That’s about it.”
“You don’t know a newscaster named Quantrell?”
Leroux’s eyes were very cold.
“I’ve never met the man, I’ve never even watched his show until tonight.”
Leroux laughed shortly. “What did you think of it?”
“I think he’s a muckraker. And I think somebody’s been feeding him inside information.”
“That’s right. Somebody is.”
“And you think it’s me.”
“I didn’t say that. I suppose it’s a possibility.”
The drink was helping, Barton thought. He signaled for another.
“You gave me a good job, Wyn; you gave me opportunity. In retrospect, I’m not so.sure I should have taken the job, but at the time I appreciated it. And you think I would repay you by acting the informer?”
“Why not? It happens every day. Few businesses operate on gratitude and those that do don’t operate very long.”
“I don’t.have the motivation,” Barton said dryly. “And furthermore, I don’t have the information. I never worked with the construction team-you pulled me off and sent me to Boston, remember?
If I had been here, they sure as hell wouldn’t have used synthetics for the cladding around the elevator banks. I assume you knew about that.”
“Why ask me? It sounds like a cost factor; accounting handles that.”
He changed the subject. “Why should Infantino have a knife out for us? If he’s such a good friend of yours, why is he stabbing you in the back-which is what he’s doing when he teams up with Quantrell.”
Barton could feel the anger start to build. That was fine, he thought, let it. “You’re being a little paranoid, Wyndom. Who told you that Infantino had teamed up with Quantrell? I know him well enough to know that he wouldn’t do that; he wouldn’t sell out.”
In the darkened alcove, Leroux’s face almost looked satanic.
“Anybody will sell out if the price is right. All you have to know is the price-and it isn’t always money.”
The situation had rattled Leroux, Barton thought, more than he had figured it could have r should have. “All right, how bad is it?”
Leroux twirled his empty glass in his hand. “If it were just the Glass House, we could probably ride it out. But newscasters in other cities have picked up the Quantrell broadcasts; they think we’re vulnerable, that Quantrell wouldn’t be saying what he is unless he actually had something. Now it’s monkey see, monkey do. We’re under attack in half a dozen cities where we have major projects building or on the boards. In some areas, the pressure has been enough for the city to launch an investigation. Usually we’re suspected of circumventing local building codes or we’re accused of shoddy workmanship. Here, the leasing of the Glass House has come to a halt-in fact, we’re starting to lose tenants.
You want to read the balance sheets? You’re welcome to; they’ll provide you with quite an education.”
“Why me, Wyn?” Barton asked at last. “I come into town and everybody knows that I’m the guy under suspicion. They wouldn’t think that if you didn’t think that.”
“Circumstantial,” Leroux admitted. “If you didn’t know And you wanted the information, you still had access to it. Id say that you don’t show good judgment in your choice of friends.”
Three drinks down and he had come to a conclusion, Barton thought.
It was one that he had been a long time arriving at but now that he was there, he wasn’t sorry.
“Wyn,” he said slowly, “I’ve got a few things to admit but they’re not what you think. First of all, I’m tired of this discussion. I personally think you’re tired and upset, otherwise you would have thought all this out before sending for me. Second, I’ve been too goddamned busy to run around feeding information to Fire Department division chiefs or rating-happy TV reporters. You can believe me or not on that score; I don’t give a damn.
And, finally, I guess I’m tired of my job. You did me a favor in giving it to me and now I’m doing myself a favor in giving it back to you. I don’t like the political in-fighting in a corporation. And now, through ‘no fault of my own, I find myself in the middle of it.
I’m not a politician or a CPA or a public relations man; I’m an architect and it occurs to me that you’re never going to use me as one.
From what I saw of Joe Moore’s latest assignment, you’re not in the market for architects anyway. So my recommendation to you is that you go out and hire yourself that politician and that CPA and that PR man-I’ve just resigned all three posts.”
Barton drained his glass and stood up, a trace unsteady. “That’s all I’ve got to say. To be honest, I thought that when it came down to it all I would say was ‘I quit.” I guess we’re never too old to surprise, ourselves.”
Leroux was smiling. “Sit down, Craig, before you fall down. You might as well have dinner-you could use it -and the food here is good.
Besides, don’t forget that you didn’t come alone, though perhaps you would just as soon.” His smile faded. “I believe you … I believed you before you got here. Frankly, I can’t do without you.
Maybe that’s what hurts. That and the fact that after twenty years in the business, your blood gets replaced by computer read-out sheets from accounting. Business is a game, Craig, and it’s not how you play it, it’s whether you win or lose.”
Barton sat down. The charming self-pity of one of the most powerful men he knew. I need you, son, was what Leroux was saying and he could feel himself responding.
It was that-and what he knew Jenny would say if she thought the whole trip had been for-the purpose of turning in his resignation.
She’d never understand, he thought, not in a million years.
“About Quantrell,” Leroux continued. “I’ve taken steps to muzzle him that I think will be effective.”
Barton leaned back in the booth and sighed. Here went the old ball game but there were some questions that he had to ask, too; answers that he needed to have.
