The Glass Inferno

CHAPTER 10

Dan Garfunkel said: “Arnie, I think I’m going to make a fire patrol.”

The guard let his eyes stray from the monitor tubes a moment to stare ‘at Garfunkel. “You checked in at eight, chief; that’s going to make it a long day for you.”

Garfunkel picked up the small clipboard he used when on fire patrol and started for the floor. “We’re shorthanded and what else is there to do? Go home and watch the tube? There’s nothing worth watching anyway except cops and robbers. See you in an hour; give me a call on the two-way if anything comes up.”

All of which was at least half a lie, he thought; he would’ve given almost anything to be able to sink back in an easy chair and loosen the laces of his shoes. C’est In vie….

The long night ahead, however, didn’t bother Garfunkel half so much as the thought of a four-day-holiday weekend, the only thing worse than a three-day-holiday weekend. He and Ellen had never had children and when she had died, it seemed like his job had assumed more and more importance in his life; he only felt alive and needed when he was at work, surrounded by the hundred and one problems that came up during the day and vicariously living the lives of those around him.

Jernigan’s family, he had once admitted to himself, were more real to him than his own relatives, though he had met Mamie only once and the rest of Jernigan’s family not at all.

He was, he had realized with growing bitterness, a lonely man.

just Garfunkel took a long flashlight from the rack outside the office and then checked the lobby briefly before catching the outside elevator up to the Promenade Room. Diners pressed in around him, exclaiming either in delight or fear as the city dropped away below them.

Garfunkel watched the scene clinically-it was one he had seen a hundred times before-and stepped quietly out into the waiting room on the sixty-fifth floor, most of his fellow passengers lining up to check their coats.

“You’re not going to be eating here tonight, are you, Dan?” Quinn Reynolds, the young hostess for the room, had come hurrying over the moment she spotted him.

Garfunkel smiled and shook his head. “Couldn’t afford it, Quinn-just on fire patrol. Looks like you’re going to have a full house tonight.”

She nodded. “There’ll be some no shows because of the weather so actually we’re booked over capacity.” She turned back to the entrance to the dining room. “Take care, Dan-have a nice holiday.”

Garfunkel found the exit stairs and walked up to the sixty-sixth floor, the floor that held the unoccupied penthouse and the room that housed the motor generators for the residential elevator bank. He flashed his light around the motor room, automatically searching for anything that didn’t seem to belong there-cans, packages, anything that might be a potential bomb or an arsonist’s rig. It wasn’t that he expected to find anything, though they had had more than their share of bomb scares, and building management had turned down all consular headquarters as possible tenants. But you never knew… .

He didn’t turn on the wall switch in the penthouse living loom but stood in the middle of the empty room and closed his eyes, letting himself “feel” the building as much as possible. It was - really blowing outside, he thought after a moment; he could sense the slight sway of the building itself. Other than that, there was the faint pulsing of the motors and electrical machinery below, the vague mechanical whisper that was the building talking to itself as it got ready for the evening. There was a difference between the dark and the daylight in the noises that the building made; there was a difference between when she was awake and when she was settling down for the night.

He opened his eyes and flashed the light around the empty rooms.

It would be easy for somebody to come up to the Promenade Room to eat and then slip up the stairs, he thought. But then, when it came to arson, any part of the building was vulnerable… ‘ He climbed back down the stairs, ducked in the restaurant kitchen for a moment where one of the chefs forced a chicken leg on him, then down to the observation deck, a circular sea of glass just beyond which the city below twinkled in the sleet and rain. The deck itself was like a huge circular moat.

On the other side of the inside wall, hidden from the tourists, were the gigantic tanks of water that acted as reservoirs for the internal standpipes as well as for the air-conditioning system and the sprinklered areas. Garfunkel let himself in and gave the room a cursory inspection, then walked down to the utility deck just below, a machinery room filled with generators and motors and huge fans, a ceiling laced with conduits and the walls filled with meters indicating water pressures, steam pressures excess smoke, and heat indicators, air flow gauges and The like. The room was manned during The day; during the evening,.

duplicate meters and other indicators in the basement engine room were read hourly by the night crew.

