The Glass Inferno

CHAPTER 9

The lobby of the Glass House was more crowded than Jesus Obligatio could ever remember. He breathed a silent prayer of thanks as he pushed through the revolving doors. For-a moment he just stood inside, absorbing the warmth and shaking some of the water off his thin windbreaker. It was a real bitch outside, he thought, no kind of weather for his Levis and light jacket. But he had sold his heavy leather one weeks ago, along with the watch that his father had left him when he died and the color TV set that he had told his mother had been stolen.

He started to shiver again; sweat coated his forehead.

The cramps and the vomiting would start next and the lobby was no place to be when that happened. As it was, if he hung around very long it wouldn’t be more than a few minutes before the guard would spot him among all the women with their fur coats and their husbands all dressed up for the night. There were a few kids with their parents but nobody his age. The only ones allowed in the lobby after six were people who worked in the building or those going to the restaurant at the top and who the hell his age had enough money for that?

The guard was standing by the reservations desk, paying no attention at all to who came through the doors, and Jesus felt a little of the tension drain out of him.

It wouldn’t be easy but given a little luck, he could make it; he had before. He looked around for the camera at the far end of the lobby, near the doors of Surely National, and spotted it panning slowly over the crowd, working its way toward him. He was too obvious, standing by the doors. He loped forward a few feet to mingle with the crowd and then worked his way toward the door leading to the stairwell.

He had to be on the second floor before seven, when the electric locks activated and the floors were sealed to anybody who might come up the stairwell.

He glanced at the clock on the marble wall near the bank entrance; he had a few minutes but not very many.

The people in the lobby crowded toward the reservations desk and the guard was momentarily preoccupied trying to form them into a line.

If he was fast enough, Jesus thought, he could make it. The camera was now at the far limit of its scan. He edged quickly around the perrifery of the crowd; people were too intent trying to push their way to the head of the line to pay much attention to him. Finally he was Out in the open, a good twenty feet from the door. The guard was still issuing instructions and trying to handle the crowd, but the camera had started on its way back. Jesus chanced it and half ran toward the door. The guard was busy with an elderly couple who seemed lost and confused in the lobby turmoil. Jesus wasn’t sure if the camera had spotted him or not.

Then he had tugged open the metal door and slipped through, hearing the automatic door closer sigh above him as it pulled the panel shut.

He was in the bare concrete stairwell now, its walls showing the imprint of the plywood forms into which the concrete had been poured.

He leaned against the wall for a moment, the gray steps rising silently above him. He was going to be sick; he could feel the contents of his stomach start to pump and then the taste of bile in his mouth. He wouldn’t, he thought -he couldn’t. He didn’t have the time.

He kept his mouth clamped shut and fought it down, the sweat dripping down the stubble on his chin. When the cramps came, he wouldn’t be able to help himself then; there wouldn’t be anything he could do.

They were unpredictable but it wouldn’t be more than an hour. He had to find his mother, get the money, and then reach his connection before they started.

Oh God, he thought, feeling his knees start to sag, he was going to be sick. He gagged, caught it in time, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Spinner, his connection, was a sonuvabitch; he wouldn’t wait in the alley for more than ten minutes past the agreed time. The bastard had drained him dry the past month, but he wouldn’t wait an extra ten minutes even if there was a full grand in it for him.

Spinner had been busted twice for pushing and the narcs had told him the next time he came back, they would throw away the key if they didn’t find a way to kill him first.

His mother, Jesus suddenly thought in panic. She worked on floors seventeen through twenty, but he was never sure where she might start or how long it would take her to work through the various floors. The only thing to do was go through them all and when he found her, try and borrow a twenty. She’d have her wallet with her. She never left it in the lockers, none of the cleaning ladies did. Otherwise, he wouldn’t bother looking her up at all. Twenty would get him through the night and tomorrow would have to take care of itself.

Right now, tomorrow was a hundred years away.

He didn’t have much time, he thought frantically. He had to get through the second-floor stairwell door before seven and it must be close to that now, if not past it. But no, he hadn’t heard the electric door locks click. He scrambled up the steps to the landing, had to stop again to fight down the urge to vomit, and then he was up to the second floor and pushing through the door. He was halfway through when he heard the slight buzz that meant the electric locks had just been activated. Another second and he would have,been locked out.

He’d have no money and that meant puking his guts out in some alley or shivering with nausea and the cramps on his stinking cot back home or maybe over at Maria’s house.

He darted through the door to the elevator bank and frantically buzzed for an elevator. A moment later the doors hissed open and he thumbed the call button for the seventeenth floor. Blessed Mother Mary, make her be there, he thought, almost sobbing. He wouldn’t have the strength nor the time to search all the floors and Spinner wouldn’t wait; the prick would never wait.