“Do you want to muzzle him because he’s wrong-or because he’s right?”
Leroux looked at him with a friendly openness, the tension of the earlier conversation’gone. “You want my frank opinion of his charges?”
“If you want to discuss them.”
Leroux smiled. “I’ll be delighted to, Craig-I was hoping you would ask me.”
CHAPTER 13
The faint glow in the darkened room has brightened to the point where an observer, if he were present, could make out the shadowy forms of three fifty-five-gallon drums and half a dozen carboys, as well as metal shelving extending along one wall. Some of the shelves have louvered steel doors; others are open and display rank on rank of metal cans and bottles, their labels smeared from careless pouring.
The glow is coming from a thousand tiny sparks nibbling at a stack of quilted cotton pads, the kind movers use to protect the surfaces of valuable wooden furniture.
The pile of pads, stacked untidily against the wall beneath some of the metal shelving, is almost five feet high; in places, cotton batting shows through holes torn in the worn fabric covering. The sparks are feeding on the charred threads of the third pad from the bottom.
The smoke sensor in the ceiling has so far failed to detect the curling tendrils of smoke; the accompanying heat sensor will not sound an alarm until the temperature in the room reaches at least 135 degrees,. The temperature is still somewhat on the chill side and warm air blows gently from the ventilator grill, fanning the sparks below.
In the center of the charred cloth and blackened cotton, intricate chemical processes have finally yielded enough energy for the threads to reach the kindling point. The bed of sparks suddenly glows brighter and a tiny flame abruptly appears like some sinister yellow butterfly emerging from its cocoon. It dances over the rapidly charring fabric and is quickly joined by others.
The infant beast has learned to walk.
CHAPTER 14
Jeffrey Quantrell stood q
uietly in front of the huge blowup of the Glass House, favoring the unseen audience with his “sincere” smile while the network sign-off credits were matted over his on-screen image. As soon as the red light above the Number One camera winked out, he threw his script on the desk and leaned back with a sigh, fishing for a cigarette. One of the cameramen looked at him and made a gun-at-the-head motion with his finger.
A moment later, a technician stuck his head out of the control booth and asked, “You sure you know what you’re doing, Jeff?”
“As sure as I’ve ever been.”
“It was a sensational bit but . .
Quantrell smiled. “i’ll drink to that. How about joining me for a quickie, or are you on duty?”
“Got time for a short one; Reynolds can handle the movie.”
They ducked out for half an hour, Quantrell’s favored procedure immediately following a show. The chill air cleared his head and the two drinks gave him time to do some subconscious thinking about the eleven-o’clock follow-up, which was usually laced with viewer response from the first show, letting him editorialize more than he normally could on the earlier slot.
After coming back, he started to jot down some notes for Sandy to transcribe. Once the broadcast was over, he thought, he’d take her out to the Stationbreak for drinks and a steak and then it’d be her place or his. His good deed for the’day, he thought to himself.
“Do you have time to talk now, Mr. Quantrell?” The note of formality in Bridgeport’s voice caught Quantrell off guard and he glanced up sharply. Trouble, he thought.
Bridgeport was too poker-faced; ordinarily his chubby features were a blackboard on which were written the woes of the world, or at least of the station.
“Can’t it wait until morning. I’ve got to shape up the eleven-o’clock show.”
“I didn’t mean with me,” Bridgeport said with mock deprecation, a hint of a triumphant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I meant with Mr. Clairmont. You remember; he’s the station manager.”
Quantrell stared at him for a moment. The Old Man’s nephew had inherited the station manager spot after graduating from college and spending a year holding down various secondary positions. Everything that could be said against nepotism applied to Victor Clairmont except for the single important fact that he was a man of some intelligence.
Quantrell knew that Clairmont didn’t like him, but it was the Old Man who had given him carte blanche and young Clairmont had gone along.
He jammed his notes in his pocket and stood up. “Where’S he at?”
“In his office.” Again, the hint of a malicious smile “He’s been waiting for you ever since the end of the show.”
“Too bad I didn’t know sooner; we could have had a drink together.”
Quantrell unfolded from the chair and followed Bridgeport as he waddled down the hall. There wasn’t much doubt that Bridgeport was pleased at the Turn of events, Quantrell thought, but he doubted that the news director was behind it. It wasn’t like him to invite a head-on confrontation … he was more the weasel type. He’d sweat and worry and wring his hands but he wouldn’t do anything-that is, until somebody higher up had expressed his displeasure and then Bridgeport would dart in for the kill. So if it hadn’t been Bridgeport, then it had to be somebody else. In the organization itself? Not likely, he thought, nobody had that kind of authority.
More likely it was pressure from the outside, and if that were the case, then the source was obvious.
Clairmont’s spacious office was paneled in mahogany with signed photographs of celebrities lining the walls and a huge globe set in a floor frame for those moments when Clairmont might want to spin it and play God.
Victor Clairmont was sitting behind his pool-table-sized desk, a neatly tailored twenty-five with a carefully trimmed mustache that worked valiantly but in vain at trying to make him appear older.
“Please sit down, Jeff.”
