Just then Pep-6 came in and set a scotch and soda and a gin and tonic on a nearby table, then silently vanished.
Clairmont took a sip, offered Quantrell a stick as elaborately inlaid and basically fragile as his own, and racked up the balls. “The cue sticks are a work of art, too, Jeffrey, though not always recognized as such. They’re from England and the workmanship is superb; a present from-Prince Philip.” He chalked the end of his cue.
“Do you want to break?”
Quantrell nodded and leaned over the table. It was a bad break and he shrugged.
“You’re quite a hell raiser,” Clairmont said.
“Sometimes hell has to be raised.”
Clairmont nodded and stroked a ball into a side pocket.
Quantrell had the feeling he was going to make a run of the table.
“That’s true, I’ve done enough of it in my day. However, age has taught me some caution. It’s inevitable with age, I guess. Perhaps the older you grow, the more you realize you have to lose.”
“I’m familiar with your career,” Quantrell said quietly.
“That’s why I find it hard to believe you would back away from a fight.”
Clairmont looked at him gravely. “I never back away from my fights, Jeffrey. This is a fight that you picked for me; I’m not so sure I like that.”
The game was momentarily forgotten. “The last time I was here, I explained my ideas for a new kind of investigative video journalism,” Quantrell said. “You bought the idea, as I recall. I figured that when you did, my fights became your fights.”
“I haven’t forgotten that, though I must admit that I’m now sorry I said it. I don’t like to be caught in a position where I can be accused of going back on my word.” He paused a moment to take another shot; the old man was very good, Quantrell thought with momentary admiration. “I don’t like to interfere with what’s going on downstairs, though I’m not happy with it. Someday I suppose I’ll have to clean house, get rid of the deadwood. But the point is that there’s a lot more at stake than a simple lawsuit or a few outraged citizens who think we should be doing a better job of running the station.”
“Victor told me of the libel action and the license challenge before the FCC.”
“They’re serious, though not that serious. Both will be dropped with the dropping of your series.”
“You trust Leroux?”
“Of course.” Clairmont looked faintly surprised. “I don’t particularly care for the man, but he’s a man of his word. Frankly, if I were in his shoes I would do precisely as he’s done.”
“Why not fight it out?” Quantrell asked, “I’m surprised that at your age you would let yourself be intimidated.”
“Intimidated?” Clairmont was less cordial now. “I said that it.was your fight, not mine. I’ve had Leroux checked out privately; he’s an honest, legitimate businessman and I see no reason to pillory him.
There are dozens of other buildings in town, all of them constructed in much the same way as Leroux’s. Frankly, the Glass House is probably the best of them to date. Why attack Leroux and his building instead of some of the others?”
Quantrell carefully made his shot and had the satisfaction of seeing the ball drop in a side pocket. “Precisely because it is a new building, Mr. Clairmont, and has supposedly been built with the most advanced techniques available in the last decade. It should have been the best and safest. It isn’t.”
Clairmont was cold now, leaning his cue against The table and fixing Quantrell with his aging blue eyes. “I know all about privileged sources, Mr. Quantrell, but you had better have some authority for that statement besides your own opinion.”
That was it, Quantrell thought. This was why he had come over to see Clairmont. “I do.”
“Who?”
“The construction supervisor on the job, the man who was fired by Wyndom Leroux because he objected to shoddy workmanship, inferior materials, violations of the fire codes that he knew damned well would never be caught, cost cutting to the point where it cut into the bone, let alone the flesh. His name is Will Shevelson.
Any time you wish to confirm anything I’ve said, I can set up an appointment with him.”
“Would’it shock you, Mr. Quantrell, if I said I didn’t give a damn?”
Quantrell stared at him. It was totally unexpected, it didn’t fit the picture he had of Clairmont at all. He was beaten, he thought, and he didn’t have the faintest reason why. He turned and walked over to the huge picture window looking out over the city, grasping the pool cue behind him with both hands. “Yes, it would shock me, Mr. Clairmont,” he said bitterly. “I would be curious as to just why you don’t give a damn.”
