The Glass Inferno

CHAPTER 1

Every beast has a time and place of birth. For the fire, it was late afternoon in a small room deep within one of the newer high rises that dotted the city.

The room had purpose and importance-though it was never pointed out during the frequent tours of the building and an indefinable odor, characteristic of rooms of its type. It was also a little more cluttered than the usual.

It was shortly after five o’clock when the door to the room opened, thereafter the overhead fluorescents-flickered on. There was a long pause, the slight shuffling sounds of something being moved, then the snap of a switch as the lights extinguished. Eyes blinked in the glow from the open doorway, casually inspecting the room for a few seconds.

Then shoulders briefly obscured the light from the corridor, the door closed, and the room lost itself in darkness.

But not total darkness. A small spark glowed in one corner of the room, nursed by a frayed cotton strand-the umbilical cord for the beast.

The temperature of the room was a little less than 70 degrees and starting to fall, mirroring the chill autumn air outside the building.

By four-thirty Wednesday afternoon, the long-expected Canadian cold front was passing north of the city. On Lee Avenue, the young saplings in front of the National Curtainwall Building, stripped of their autumn foliage, whipped violently against the surrounding wrought-iron grills.

Low banks of clouds scudded across the sky and the fine rain turned into a biting sleet. Workmen, decorating the street lamps with plastic Santa Clauses, clutched desperately at their ladders as ice began to coat the rungs.

Clerks and secretaries, dismissed early for the Thanksgiving holidays, deserted the middle of the sidewalk for the narrow safety offered by building fronts, or else scurried for the security of subway entrances, repeatedly losing their footing on the slick of water and melting ice.

Six blocks away, Craig Barton leaned impatiently against the steering wheel of his rented car and nervously chewed the end of an unlit cigarillo. The traffic had slowed to a halt and an occasional wisp of cold air seeped into the car’s interior, cutting through the feeble warmth from the defective heater. The perfect ending for a lousy day, Barton thought. Stacked up over the -airport for an hour, then a lemon for a drive-away, and finally the traffic jam as a capper.

He couldn’t get to the office now before everybody had left; there’d be no chance to double check on why Leroux had sent for him in the first place.

He’d be walking in cold and Wyndom Leroux was no man to have a conference with if you were unprepared.

It wasn’t going to be a pleasant evening in other ways either.

Jenny had paged him at the airport to relay Leroux’s sudden invitation to dinner and it was obvious that it hadn’t set well with her-not that anything did set well with her these days. And if the dinner lasted long ‘enough and the weather worsened, they’d probably wind up spending the night in a hotel instead of with Jenny’s parents in nearby Southport. That was sure to bring tears and recriminations from Jenny.

It would never occur to her that he might have his own resentments about being called back to headquarters in the middle of delicate negotiations.

The light turned green and the crowds at the corner surged across the street, spreading out to thread their way through the close-packed automobiles. Darting in and out of the noisy tangle of traffic, like water beetles skimming across a crowded pond, messenger boys sped by on single-speed Schwinns, their baskets loaded with records, stacks of print-out sheets, and rolls of blueprints.

For a second, Barton’s nostrils flared at the memory of the faint ammonia odor of the prints, a smell that always excited him with its associated visions of buildings yet to be built.

He leaned forward, suddenly curious, and glanced out the window at the city’s skyline. Even in six months, there had been changes. The Traveler’s Building had been topped out and the Curtainwall was two thirds of the way up: pseudo-Mies van der Robe inspiration that unfortunately didn’t have the clarity of detailing that was The hallmark of a van der Robe project. A hundred yards north, the new Fireman’s Insurance Headquarters loomed in the sleet. It was a more sensitive structure, though the site itself was bad-so small that the building seemed crammed onto it and the plaza in front looked the size of a child’s’sandbox. The Kohnke Insurance Building next to it didn’t help; it resembled a downtown motel more than an office building.

The lights changed again. Barton toed the accelerator and lurched forward another thirty yards across the intersection before he came to a stop. Now he could see the Glass House-the nickname for the National Curtainwall Building-a few blocks away, its tower etched against the, dark clouds. He caught his breath. God, it’s beautiful!