Returning to the stairwell, he sensed again the overwhelming feel of metal encasing him. He thought, tenants in their apartments never fully realize the presence of the spiderweb of steel girders that hold up their carpeted cocoons. Then he was striding along the corridors of unfinished apartments on the top floors, making notations on his pad As he went. Maybe it was the holidays, maybe it was just that people didn’t care any more. Loose lumber and sheets of plywood lying around, drums of paint and varnish-at least one of them open, stacks of asphalt and plastic tile, open crates still half filled with excelsior …

Christ, when was the last time the captain had been through? He’d report it in the morning except that Harriman was on vacation and the pipsqueak filling in for him was the type who would never talk back to a construction foreman. But somebody sure as hell had better start …

The fire stairs slowly got wider as he went down and the floors themselves quickly assumed a more finished appearance, with carpeting and wallpaper in the corridors and neatly varnished doors to apartments instead of narrow sheets of plywood leaning against gaping holes in the concrete-block walls. Each door had a small plaque on it and Garfunkel stopped to read one. Odd, he thought; as many times as he had been through the halls, he had never noticed them before. What to Do in Case of Fire.

He chalked it up as a first; probably less than one tenant in ten was even aware of the plaques. If anything ever did happen, it would be the old Navy dictum all over again: When in danger, when in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout.

The next stairwell, something about the standpipes and their attached hoses caught his eye and he stopped for a moment to investigate.

Somebody had slit one of the two-and-a-half-inch cotton fire hoses halfway through. Vandals, Garfunkel thought, infuriated-reason number one why firemen preferred to lug their own fifty-foot lengths of hose up flights of stairs. Probably kids who had access to the stairwells during the day, the same kids who would “steal” elevators for joy riding and have to be keyed down to the main lobby via the fireman’s override switch.

The next stairwell opened out on the sky lobby.

Jernigan was at his desk, staring at a point just below the counter top. The early movie, Garfunkel thought. “Hi, Harry, how’s it going?”

Jernigan looked up and smiled broadly, snapping off the set.

“Just goofing off as usual, Dan-but I’d rather be inside than out, that’s for sure.”

“Anything worth reporting?”

“If there had been, I would’ve. Slow night.” He paused for a moment, obviously in doubt as to whether he should mention something or not. “Hey, Dan, you got any plans for tomorrow?”

“Damn right-take off my shoes, open up a can of beer, settle back, and watch the game. Why, what’s up?”

“Mamie, you know how much she’s always cooking…”

Jernigan hesitated a moment and garfunkel realized with sudden panic what was coming. “There’s going to be more than enough and I can’t stand a steady diet of turkey sandwich lunches. I thought you might be willing to help out.”

“Hey, look, Harry, that’s damned-“

“White of me?” Jernigan grinned.

“Look, boss, you’re more than welcome.”

“Well, ah, I really appreciate it, Harry , but I had really sort of . .

.”

“Want to be by yourself?” There was something in Jernigan’s voice that Garfunkel had never heard before.

Softly: “Come off it, Dan.”

“I’ll think about it,” Garfunkel said slowly. “It’s really nice of you, Harry, I appreciate it.”

Jernigan looked down at some papers behind the counter. “There’s this secretary who works with Mamie.

She’s white, middle thirties, husband died a year ago.

Mamie thought she’d invite her, too.” He held up his hands.

“It’s no setup, no Cupid playing. But I figure if there’s two of you honkeys at the dinner table, Leroy will freak out and maybe he’ll move.” He added what he hoped would be the clincher. “She’s a foxy chick, Dan-, we don’t allow dogs in the house.”

Garfunkel couldn’t meet his eyes. “I’ll think it over, Harry-it’s really nice of you and Mamie, I mean that.”

Jernigan read the refusal in his voice, shuffled some papers on his desk, and switched the TV set back on. He didn’t look up. “Call me in the morning if you think you can make it, Dan. Mamie would love to have you.”

It was two more flights down before Garfunkel could bring himself back under control. The perversity of human nature, he thought. What made you reject friendship when it was offered and was something you wanted badly? And it hadn’t been easy for Jernigan to make the offer, least of all to have it rejected. Garfunkel sighed.

He couldn’t go-it would be pushing himself in, and there had also been an element of pity to the offer which he couldn’t acknowledge. Or was he being masochistic about it all?” On the twenty-eighth floor he paused for a moment, suddenly alert and suspicious. The faint smell of smoke.

He tracked it down the corridor and let himself into the offices of Johnson Tours. The slight wisp of smoke was coming from an overflowing ashtray that hadn’t been emptied; during the day somebody had crumpled up several sheets of paper and dropped them into the tray, on top of a not-quite-out cigarette butt. The papers and the other butts must have been smoldering for hours. At least once a night, the fire patrol found something like that, Garfunkel thought. If it wasn’t an ashtray fire, it was a hot plate that had been left on, or a wastebasket that somebody had dropped a lit cigarette into… . He got a cup of water from the cooler and doused the tray making notations on his clipboard to send the company a memo about the building’s fire regulations. It would be the second memo, if he remembered correctly.