“It’s very simple,” Clairmont said behind him, and for the first time Quantrell could detect the tremor of age in his voice. “You could call it posterity, if you wish, or blood is thicker than water. I want to leave something to my descendants and if your present series keeps up, I may not be in a position to leave much of anything. The threat to the station is bad enough, as is the libel suit.
There are other factors. I own Clairmont Towers, Mr. Quantrell, and I have substantial interest in a number of other high-rise buildings in this city. Your series isn’t only hurting rentals in the Glass ‘House, it’s hurting rentals in practically, every tall building. in addition, there are dozens,.hundreds of businesses that lease space in such buildings. They buy ads in newspapers and on the air.
Lately, they haven’t-at least not in our newspaper and not on our stations. We’re facing a spontaneous boycott and it’s been hurting-far more than I thought such a boycott might.”
“It comes down to a matter of money, then, is that it?”
In the window, he could see the ghostly reflection of Clairmont behind him, nodding. “Pretty much. A great deal of money. If I were a younger man, perhaps I might have a different attitude. But I’m not a younger man.”
His voice sharpened. “Aside from all of that, I have my doubts as to just what the story is worth-as a story. I’m afraid potential disasters are never quite as gripping as the actual ones. The extra sand in the concrete bridge is of most importance when the bridge collapses. Until then, who really cares? You’re dealing with a potential story, Mr. Quantrell, not a real one. It hasn’t been worth the time we’ve given it.” He hesitated. “I’m well aware of your ambitions. The most that can be said about your expose is that it’s been self-serving. I’m sorry I let. you get so far with it.”
Quantrell, still facing the window, felt the back of his neck grow warm. There were things that he wanted to say and he choked them down.
It would do no good to antagonize Clairmont; the Old Man’s anger would follow him wherever he went. The injustice of it all ate at him like acid. Barely half a mile away from his picture window stood the Glass House and if it wasn’t the story of the last ten years, it was at least the story of this -one. He stared at it, gleaming in the lights of adjacent buildings as well as bathed in flickering oranges and reds by’ its own colored floodlights set in the four corners of its plaza.
There was even a last flicker of sunlight… . He squinted at the sky. That was impossible, the cloud cover was too heavy, the sleet and snow now too thick. And it was too late; the sun had long since dropped over the horizon.
He stared back at the building and sucked in his breath.
“I’ll do what I can for you in recommendations,” Clairmont was saying behind him, his voice now audibly trembling. The billiards game had exhausted him. “I’m. not quite so opposed to you as I may have sounded; ambition in a young man is hardly a crime.”
Quantrell’s hands suddenly tensed and the pool cue snapped, little pieces of ivory flying about the room.
“See here, Quantrell, what the hell do you think you’re doing?
That pool cue was priceless. Clairmont hurried over toward him.
“My God!” Quantrell suddenly said. “Oh my God!”
He felt himself floating on sheer elation.
“No story? Come here, by God, I’ll show you the story!” Clairmont was standing beside him now and Quantrell clutched at the thin shoulder, feeling the aged bone beneath the expensive fabric.
“Look out there!” he exulted, pointing with one of the broken cue halves. “Take a good look! What the hell do you think is happening?”
Etched against the evening sky, the Glass House towered above its neighbors. What Quantrell had at first taken to be a last glint of sunlight against the building had now become a dirty flicker of orange flame about a third of the way up the side of the Glass House. Heavy clouds of black smoke occasionally obscured the blaze and when they momentarily cleared, the flames were brighter than ever.
. Quantrell could hear Clairmont gasp, then lean forward eagerly to peer through the glass. The financier had now completely vanished,-to be replaced by the newspaperman.
“No story?” Quantrell laughed, almost hysterical.
“There it is, old man-the biggest damned story in a decade!”