He felt the same sudden sweep of pride that he had felt when he flew in for the dedication three months before -sans Jenny, much to her annoyance.

He clamped harder on the cigarillo and stared intently at the building. Damnit, he had a right to be proud-and so did Leroux.

Sixty-six stories of gold-tinted glass panels and gold-anodized aluminum. The location on the north side of the financial district had been selected so there would be no buildings for several blocks around that could challenge it. There had been no compromise on the size of the site itself-the plazas on each side of the building were spacious and inviting; you didn’t feel crowded as you strolled across them to the building’s entrance. Sixty-six stories-thirty commercial and office floors and thirty-six of apartment floors-straight up with no setbacks. On the southern exposure, a shear wall marked the utility core and served as a golden backdrop for the scenic elevator to the Promenade Room at the top. Barton squinted; he could just make out the tiny spot of light crawling slowly up to the rooftop restaurant. They hadn’t done too badly, he thought; the most popular postcards in the local drugstores were those of the Glass House at night. It had become a symbol of ‘the city.

The traffic was easing now and a few minutes later Barton was driving down the ramp that cut through one of the plazas into the basement garage. He caught a glimpse of the,plaza just before the building overhang blocked his view-a broad expanse of buffed terrazzo and native fieldstone on which white ceramic planters holding young conifers were scattered. White fieldstone and terrazzo steps ascended to the lower lobby, curving around a gleaming, free-form sculpture of gold-anodized aluminum and Plexiglass rods. At night, the rods were the light pumps of multiple-colored bulbs bidden in the base so that the delicate webwork of rods and wires was bathed in a slowly changing pool of light.

He wheeled the car to the parking attendant’s booth and stepped out into the welcome warmth of the building.

“How long you going to be, sir?” The car hiker slid into the seat he had just vacated.

“Not sure-probably until about eleven. Fill up the tank while you’re at it, will you?”

“They sure don’t do much for you at the airports these days, do they?”

“Hell, they don’t even empty the ashtrays any more.”

Barton walked past the gas pumps and caught the elevator up to the lower lobby. Just before the doors closed behind him, he heard the roar of a jack rabbit start and then the screech of tires. He smiled to himself; at least some things in the world never changed.

. The lower concourse looked more finished than when he had last seen it. The shop windows glistened with displays of jade and Christmas cards, imported cameras, and stereo components. One display, intended for holiday vacationers, featured men’s sport shirts and short in a riot of Hawaiian colors. Barton paused for a moment to look at them.

Two years of working for National Curtainwall and he hadn’t yet found time for the traditional two weeks in August. His resentment started to build; then he shrugged. Next year for sure, he promised himself, and stepped on the escalator to the main concourse.

Barton felt another-wave of pride as he walked into the first-floor lobby; for a brief moment he felt like taking off his hat, as if he were ‘ in a cathedral. It didn’t have the overwhelming vastness of the lobbies in the newer hotels, but it was still a superb utilization of space. The proportions of the floor area were almost classical in their relationship and the exterior tinted glass walls extending two stories up gave a feeling of openness. At the far end of the concourse stood the tall, bronze doors of Surely National whee, at the opposite end, jutting into the lobby, itself, loomed the tiled mural walls of the square utility core that held the elevator banks and the numerous electric, steam, and gas lines that served the building.

The scenic elevator pierced one side of the cord near the entrance, soaring up the shear wall, the external face of the utility core, to the Promenade Room.

Barton recalled that Jenny had never ridden in it. He made a mental note to use it after dinner; the ride might take the edge off the evening for her. The elevator cage was darkened during its ascent or descent-the lights visible from the street were in the base-and the illusion of hanging suspended in space over the city below was breathtaking.

The lobby was filled with employees leaving for the evening and for a moment Barton felt like a salmon swimming upstream. The office population of the building was close to three thousand and they all seemed to be trying to leave at once. The lights flicked off in Surely National, dimming that end of the lobby.

He shoved his way through to the information desk opposite the bank of elevators that served the business floors. The dark-haired girl behind it, dressed in a chic gold-and-red uniform and wearing a little pill-box hat, looked vaguely reminiscent of “Johnny” in the old Philip Morris ads. She flashed him a stewardess-type smile.