Who the hell was in charge of the cleaning women on the floor anyway?

Krost, of course, it would have to be. That lush couldn’t smell smoke in the middle of a burning garbage dump. Jesus, if only he were in charge of hiring and firing for one day …

The twenty-first floor was completely dark except for a few lights in the back of Motivational Displays. Somebody using the executive suite, he thought, then remembered that Bigelow had checked in perhaps an hour earlier.

Which didn’t make sense; he had checked in alone, he didn’t have a girl with him. The next three floors were National Curtainwall’s and the lights were on in their executive offices, which wasn’t unusual.

The Credit Union was working late, of course, and recently their architectural division had been burning the midnight oil. There had been rumors of a new project on the part of Leroux, something supposed to revolutionize building.

Seventeen was dark and Garfunkel walked slowly down the corridor trying the doors of the various offices to make sure they were locked.

He rounded a corner and was about to try the utility-room door when he noticed that Modern Interiors was lit up and Ian Douglas was standing in the doorway, looking toward the other end of the hall. He hurried over.

“Something wrong, Mr. Douglas?”

The big man whirled and let out a sigh. “Sorry, you startled me.”

Garfunkel looked at him closely. A, shade too white, too pinched around the nose, breathing a little too hard.

“You sure there’s nothing wrong? No trespassers?”

“What?” Douglas’ eyes went wide and he shook his head. “No, no, nothing like that. I just thought I heard a noise, it was nothing.”

“You’re sure?”

A flash of irritation. “Yes, I’m quite sure. If I had seen anybody I would have called.”

Garfunkel nodded, his face impassive. “Have a good night, Mr. Douglas.”

Now why the hell should Douglas have lied? Garfunkel wondered, after having made a thorough search of the floor. Nobody was there now, but there were heel marks on the waxed floor tile near the end of the corridor, where somebody had obviously been running and skidded around the corner. He felt uneasy. He was too understaffed to launch a search party and reluctant to call in the local police; Chances were whoever it was had left the building by now anyway.

A dozen floors more and he was in the shops’ section -the stores and little boutiques that were open to the public.

It was the only part of the building that was sprinklered. he noted-according to the fire codes, all public gathering places had to be. He slipped through the main lobby, unnoticed by the guard who was checking in customers for the Promenade Room, and took the stairwell to the lower concourse and parking level.

“Everything okay, Joe?”

The car hiker wiped his hands on a mechanic’s rag, then turned back to counting his parking stubs. “Everything’s fine. Mr. Garfunkel, but I think we’ve got a house full of no tippers.”

“It’s not that they don’t want to, Joe, it’s just that after eating supper in the Promenade Room, they don’t have any money left.”

The attendant started jogging toward a car that had just rolled down the ramp. “You’re probably right-the luncheon crowd’s usually good for a quarter to-half a buck.”

Garfunkel glanced around and made a mental note to tell Joe to be more careful when he was pumping gas; there were signs of spill all around the gas pumps. But what the hell did he expect, he thought; the floor functioned as both a parking lot and a gas station. The only difference between this and a regular station was that a regular station was out in the open and here it was all enclosed.

Another floor down and he was in the basement boiler room. As usual, it was neat as a pin, in contrast to the unfinished floors and the parking space.

“What’s the matter, Dan-nobody showed up and you have to make the rounds now?”

“Partly that and partly I thought I’d just come down to see you.

(Griff.”

“Don’t BS me, Garfunkel. You know where the coffee is. Help yourself; I ain’t gonna wait on you.”

Garfunkel poured himself a cup and then pulled a chair over to the battered desk that was Griff Edwards’ office. Edwards was fat, graying, and with a slightly pocked skin that made him look like an old “B” movie villain. Garfunkel teetered back on both legs of the chair until the back met the concrete wall, holding the mug with both hands and letting the steam drift up into his face. The coffee was burned but then beggars couldn’t be choosers.

He glanced around at the huge boilers and the rows of meters against the far wall, the log book hanging at the end of the rows.

“How’s it going?”

“That’s a dumb question, Garfunkel-how’s it supposed to be going?”

Edwards got to his feet with a wheeze and waddled over -to the coffeepot. “Find any raging infernos upstairs?”

