The Glass Inferno

CHAPTER 32

Even from where he stood in the doorway, Ian Douglas could feel the heat from the blazing solvent flooding down the hall. It was hotter than he expected, considering the distance. Then he realized with a shock that the distance was narrowing rapidly even as he watched. His eyes were tearing badly from the smoke how; he had to get out. He automatically held up the print to shield his face from the heat and backed quickly down the hall. He could feel the heat on the back of his fingers; the edge of the print frame grew perceptibly warmer.

He wasn’t going to make it, he thought, panicked; the fire was traveling too fast. He abruptly turned and ran for the stairwell door, feeling the heat lap against his back. He twisted the knob and yanked the door open, glancing quickly behind him as he ran through. It was like looking into a furnace; the entire corridor was in flames, the blazing solvent only yards away. Then the door closed behind him, its latch making an audible click. -He set the “Minotaurmachie” on the concrete landing, leaning it against the wall, and simultaneously began, to cough and wipe at his eyes. His cheeks were wet, as if he had been crying, and his eyes stung. For a minute he held to the iron pipe railing at the edge of the landing, his body shaking violently. Then the coughing spasm passed -it was far easier to breathe in the stairwell and his racing heart slowed as he realized he was safe, at least for the moment. The back of his shirt felt warm. He remembered that it had seemed almost as if it were burning when he ran through the door. Radiant heat, he thought; in the corridor, it must have been intense. The back of his neck was blistered. Then he glanced down at his hands, remembering he had been holding the print before him as he had backed down the hall.

The skin on the backs was red and puffy; his knuckles felt like he had brushed them against the burners on an electric stove.

At that moment he heard the sound of sobbing.

He cocked his head and listened. It was a sort of whimpering, coming from the lending-above him, The one for the eighteenth floor.

Somebody was above him and either frightened or hurt, which seemed unlikely since the fire was on his floor. But the smoke had probably carried up….

He ran up the stairs, leaving the print behind.

From the stairwell landing, he could see two people partly hidden by the risers. One seemed to be bending over the other. The figure turned and he saw that it was the Puerto Rican kid, the one who had tried to rob his shop! He raced up the remaining steps. He should’ve reported the goddamned junkie to Garfunkel-w at a fool he had been!

Then he was on the landing. Jesus looked up at him, startled.

Huddled against the wall was one of the cleaning women, trying to stuff some money back into a wallet. Her dress was rumpled and she was crying.

Douglas took the scene in immediately. The kid had been trying to mug her for her wallet and she had fought him.

“You goddamned thief!”

Jesus started to scramble away from him. “No, you got me wrong, man!” he pleaded.

“I got you right, you mean!” Douglas caught Jesus along the side of the head with the flat of his hand and sent him sprawling. “What else did you take from her?

Did you get her rings, her wrist watch? Anything you forgot?”

“You don’t understand!” Jesus blubbered. “I was sick, I needed the money… .”

Douglas grabbed him by the front of his shirt and yanked him to his feet. “I ought to throw you down the stairs. I let you go once but I won’t make that mistake this time… .” His eyes widened.

“You set the storeroom on fire, didn’t you? It had to be you; there wasn’t anybody else around!”

Jesus twisted in his grasp, his eyes wide with fear. “I didn’t do nothing, man. I didn’t do a goddamn thing; you’re outta your mind!”

The cleaning woman struggled to her feet, wincing at each movement. She had apparently twisted her ankle under her when she had fallen to the concrete. She tugged at Douglas’ sleeve, shaking her head. “My son,” she said.

“Mi hijo …

Douglas looked his amazement. “Your son?”

She nodded, her eyes dull. “My son,” she said in a heavy voice.

Douglas loosened his grip and Jesus backed away.

“She’s my mother,” he said. “She’s been working here since the place opened. I wanted to to borrow some money from her tonight.”

“Borrow, bullshit,” Douglas said, disgusted. The kid would steal the pennies off a dead man’s eyes. He probably tried to shake the old lady down. Douglas began coughing again and abruptly remembered the fire below.

“We have to get out of here. There’s a bad fire in the building.”

Albina looked at him, apparently not understanding. She had started to cough herself.

“Fuego,” Jesus said, explaining the situation to her in ?,p slightly halting Spanish. Her eyes widened. “Fuego.

Then she turned on him, her manner accusing, the words pouring from her in a torrent.

Jesus shook his head. “No, Mama, I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it!”

“There’s no time for that; let’s get out of here,” Douglas muttered.

He took Albina by one arm to give her support and slowly started down the stairs, Jesus following. At the halfway landing, he turned toward the second flight of stairs, then caught his breath. The flaming solvent had seeped under the door, setting fire to the paint.

The metal panel itself was blazing. In the next moment he watched the puddle of burning liquid spread until it reached the Picasso “Minotaurmachie” leaning against the wall. The umber-rubbed gilt of the frame peeled before his eyes, then the glass cracked and shattered into a hundred pieces. The paper darkened and turned brown. The bull man, contorted in agony before the maddened crowd of the bull ring, seemed to stare at him with agony-filled eyes, then dissolved in flames.

A The entire landing was now covered with flames.

“We can’t go down,” Douglas said quietly. “We’re trapped.”

More solvent seeped under the warping door. A sudden wave of heat from the smoky flames drove them back up the steps, away from the landing. A waterfall of fire poured do the concrete risers to the next floor below.

“We gotta get out!” Jesus screamed and ran back up to the eighteenth floor. He hammered at the stairwell door and tugged at the knob.

Douglas helped Albina hobble up the steps to the landing; he pulled Jesus away from the door. “Don’t be a fool, you can’t get in that way; it’s locked after seven.”

“What the hell are we gonna do?” Jesus demanded.

“We can’t stay here and fry, man!” His eyes widened.

“Oh, God,” he sobbed, “look!”

Smoke had started to seep under the stairwell door.

Smoke traveled up, Douglas thought. And so did the fire.

The eighteenth floor was now probably on fire, as well as the seventeenth. That meant they had to go up-all the way up, to the Promenade Room. Every stairwell door along the way would be locked, every one but the top one. He had dined one evening in the Promenade Room and discovered what he thought had been the men’s room door had actually been the door to the stairwell; there had been no difficulty re-entering once the door had closed behind him.

Apparently the fire doors at the top and bottom of the stairwell were kept open.

“We’ve got to go up,” he said slowly. “We’re cut off down below.”

He helped Albina up the next flight. She suddenly turned at the landing and glared at him suspiciously.

“How far? How far up?”

“All the way up to the top.”

“You’re crazy, man!” Jesus spat. “That’s more than forty stories.

We ain’t ever going to make that. Mama can’t make that!”

“You got a better idea?” Douglas asked coldly. “It’s either go up or stay here and suffocate or burn. It’s the only chance we’ve got.

Take it or leave it.” He turned to Albina. “You understand?”

She nodded, her face impassive. “Albina understand.”

They started up the steps again. Behind him, Douglas could hear Jesus making vomiting sounds. Moments later, Douglas heard the scrape of his shoes on the stairs.

It was going to be a long walk, he thought-and the air was already heavy with smoke.