“I’m sorry, sir, but the Promenade Room is booked solid for the evening.”

Six months away and already he looked like a tourist, Barton thought.

“On a night like tonight?”

The smile became tentative; she was afraid he was going to be difficult. “It’s the start of the holidays, sir, and we seem to be the ‘in’ spot in town.” She tried to soften the blow. “Another night, perhaps?”

“I’m with Wyndom Leroux’s party,” Barton said shortly. “Did he leave any messages?”

She looked impressed and shuffled through the papers on the desk.

“His reservation’s not until eight o’clock but I don’t see any messages. Is there anything … ?”

He turned away. “Thanks anyway.” The best idea would be to drop his bag in the offices, freshen up, and head for the Promenade Room bar.

He was almost to the elevator bank when he spotted Dan Garfunkel, the head of security, talking to a young guard. Garfunkel was a thick, heavy-set man in his fifties. He had spent twenty years with the police force and another ten with the Burns Detective Agency. He was dressed in a plain, dark suit, his only badge of office being the two-way radio attached to his belt on the left hip; there was no mistaking his position, however. Everything about him spelled out “cop,” Barton thought. He was balding, with a thin fringe around the sides like a monk’s tonsure, and had a beard so heavy that Barton guessed he shaved twice a day when he -was on the job. He had a quiet, intense way of talking and was one of the few men whom Barton had ever met who could chew somebody out in a whisper. He was doing just that as Barton approached.

“I know it’s not your shift but I’m short two men and you’re the last one on the roster, so that makes it your baby. You don’t like it, I’ll find a cop who wants to moonlight. Remember that the building officially closes at six and you start to check ID’s then. Any reservations for the Promenade,Room, send them over to Sue. Any difficulties, call me on your two-way. Don’t get smart with the people, you’re as much public relations as you are security. And I don’t want to hear any more complaints about kids in the lobby.”

The guard nodded, stony-faced, and walked away. Garfunkel stared coldly at Barton for a second and then a mind that never forgot a face found an identification to go along with it. He shook his head, relaxing. “He’s a good man-four years in the MP’s-but I swear to God nobody wants to work any more, Mr. Barton; they all want a free ride.

A little sleet and suddenly everybody’s sick or their car won’t start or their great-grandmother dropped in unexpectedly from Dubuque.”

Barton looked sympathetic. “How shorthanded are you?”

“A third of the shift didn’t show-it was Sammy’s great-grandmother from Dubuque, believe it or not. Which means I’ll have to spend the evening in the monitoring room, watching the idiot tubes with Yates.

Helluva way to handle security, especially with all the shoplifting, burglary, and petty vandalism we’ve been having-Christ, we even had a rape last month. I’ve been after the super to install infrared sensors in the stairwells so we’ll know if we’ve got trespassers, but nobody wants to spend the money.”

“How’s the leasing going?”

Garfunkel shook his head. “Almost all of the commercial and office floors are leased,” he said, ticking them off on his stubby fingers.

“Fifty through sixty-four are still nearly empty, though some of the suites aren’t finished yet-you should try and make the rounds through that mess. And then there’s this guy Quantrell and his broadcasts. He’s really got it in for the boss and a lot of people watch him and get skittish. Me, I think Mr. Leroux ought to sue the bastard.”

Barton had heard a little about Quantrell and his telecasts out in San Francisco. But mention of the apartment floors brought another thought to mind.

“How’s Jernigan coming along?” Harry Jernigan had come from Burns along with Garfunkel. A handsome, athletic black in his early thirties, Jernigan was deputy head of security and responsible for the residential floors.

Barton had met him once and the man’s natural sense of dignity had impressed him.

Garfunkel smiled. “Harry’s doing great, just great.

Some of the older tenants called him ‘boy’ at first; then they found out he had a master’s degree in fine arts and that ended that. A lot of the women give him the eye but he doesn’t let it get to him. If they could see what he’s got at home they’d all Turn green. I feel sorry for Harry, though; he’s got more relatives sponging off him than Standard has oil wells. He’s a good man, Mr. Barton. If I ever left here He shrugged. “Yeah, and someday the meek will inherit the earth.”