CHAPTER 24
Late Evening
In the storeroom, the concrete ceiling directly above the shelf of solvents begins to spall and flake away. Dust gathered on the ventilator grill bursts into smoky flame, paint on the grill bubbles and burns, the thin metal grill itself slowly twists and warps in the heat. Behind it, the plastic heating duct begins to burn, adding more smoke to the black clouds pushing past loosely fitting smoke dampers into the labyrinth of ducts to other floors.
Outside, in the corridor, the fire licks at the wooden framing around office doors and gouges at the acoustical tile of the false ceiling’ The tile contains a large percentage of asbestos fiber and would ordinarily be considered fire resistant, but the superheated air near the ceiling is well past the 600-degree mark. The fire races along the narrow space between the false ceiling and the floor above.
Where ductwork penetrates the concrete fire ceiling, the fire rages and tears at the plaster sealing the gap around the duct. Some of the patching material chars ,and bursts into flame. Concrete patches slowly spall away, plaster calcines and flakes. In a number of places, no attempt at all was made to patch the hole and the fire crawls up into telephone junction rooms and computer terminal assemblies on the floor above, to feast on smears of grease and chew at the insulation on lashed bundles of wiring.
All the drums and cans have now ruptured in the storeroom; all the bottles have burst, and the flood of flaming liquid has flowed around flaming debris under the storeroom door and down the hall, oozing under the doors of other offices. The tide rolls through the outer display room of Today’s Interiors and laps at the bolts of upholstery material, the samples of hanging draperies, and the expensive, delicate furniture. It scorches its way into the storeroom, quickly devouring the aisles of upholstery and drapery goods. The legs of the Herman Miller desk char, then flame; the wood-grained formica top blackens, bubbles, and becomes a solid sheet of fire. The ledgers and stacks of unpaid bills puff into small balls of flame that float briefly in the air before turning into bits of black ash, swirling toward the ceiling.
The paint on the adding machine browns and blackens; the plastic parts soon blaze, and the metal keys turn red, then white.
The fire loading of Today’s Interiors is heavy and in some parts of the shop, particularly above the bales of polyurethane foam used for upholstery, the temperature of the air approaches 1,000 degrees.
In the hall outside, the beast is fast outgrowing its adolescence and is hungrily searching for more food.
CHAPTER 25
The dinner had started on a chilly note but at least it was going to end on a warmer one, Barton thought, thanks primarily to Thelma.
She had been all southern charm and courtesy and, by telling little stories on both herself and Wyndom, had coaxed Jenny into a friendly frame of mind.
Jenny was fighting it but she gradually relaxed, and the tension at the table slowly slipped away. There was no denying that the obvious good time being had by the elderly couple, at the table behind them had been contagious. You couldn’t help but overhear part of the conversation. The stocky woman had an endless series of stories about her life as a schoolteacher, some of them slightly risque and others hilarious. Even Jenny had to smother her laughter at times. After an hour, the pervasive feeling at their end of the dining room was-what would the stocky woman have called it?-Gemlitlichkeit?
Leroux ‘ x lit a cigar and offered one to Barton, who accepted it with thanks. He turned to Jenny. “How about an after-dinner liqueur, Jenny?” She hesitated and Leroux coaxed her. “A little Cherry Heering would top off the roast duck-nothing like basting a good dinner with a good drink.”
She suddenly smiled and said, “Yes,” and Barton knew the storm for the night was probably over. She might even start looking forward to spending the evening alone with him in a hotel room instead of with her parents.
At least, the demands on him would be different-and far more pleasant.
He ordered a Drambuie for himself and quietly toasted Thelma when it came. “To a woman who is probably the most charming hostess in America. Thelma, you’ve made the evening for us.”
Jenny reached over and squeezed the older woman’s hand. “You’ve been a dear to put up with me.”
Thelma looked half hurt. “Jenny, don’t ever accuse me of having to ‘put up’ with you. It was our pleasure to have you for dinner. We dragged you halfway across the continent and we owe you a good deal more than this.”
He heard it then, but paid no attention. The far-off wail of fire sirens, coming closer; it was almost lost in the murmur of conversation in the restaurant.