“Thank you, Victor.” There was one chair near the desk and Quantrell made himself comfortable in it, leaning back in the deep cushions, well aware that he looked every inch the experienced telecaster. He had the appearance and the voice and he knew how to use both. There was no other chair nearby and Bridgeport stood nervously by the desk, trying to make up his mind what facial expression might be the most appropriate. Quantrell smiled to himself.
“Jeff, I won’t beat around the bush; this isn’t going to be a friendly conference. I’ve never liked your series about the Glass House and Wyndom Leroux. After tonight’s show, I like it even less.”
Quantrell nodded. “You’ve always been frank in that respect. My carte blanche for the series came from your uncle. He said I could do as I wished and I took him at his word.”
“I never agreed with him,” Clairmont continued, his face serious.
“I never thought it was good for a reporter to be completely independent of management. Basically, your idea was viable-an expose series to improve the slipping news rating of the station.” He glanced at Bridgeport who flushed and looked like he was sorry he had stayed for the meeting . “Unfortunately, I now think a personal element has crept into your series, I think you’ve turned your carte blanche into a vendetta.”
“There’s nothing personal about any series on Leroux,” Quantrell said easily. “The facts are as I’ve stated them; they’re easily documented.”
Clairmont’s voice sharpened. “Are they? A few broadcasts back you mentioned that the floors and walls of the Glass House had been breached by the utilities people, making it easy for smoke to spread throughout the building in case of fire.”
“That’s right. The phone people have breached walls and floors to run their lines through. The same is true of the firm that installed the security TV system. Even the hVAC-heating, ventilating, and air-conditioning-people have broken through the floors and walls. You can go over there and see for yourself.”
“I’ve done that. One of Leroux’s assistants took me on a complete tour. Granted that the fire walls were broken through at one time, since then they’ve been completely resealed.”
“Not in every case. In any event, plaster is about as useful in preventing the spread of -fire as wrapping paper.”
Clairmont stared at him for a long moment. “I’ve talked to different contractors throughout the city, Jeff.
It may not be a good practice but it’s a common one.
Why crucify Leroux for it?”
“I wasn’t aware that I had,” Quantrell said coldly. “I can’t cover every building in the city; the Glass House is one of the newest and biggest, it makes a good example.”
Clairmont seemed about to say something more, then apparently changed his mind. “I assume you’ve got good sources for what you’ve had to say.”
“Of course.”
“Would you mind telling Me who they are?”
Quantrell laughed. “You’re not a congressional committee, Mr. Clairmont-Even if you were, I’d rather go to jail than tell my sources.
Other newsmen have, I’m no different in that respect.”
“Then we have to take the accuracy of what you say on good faith?”
“If you don’t want to, then you should never have hired me.
Presumably you took me on because of my reputation as a good newsman; you were willing to pay the salary I asked for because you wanted to improve your ratings. I’ve succeeded in doing that; in return, I have every right to believe I have the backing of management.”
Clairmont looked uneasy. “Look, Jeff, let’s quit fencing. I’ve got a problem … the station has a problem.
And because of that, you’ve got a problem.”
“I’m dying to hear what it is.
“For openers, a multimillion-dollar libel suit. That’s why I asked about your sources. If they’re not top notch …” He shrugged. “We couldn’t afford the beating we’d take.”
“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about,” Quantrell said, beginning to relax. “My sources are the be
st.”
“But you won’t tell me who they are?”
Quantrell hesitated and decided to make a concession.
“Not just yet; perhaps later.”
Clairmont didn’t look impressed and Quantrell felt genuinely worried for the first time. There was something else.
“I said that was just for openers. Our station license is up for renewal in two months. Ordinarily the FCC would grant such a renewal as a matter of course. This time, we’re being contested on two grounds. One, that we’ve failed to serve the community interest. Two, that we’re an effective monopoly in this area. We own the leading AM and FM radio stations; we publish the largest newspaper circulation-wise, and of course we own K.Y.S.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Quantrell could see Bridgeport leaning forward like some pudgy Roman emperor, anticipating the kill in the arena before him.
“You intend to fight, of course?” Quantrell asked.
“No, we don’t,” Clairmont said quietly. “It’s not worth it when it comes down to dollars and cents.”
“Your opinion or your uncle’s?”
“Both. Anger flooded Quantrell then. “When I came here,” he said, biting off his words, “your news division was at the bottom of the heap in ratings. It wasn’t hard to figure out why-bad management or, more accurately, management meddling in what it knew nothing about.
There’s damned little journalism left in television for the simple reason that the writing and the gathering of news are managed by men who have no background in it. You dictate what we cover and how we present it, but the fact is that you’re salesmen, not newsmen.
Continue to run your station that way and you’ll get exactly what you deserve-you’ll lose your audience because they’ll tune to a station where they do know what they’re doing.”
Clairmont brushed it aside. “Leroux’s one tough cookie, Jeff. He’s threatening the libel action because of the dropoff in rentals at the Glass House. And as you could guess, he’s also behind the formal challenge to the FCC -on both counts.”
The Glass Inferno Page 11