“Times are changing, Dan; he’ll do okay.”

“Maybe you think so and I think so but a lot of people out there, they don’t think so. Otherwise, he would have been able to use that master’s.” The lobby was emptying rapidly now. A few people milled before the information desk, checking on reservations. A group of cleaning women, most of them Puerto Rican, waited by the elevators, chattering away in soft Spanish. Garfunkel left to start his security rounds; Barton picked up his bag and walked over to the elevator bank.

He nodded to one of the women whom he had met while working overtime during the dedication: Albina Obligado, a graying woman with a startling amount of gold in her white teeth. She was so pleasantly Earth Mother that he felt a small pleasure at seeing her again.

One of the elevators emptied out and the cleaning women crowded in, Albina holding the doors open for Barton. He signaled for her to go ahead and press the call button for the end cage.

Then something about marble cladding around the elevator bank caught his eye.

The grout around the slabs was already crumbling. Sloppy workmanship, he thought, irritated. Then he frowned and took a closer look. It wasn’t real marble after all but a polyester synthetic.

He’d never noticed it before, but then the synthetics were excellent visual copies. Still, he was damned sure it wasn’t what the architectural team responsible for the interiors had called for.

Somewhere along the line, somebody had been sold a bill of goods.

Another man joined him at the elevator and Barton nodded. One of the early commercial tenants whom he knew slightly; he and his partner ran an interior decorating shop on the floor below National Curtainwall’s executive offices. Brian-no, Ian-Douglas, a large man who always seemed to dress a shade too elegantly for his size; he was the type who had probably been a swimmer in college and was now tending to softness.

About forty-five, Barton decided, a good ten years older than ‘his partner, whose name Barton couldn’t recall.

“Lousy night,” Barton said idly.

Douglas started. “Oh, yes, dreadful,” he mumbled. He didn’t say anything more and Barton decided something was on his mind. Business was probably bad and he was working late after having gone out for a quick supper.

Too bad, it that were the case. Barton rather liked the big man, though his younger partner seemed a little selfconsciously … what did they call it?”

“hutch”? Well, everybody had their hang-ups.

The elevator doors slid silently open and they stepped in. Barton punched 18 for his floor and 17 for Douglas.

The doors had just started to close when suddenly a tall, rail-thin man in a wrinkled janitor’s uniform. hurried toward them.

“Hold it, fellas-hold it, will ya!”

Barton stuck out his foot to intercept the photoelectric eye beam at the bottom of the elevator doors. They slid open again and the thin man scurried in, still puffing.

“Thanks a lot, Mr. Barton.”

“Any time, Krost,” Barton said indifferently. He had never liked Michael Krost, who was maintenance supervisor for five of the office floors, including those of National Curtainwall. A sour-looking, middle-aged man with a thick head of coarse, graying hair, there was a furtiveness about him that put Barton on edge. Word had it that Krost was a lush and had once been caught drinking on the job. For some reason, Leroux had interceded to save him. Probably for old time’s sake, Barton thought.

Krost had come over from the Melton Building where National Curtainwall had been headquartered until they moved into the Glass House.

“Sure good to have you back aboard, Mr. Barton,” Krost said.

“Just the other night I was telling Daisy that you were out there on the West Coast showing them how a big architect and a construction team operate.

Mr. Leroux must think a lot of you to send you out on a project like that.”

Douglas retreated to the far end of the elevator to avoid the odor of stale beer and faintly mildewed clothing that hung around Krost like a fog. Barton ignored it.

“What floor, Krost?”

“Make it twenty for me, Mr. Barton.” Yellow teeth showed through in a thin smile. “Got to ride herd on them cleaning women up there, yes sir.”

The cage stopped at seventeen and Douglas got out, obviously grateful to get away from Krost. Then it was Barton’s Turn, Krost shouting after him: “Daisy and I, we both hope you have a good weekend, Mr. Barton!”

National Curtainwall’s offices occupied the entire floor, as well as a portion of the two above it. The entrance to the executive suites was at the far end and normally one ran the gamut of three secretaries before entering.

Tonight, all the anterooms were deserted. Barton shucked out of his topcoat and draped it on the tree before entering the inner suite.

