The Glass Inferno

CHAPTER 23

“May I take your coat, sir? Mr. Clairmont’s waiting for you in the game room.”

Quantrell turned over his coat and hat. “Thank you, Pepe.” He had been in Clairmont’s penthouse apartment several times before, but always accompanied by the young Clairmont or Bridgeport. He followed Pepe down the hall, admiring the subdued recessed lighting and the polished slate tiles. Above a gilt table, an oval mirror with an intricately carved frame threw his reflection back at him. Just outside the game room, he paused to examine two small paintings on one of the side walls; each was not more than ten inches square. Original Matisses, he noted.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Jeffrey.”

William Glade Clairmont was waiting for him at the entrance to the game room, an ornate, ivory inlaid-pool cue in his hand. “I’ve ordered drinks. Pepe reminded me that you’re a scotch drinker-very long memory, Pepe’s.

I see you like my Matisses?”

“Exquisite,” Quantrell admitted. “They must be worth a fortune.”

“Fine art has a value, Jeffrey-it’s a pity so many people confuse that with price.”

Quantrell turned to face Clairmont who, stood half a head shorter than he, though he carried himself as though he were a head taller and physically more powerful. He had aged, Quantrell thought, even in the relatively short time he had been with the station. A few more lines in the face, hair that was turning silver instead of gray, a gauntness about him, and a tendency for his clothes to hang. And when he was gone, young Clairmont would be the power behind the dynasty. But not until the Old Man was dead and buried, he thought.

“Well, come on in and make yourself comfortable,” Clairmont offered.

“I know I said only ten minutes, but I’m an old man and not many people visit me and I’ll be frank, I like visitors these days.” He walked back to the pool table in the sprawling game room.. “If you play, we might drink and talk while we have a game.” He looked oddly hopeful. “Do you?”

“It’s been a long time,” Quantrell said. “My bank shots aren’t what they used to be.” He suddenly smiled. “I’m not being hustled, am I?”

“Frankly, yes, but I don’t very often get the opportunity-I wouldn’t take your money in any event. Willie Hopper taught me; he was a rather good teacher.”

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!”