He got off on seventeen and slipped quietly down the corridor, passing several commercial shops, their windows dead and lifeless. He rounded a corner and spotted a frosted glass door up ahead glowing with a dim illumination-Toddy’s Interiors, with the names Ian Douglas and Larry Uhlmann in fancy printing below it. They were the two faggots who ran it, he thought. Douglas, he remembered, was the older, barrel-chested fat man; Uhlmann was younger and thinner. He had run into them once before when he had come up to see his mother after hours and had pretended that the guard had given him permission.

Neither one of them had been very friendly but there had been something in the older fairy’s eyes. Interior decorators, Jesus mused thoughtfully. They sold the fancy stuff that rich people put in their houses, expensive stuff. He hesitated a moment by the door listening.

There weren’t any sounds and he guessed by the dimness of the light that whoever was there was probably working in the back. It might be worth a try, he thought suddenly. There wouldn’t be any customers there and if the owners were in back, it might be possible to rip something off. Maybe he could make a trade to Spinner-then instinctively he knew that was unlikely, that his mother was the best bet.

He padded quietly down the corridor. The lights were on in the National Curtainwall offices; he had been in there once, too, when his mother was cleaning up. But there weren’t enough lights on to indicate the cleaning women were inside; only a few toward the rear, where they had a safe and kept a lot of money. His mother had told him it was what they called a Credit Union and that a lot of employees banked there. Maybe they had a lot . of money there, he thought-it was just before the holidays. For a moment he wished he had a gun and then shrugged the thought aside. He was too chicken for that; guns scared him. When he was a little younger he had been in gang fights where they fought with knives and chains; then one night somebody had shown up with a gun and one of his buddies was killed, and he got creased in the side and bled like a pig for half a day. His mother had managed to get a Puerto Rican doctor to stitch him up, a doctor who knew enough to keep his mouth shut and hadn’t asked Jesus how it had happened. But Jesus had steered away from gangs after that; the next time he might not be so lucky.

He started to get panicky. He was nearing the end of the corridor and there were no signs of the cleaning women. All of the sand-filled ashtrays lining the corridor were still filled with butts and none of the remaining offices showed any lights. Maybe another corridor …

He broke into a run and a few minutes later realized that he had been right, none of the cleaning women had gotten to the floor yet.

Christ, what was he going to do? He could feel the first hint of a cramp and paled beneath his olive skin. Maybe she had been sick.

Maybe Martinez, her new “husband,” had slapped her around too much and hurt her so bad she couldn’t go to work. That macho pig, he thought, someday he’d stick six inches of steel into him and see how macho the greaser was then….

She was probably working on another floor, he thought hopefully’ He ran back toward the elevators, then paused for a moment outside Today’s Interiors. The lights were still on in back and he hesitated by the door a moment, then tried the knob. It turned easily in his hand. He silently opened the door about six inches and glanced inside.

There was nobody around, though now he could hear faint movements from the rear, like somebody working an adding machine. They were busy, he thought. It was worth the chance. He pushed through into the darkened outer shop, letting the door close quietly behind him. For a moment he stood in the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust, then glanced quickly around. At first, there didn’t seem to be much that would do him any good. A desk against the wall that might have a cash box in it … He walked, quietly over and cautiously pulled open the drawers one by one. Paper and envelopes and what looked like a folder of bills; no money except a few pennies in the narrow top drawer, along with some stamps, rubber bands, and paper clips.

Shit. There were bolts of cloth in the corner and stacked against the far wall, and fancy, delicate-looking furniture that wouldn’t last a week in his house. Suddenly curious, he walked over to a couch and sat down, first bouncing on it, then wriggling his narrow hips against the upholstery. It wasn’t even comfortable; who would buy crap like that?

‘ Then he spotted it. A section of glassed-in shelves standing in shadow against the far wall. He lit a match, the sound of the striking surprisingly loud in the room,and held the flame up to the shelves.

They were of gray, tinted glass and one of them held a group of small ‘figures that looked like they might be of ivory. He could cram a number of them in his pocket; maybe Spinner would give him a dollar apiece on credit. Then his eyes lit up. Next to the figures was a small, antique clock with a lot of painting and what looked like a gold band running around the clock face itself. That had to be worth money, at least twenty dollars all by itself. Even Spinner should be able to see that.

He slid the doors quietly open and had just started to lift out the clock when suddenly the room blazed with light and a deep voice growled, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Jesus jerked back, his elbow brushing against the shelf of ivory pieces which crashed to the carpeted floor.

“You little bastard, my netsukes!” The fat man leaped for him and Jesus ran for the door, still clutching the clock. The fat man got there first and Jesus suddenly realized just how large and heavy he was. A good 250, maybe 6 feet 2. He literally towered over ‘ Jesus’ own 130 pounds and 5 feet 8. Jesus backed away, then suddenly turned and kicked at the small ivory carvings, scattering them over the floor.

The fat man yelled and fell to one knee, trying to catch the pieces bouncing over the rug. Jesus bolted for the door and was halfway through when a heavy hand closed on his ankle and jerked him back. He fell, dropping the clock, which promptly shattered. He rolled like a cat trying to scramble to his hands and knees, and suddenly thudded up against the wall. The big man had him immediately, clutching him by the shoulders, his thick fingers sinking almost to the bone. Jesus’ right hand snaked to his pocket but the big man beat him to it, hooking his fingers in the pocket’s edge and ripping the cloth down so the switchblade fell harmlessly out on the floor.