A few lights glared in the Credit Union area, as well as some of the other offices. He might luck out and run into, somebody with some solid information after all, he thought hopefully. The Credit Union people, of course, would be working on accounts. NC employed close to five hundred people in the local offices alone and a lot of them must have withdrawn money or c paychecks for the long weekend.

Barton snapped on the lights in his. office, dropped his small suitcase on the floor, and stepped over to the window to stare -out at the darkening city, half hidden by clouds and pelting sleet. They’d be spending the night in a hotel for sure; he wouldn’t drive out to Southport after supper for all the tea in China. And it might be a good time to talk to Jenny, to set some things right that had been going very wrong these last two years.

He loosened his tie and hung his suit coat in the small office closet; then he started down the hall to see who might still be around.

Lights glowed in the architects’ division. He walked into the first office, knocking on the door as he entered.

“You ought to be home watching the tube, Joe, how come so late?” he asked. Joe Moore had left Wexler and Haines the same time he had and was one of the few men at NC with whom Barton felt genuinely comfortable, probably because he wasn’t a company man. Five, years younger than himself, Moore was a crackerjack architect whose only character flaw-if it could be considered a flaw-was that he preferred to spend his evenings bowling and his Saturday afternoons golfing rather than putting in overtime doing and dying for dear old Curtainwall.

It wasn’t a lack of ambition, but rather a sense of proportion an out life, an attitude that Barton admired.

Moore shifted his chair away from the drawing board so Barton could see better. “Leroux’s new brainstorm.

Take a look.”

Barton glanced over his shoulder at a superb color rendering of a new high rise. “It’s for a site in St. Louis.

The property was acquired and cleared last year and next month they start excavating for the foundation.” Moore paused. “Once they start, it should go pretty fast in spite of the weather.”

There was something in his voice that made Barton bend closer to the board. It was a beautiful building, he thought; it would be a credit to any city. Then he felt the back of his neck go red.

“You know,” Moore said slowly, “it’s the same kind of similarity you find in housing developments where all the homes are built from the same master plan and only the exterior trim and the details differ-the garage is on the left side instead of the right or maybe there’s a car porch instead. Why shouldn’t St. Louis have a Glass House? Color it blue instead of gold, put the scenic elevator on the northern exposure, make a few minor changes in the curtainwall …”

“The industry would laugh at him,” Barton said in a flat voice.

“You think so? Start figuring the savings, the speed in construction. You practically eliminate the architectural expense.

You know most of the problems in advance-you crank them out like the houses in a subdivision. He’ll be selling a beautiful building at a cut-rate price and he’ll still make a killing in time savings alone.”

“You’re not kidding me?”

“That rendering cost five grand, that’s no joke.”

“He doesn’t need a renderer, he needs a retoucher.”

Barton felt feverish. “Leroux knows I won’t go for this.”

… Maybe he thinks he can sweet talk you.”

“On something like this?” Barton was outraged. “Come on, Joe!”

He sat down on a nearby chair. “Who’s supposed to be the chief architect?”

Moore was silent for a moment, staring down at the rendering, then looked directly up at him. His voice was flat. “It came with a promotion and a title and a lot of money. I couldn’t Turn it down.”

“You won’t be doing any drafting,” Barton said contemptuously.

“You’ll be making tracings.”

Moore kept a poker face. “If it helps any Beth’s been sick and I really need that money. Leroux’s always resented that I wasn’t one of his boys, then he saw his chance and made his move. So now I’m his-body, soul, and talent, come rain,’shine, or the Inverness Open.”

There wasn’t anything to say, Barton thought. Moore had to play the hand that was dealt him, he didn’t have any choice.

Moore fumbled for a cigarette. “How’s Jenny?”

“Okay. She flew in yesterday, stayed with the Lerouxes last night, and spent today shopping with Thelma. We’re having dinner in the Promenade Room at eight. Command performance.”

“She’ll hate that.”

“I expect I’ll hear all about it.” Barton thumbed the rendering.

“What does the old man want to see me about? This?”

“He’ll probably mention it but I don’t think it’s the real reason.

Ever hear of a TV newscaster named Quantrell?”