“Have you made up your mind, Craig.?” Leroux was looking at him shrewdly, half hidden behind a haze of cigar smoke. Striking while the iron was hot enough to be malleable, Barton thought.
“I’ll let you know tomorrow, Wyn, he said casually.
He didn’t want to make a big thing of it for fear Jenny would be at him about it for the rest of the night.
Leroux nodded, as if he were sure what the answer would be. “Take your time, Craig; enjoy the weekend. I can reach you at Southport if I have to?”
“Yes-you’ve got the number.” He ordered another Drambuie and had almost worked up the courage to tell Leroux he had a lousy taste in cigars-Wyn couldn’t be allowed all the victories that night-when Quinn Reynolds hurried over. Barton froze for a moment, wishing desperately that she had chosen another time to visit.
Then he caught the expression on her face.
She leaned over the table, keeping her voice low. She nodded to Leroux but spoke primarily to Barton. “Craig, I hate to, interrupt your dinner but Dan Garfunkel just called. We have a fire down below.
He knew from the reservation lists both you and Mr. Leroux were up here and thought you should be notified immediately.”
The sirens, he recalled. They had come closer and closer and then abruptly stopped. His only thought had been that the fire must be nearby. “What floor?”
“The seventeenth-it’s a storeroom fire.”
The sense of shock building up within him lessened a little.
Storeroom fires were-hardly that rare and control was usually a matter of minutes. “How bad?”
“Dan says it’s serious.”
There was a momentary flash as his eyes met Leroux’s.
The older man had gone white underneath his athletic-club tan.
“Are they trying to fight it inside the building?”
“Yes. Dan said some of the maintenance men led by Malcolm Donaldson and Griff Edwards took portable extinguishers and went by elevator to seventeen. They were driven back immediately. Heavy smoke and flames … too heavy to handle with extinguishers.”
“Anybody hurt?”
“Mr. Edwards …” Quinn bit her lip briefly. “They’ve called an ambulance; we don’t know. Smoke inhalation, possible coronary from the exertion.”
It would be like Griff, Barton thought. Nobody or nothing was going to take his buil
ding away from him.
There was a moment’s silence at the table. He could suddenly feel Jenny’s hand squeezing his, hard. “The standpipe in the stairwell …
did they try to fight the fire from the hose out there?”
Leroux cut in. “It wouldn’t have done any good, Craig.
Maintenance men aren’t trained to handle it; it would take professionals.”
“Somebody called Dan with the information about the fire,” Quinn said. “Mr. Garfunkel rang the Fire Department immediately.” Barton looked at her, startled. Something had gone wrong. They, shouldn’t have to call; the heat and smoke sensors in the building had a read-out system connected directly to the Fire Department. Once they indicated the presence of either smoke or fire, four companies were to be dispatched to the Glass House immediately, even if it were only a fire in a wastebasket. “What about the tenants? Has anybody notified them?” He had a sudden mental image of Ian Douglas on the elevator and the lights that were on in the Credit Union though the people there should have left long ago.
Quinn signaled him with her eyes, trying to tell him to keep his voice down. The people at the tables around them had suddenly grown silent and were listening. “Security’s taking a building census right now, going through the commercial floors one by one. We’ve lost telephone communications to seventeen and above, though the residential lines are still working. The switchboard is calling apartment tenants now.”
Leroux frowned. “I don’t know if that’s necessary-it will cause a panic and a jam-up in the elevators, if nothing else. It’s a storeroom fire; the firemen are here; it’s wildly improbable that the fire will spread beyond the one room.”
“Mr. Donaldson reports the corridor is blazing,” Quinn added quietly.
“Even so Leroux chewed on his cigar for a moment. Barton knew what he must be thinking. The more panic, the worse the fire looked, the blacker the headlines in the paper, and the more it would seem that Quantrell had been right.
“Mr. Leroux.” Quinn hesitated a moment. “There are one hundred and thirty-two diners plus the kitchen help up here now. Should we try and evacuate them?” There was a thin thread of exasperation running through her voice.
The Glass Inferno Page 17