“Sure, one ashtray-hardly enough smoke to set off any of your smoke detectors.” Garfunkel took a huge sip of the coffee and almost gagged.

It was hot as hell and thick enough to spread on bread. “You been watching any of Quantrell’s TV programs, Griff?”

Edwards sighed. “Yeah, I’ve seen a few. Nothing in them that wouldn’t apply to almost any new building.”

He looked at Garfunkel quizzically. “What do you want me to say, that they don’t build ‘em like they used to?

They don’t build anything like they used to, you know that.”

“What’s down here that might help us in case of a fire?” -Garfunkel asked curiously.

“The telephone, so we can call the Fire Department.”

Garfunkel laughed. “I’ll remember that.” He buried his nose back in his coffee cup, watching with interest as Edwards poured sugar into his own mug. It wasn’t good for him; Edwards was too fat now and had once complained of angina. “Put in any more, Griff, and it’ll turn to fudge.”

“So then I won’t drink it, I’ll cat it with my fingers.” He looked at Garfunkel shrewdly. “You worry about too many people, Dan, you gotta stop that-noble kick before I do.”

“Can’t help it-who would I talk to if something happened to you?”

He blew on his coffee. “I understand the Old Man took a week’s vacation, starting today.”

“Why not? Why stick around over the long weekend?”

“That means Crandall’s in charge then, right?”

Edwards shook his head wonderingly. “Regular little old gossip, aren’t you? What’re you fishing for?”

“Just wondered what you thought of Crandall.”

“Finest example of the Peter principle that I’ve ever seen, except that he reached the level of his incompetence several levels ago.

Outside of that, he’s a boot licker, unfriendly and vicious. If anything ever goes wrong, it’s always somebody else’s fault. If it wasn’t, it will be. Now, why are you carrying on about him?”

“Upstairs,” Garfunkel said shortly. “The unfinished area. The place is a mess-tools, wood, cans of paint all over the place. Ought to be reported to somebody and I guess I’ll have to turn the report in to him.”

Edwards thought about it for a moment. “Captain Harriman would do something about it immediately; Crandall’s going to hate you because then he’ll have to talk back to the construction foreman and Crandall being Crandall, he’ll probably get flattened on the spot. And then he will hate you. But you don’t have to worry about that.”

mean, I don’t have to worry about it?”

“Because Crandall really ain’t in charge.” Garfunkel Garfunkel looked at him curiously. “What do you raised his eyebrows and Edwards leaned back in his chair, smiled like the Cheshire cat and took a big swallow of his coffee. “The weather got to him; he went home at noon with a cough and a runny nose and eyes so red he looked like he had been on an all-night bender.”

“So who’s in charge?”

Edwards glanced up at him benignly. “Griff Edwards, senior engineer-look it up in the chart of organization.

If Crandall’s really down with the bug, I’ll probably run the whole shebang until the captain gets back. Just turn your little old report over to me, I’ve been aching to chew somebody out for a month now.

It’ll be a pleasure.”

“You couldn’t have told me right out, could you?”

Edwards looked wounded. “What fun would there have been in that?

The expression on your face was worth it all, Dan.”

Garfunkel grinned into his coffee cup, then turned serious.

“Griff, you know Jernigan?”

“Sure, good man.” Edwards looked at him sharply.

“He’s not thinking of quitting, is he?”

“No, no, nothing like that. He and his wife, Mamie, have invited me over for dinner tomorrow.”

“What’s wrong with that? I already know you got nothing against his color so why not go?”

“They’ve invited over a woman who works with Mamie, too. Harry said that she was-you know, a real looker.”

“On second thought, don’t go. Let me fill in for you.

Garfunkel frowned. “Griff, I want to go and yet I know I won’t.

I know I’d enjoy it and yet I keep thinking I really Just want to be by myself.”

Edwards nodded. “The holidays got you down already?

Don’t answer that, I hate ‘em, too, and may the good Lord forgive me, I can remember when I used to look forward to the chubby little man with the whiskers and the sack full of toys.” He was silent for a moment. “How’s your coffee-you ain’t drinking much tonight.”

“I drank enough of it to keep me awake until Monday. Save it for when you have to clean the wax off your floors.” He stood up to go, then paused for a moment at the door. “Griff, seriously, what would happen if a good fire got started in the building here?

Your honest opinion?”

Edwards brought his chair down on all four legs with a crash.

“Oh, for chrissakes, Garfunkel, quit acting like an old woman!

You really want to know, we’d go up like a Christmas tree, like a blooming Christmas tree! Now, are you happy?”