“Garfunkel told me about him downstairs.”

“He’s running an expose series on Leroux and the Glass House.

It’s too popular.”

Barton felt puzzled. “What’s that got to do with me I don’t know the man, I’ve never met him, I’ve never even seen his show. What’s the deal?”

Moore spread his hands out in appeal. “Look, all I know is what I hear. You were good friends with the first assistant fire chief, Mario Infantino, right? He’s also a division chief, right? You used to sit it on fire-code meetings with him, right? And you and he buddied during army reserve meetings back here, right?”

“So?”

. “Leroux thinks that Infantino is feeding Quantrell information about National Curtainwall-confidential information.”

” Barton stared.

“I still don’t get it. One, Mario wouldn’t do it and two, where would he get the information?”

“I guess that’s why Leroux wants to talk to you,” Moore said quietly.

“Or so the rumors go.”

“You’ve got my sympathy on Beth,” Barton said stiffly. “Thanks for the gossip-don’t work too late.” He stood up and walked down the hall to the executive washroom, ignoring Moore’s shouts behind him. He needed cold water, a lot of it.

For a moment, the room took his mind off himself. It was a sybaritic dream, the Florentine marble and gilded wrought-iron basin fixtures in the shape of dolphins, plus a solid wall of mirrors. It was the sort of john that Douglas would probably have designed, Barton thought, then smiled at his own prejudice.

He turned the taps to run water into the basin, thinking of what he might say when he saw Leroux later. When he had first met Leroux, he had been chief architect for Wexler and Haines; the Glass House had been their account. He had liked Leroux and had deliberately impressed him with his knowledge of architecture and construction techniques.

Leroux had offered him a junior vice-presidency in National Curtainwall. He had accepted and at the same time had broken up with Quinn Reynolds to court and marry Jenny, whom he had met several months before and with whom he had fallen in love.

It now looked like he had made a mistake, he thought grimly. Two of them. He cupped the cold water in his hands and sloshed his face with it, coming up gasping.

. His major disappointment had been that he hadn’t been given the chance to oversee. the construction crews on the Glass House, that Leroux had not appointed him site supervisor. Instead, Leroux had transferred him to Boston for a year and a half and then to San Francisco to make a preliminary survey for a high rise to be built in the wharf area near the Embarcadero freeway. It was a tricky assignment, not only because of the building code problems attendant to any construction near the San Andreas fault, but also because of growing civic opposition to high rises. Then Leroux had called him two days ago, in the middle of his preparations for an appearance before the Board of Supervisors. He had to see Barton as soon as possible about various vague problems. It wasn’t like Leroux and something in his voice had made Barton uneasy.

He dried his hands and face and adjust his tie in the mirror. The face that stared back shocked him. The graying at the temples, the slight puffiness to the jowls, the faint lines etching themselves around the eyes … He was thirty-eight and no amount of squash playing at the club, no number of steam baths seemed to take away the slight sag to the chin line, the faint pudginess that was slowly softening the trim outline of his body. Even Jenny-or A perhaps, especially Jenny-had remarked on the chin on him.

On the other hand, Leroux was made for the business; he thrived on it. He was in his early sixties and looked fifty. He claimed to be a self-made man, though Barton doubted that; somewhere in his background there was a prep school or an eastern college. But the self-made bit fit his own myth as a drifter who worked in the oil fields of Louisiana, then married Thelma, and bought her father’s construction firm on an extended note. It had been a small company but with Leroux at the helm, it had grown rapidly. He branched out into general contracting and formed National Curtainwall when he built a small high rise in downtown Raleigh after the end of the Korean war. And now Leroux was on his way to becoming … what?

And what about himself? Barton thought. The problem was simple.

He wanted to be his own boss; he didn’t want his buildings stolen from him. So what was he going to do about it?

He felt the anger rise in him, shrugged if off, and walked back to his office. It was five minutes to six, too early even to go to the Promenade Room to get drunk enough so he would have the guts to do something he could be sorry about later.

He turned on the television set on top of the office bookcase, sat back in his swivel chair and lit up another cigarillo. The news would be coming up at six o’clock.

Now was his chance to watch Quantrell and see what all the shouting was about.