“Dirty little street bastard!” The man yanked him to his feet and pinioned his arms behind him, one hand holding both of Jesus’ thin wrists. He had seemed like a soft man at first, but the belly pressing against Jesus’ hip was hard and ridged with muscle and the hand holding his wrists felt like iron.

“You’re hurting me, man!”

“Then stand, still or I’ll hurt you one hell of a lot more,” the man said, his voice thick with anger.

“Let go, man; I ain’t going anyplace.” He stopped struggling and the man relaxed his grip a little.

“What’s your name?” , Sullenly. “Jesus. Jesus Obligado.”

His eyes snapped quickly about the shop and the big man said, “Don’t try it. You’re a goddamned burglar and I could probably kill you and nobody would say anything.”

Jesus leaned back against the wall, massaging the sting out of his wrists. That was a frigging lie, he thought; the big man might hurt him but he wasn’t going to.kill him.

Jesus had met the type who might kill him and whatever the big man was, he wasn’t that. He relaxed a little. The big man would probably call the cops, but he could always say that he had been looking for his mother and had seen the lights and walked in, thinking his mother might be there since this was one of the offices she cleaned. And if that didn’t work … Suddenly he had an even better idea. He could say the big man had invited him up and offered him money. The cops would believe that; the big man was obviously swish. He began to feel cocky.

“What’s so funny?” the big man asked.

“You going to call a cop?”

“Any reason why I shouldn’t?”

“Sure.” Jesus was defiant now. “You call them and I’ll tell them you asked me up here, that you wanted to fuck . .

He didn’t even sense it coming. The big man’s hand caught him at the side of the face and he staggered and almost went down; the slap had been so hard his teeth hurt.

“You’re in the wrong state,” the big man said coldly.

“You’re too old. Sodomy’s not a crime but blackmail is.”

He looked at Jesus closer. “What’re you after? What did you want?”

“Money,” Jesus said sullenly. “What the hen you think?”

“What for?”

Jesus suddenly yanked up his long sleeves and held out his thin arms, vein side up. “Take a look, man; take a good look. You never seen tracks before?”

Something flashed in the man’s eyes for a moment; Jesus wasn’t sure what it was.

“Christ kid, you’re killing yourself,” the big man said softly.

Jesus was suddenly angry, angry at the city, angry at his mother for not being where she should have been, angry at the big man. “You think I should go to the clinic, right? There’s a waiting list at the clinic, man, there’s a fucking waiting list for six weeks!” His voice rose in pitch. “What do you think I should do? Go cold turkey in my stinking little apartment? My mother, she doesn’t even know! Her boy friend would throw me out on my ass!”

He was starting to feel sick again, the sweat creeping back. He started to shiver, his teeth chattering.

“Look, man, you know me; okay, I know you, too.

Twenty dollars, I need twenty dollars.” He arched his back slightly against the wall, pushing his pelvis forward.

“Twenty dollars. You want me?” His voice was almost a plea.

“I’m good. I’ve hustled before. I don’t mind.

There’s nobody here; I ain’t going to say nothing. Twenty dollars, you can have me, man!”

Again, there was something in the man’s face that Jesus couldn’t read. “What makes you think I want you?”

he asked finally.

“I know you,” Jesus said simply.

The big man shook his head. “I don’t want you,” he said quietly.

For the moment he seemed to be thinking of something and Jesus realized he had lowered his guard.

He lunged forward, jamming his shoulder into the man’s belly, then made a dash for the door. He could feel the big man reach for him but a second later he was out in the corridor, racing for the far end.

Once around the corner he stopped and listened for a brief second; nobody was following him. He crept to the elevator and pressed the button. Fuck him, Jesus thought, feeling the vomit start to well up again. Fuck him in the ass …

He found his mother on the eighteenth floor, at the end of the hall near the fire stairwell, dragging her wheeled mop bucket along the corridor. He hadn’t seen her for a week; she looked dead tired. Too bad’, he thought, she was tired and he was sick..

She looked up, startled, when she heard his steps.

“Jesus!” She broke into rapid Spanish. “What are you doing here?

You shouldn’t be here!”

He was shivering again. “For Christ’s sake, Mama, speak English.

I don’t understand you.” He paused for a moment to control his stomach.

“I need money, Mama.”

“No money,” she said firmly. She bent to lower the mop into the bucket.

He kicked the bucket away from her.

“Mama, I don’t wanna hurt you.” He licked his lips.

There wasn’t any other person he could turn to; there was no other place to go. “Mama,” he repeated quietly, “I need money.”

She backed away from him. “I said-no money.”

He was on her then, clutching at the shoulders of her blue uniform and shaking her. “You crazy old spic lady, I need money! I need it!

now, right now!”