ready to wave the white flag in surrender. But I can't. We lost over 300 guys. We lose three guys, we're in a state of depression. We're just hoping for the little miracles now."
Less than 24 hours earlier, he'd been assigned to a 15-man team combing the underground area that had been a shopping plaza near Tower 2.
Working in the eerie darkness with two search dogs and their handlers, they followed a man armed with a sophisticated tool that was poked into crevasses in the devastation to detect sound.
At one point, as their flashlights pierced the blackness, a firefighter yelled: "Look, we're in J.Crew!" But no "little miracles" occurred as they poked into electronics closets and meeting rooms, around overturned ATMs, cash registers, cafeteria chairs and tables.
The dogs failed to react to any scents. The sound sensor picked up nothing. An hour later, the search was called off and the men were ordered above ground to sift through yet another huge pile of rubble nearby.
"At one point, someone yelled 'We think we have someone!'" Morris recalled. The men scrambled over the twisted steel, aluminum fasciae and jagged chunks of concrete to a crevasse. A search dog was brought over.
"But the dog wasn't reacting normally," Morris said. "His handler said the dog was exhausted, ready to collapse. These dogs work so hard out there, too."