The Glass Inferno

CHAPTER 51

“Get a vertical shot past the hose trucks!” Quantrell yelled.

Kimbrough, the cameraman, broke into a shambling run toward the street.

Quantrell held his breath. If the bastard slipped on the water-covered ice five grand worth of camera equipment in the pod on Kimbrough’s shoulder would go all to hell. Kimbrough got into position and Quantrell turned to Zimmerman, the young reporter.

“Al, see if you can get a short interview with the cop who was standing near the young couple when the kid got hit by the flying glass. Don’t let it get too clinical-play the youth-on-a-thrill-trip angle.”

“Right,” Zimmerman said and was gone. Good man, Quantrell thought briefly; at least he knew who was in charge. He looked back at Kimbrough; he was in the middle of the street behind the hose trucks, using them to frame the building for the shot. He knelt down and pointed the camera up to get more of a tower effect to the building; Quantrell automatically followed the angle of the camera, trying to imagine what the shot would look like on screen. It was then that he spotted the thin streak of fire tracing its way across the night sky.

He followed it down as it resolved itself into the figure of a partially clad woman, clutching a mattress. Halfway down the mattress was torn from her hands and he could see her flaming hair and nightgown streaming behind her.

She was going to hit in the plaza, very close to him. The small army of firemen in the plaza also spotted her and scattered wildly: Quantrell watched with almost hypnotic fascination, the seconds seeming like hours in his mind. Then his eyes were on a level with the huge aluminum and Plexiglass light sculpture, caked with ice but still lit, before the building. He barely had time to think not there, not there.

He turned his head; there was a sound like a thousand crystal glasses shattering.

He yelled to Kimbrough, “Get that!” The men on the plaza were shouting. Two men from one of the trucks ran forward with a tarpaulin.

Kimbrough was already whirring away and Quantrell wondered if there would be anything usable in the footage-probably nothing beyond a quick scan of the broken sculpture and the two firemen racing toward it with the canvas cover.

Quantrell himself hadn’t taken a closer look, hadn’t been able to force himself to. There had been that time years before when the kid in the university town had set fire to himself in front of City Hall to protest the Vietnam war. Quantrell had been a guest lecturer in the journalism school at the time and had gotten close enough to the corpse to recognize it as one of the students in his lecture class. The one who had Asked the most questions, who had seemed the most deeply concerned about the impact of.the media on society … He would find out.soon enough who she had been; he could dub in an excited “on the spot” commentary later..

“Jan, get a fresh cassette?” The blond girl who was with him dug in her equipment bag and pulled one out for him. He dropped it in his tape recorder and began to dictate commentary as harried-looking firemen ran past him. A brief description of the thick layer of ice on the plaza and the sidewalk with the thin slick of water on top, the steadily falling puffy flakes of snow that kept turning the scene into a Grand Guignol Christmas card, the wind and the acrid smell of smoke in the cold, sharp air, and the bottom third of the glass House sheathed in a thick mantle of ice-a palace right out of a fairy tale.

And, of course, the flames and smoke pouring from the upper stories …

While dictating, he glanced occasionally over at Jan who was jotting down her own notes on the scene. Quiet, efficient, in her early twenties, and a stunning looker. if Sandy left him, he thought, he might not have nearly as many regrets as he had imagined. Jan was a reporter who could do things that Sandy could not. Maybe a lot of things that Sandy could not-or would not.

Kimbrough came back and Quantrell quickly collared ů a young fireman who was hurrying past. “Hey, Mac, got a minute?”

The fireman muttered, “What do you think?” He tried to sidestep him but Quantrell kept getting in his way.

“Can you at least tell us your name?”

The fireman looked uncertain, then paused and said reluctantly, “Jim Artaud.” Kimbrough was getting the action now as Quantrell started talking rapidly into his microphone. “We’re talking with Fireman Jim Artaud in the plaza before the blazing National Curtainwall Building.

Jim, how many floors are involved in the fire now?”

Artaud looked uncomfortable, realizing, too late, that he was trapped.

“I’ve got to go,” he protested.

“Just one minute, Jim,” Quantrell said smoothly. “You can spare that.”

“Well, at the moment floors sixteen through twenty-five are heavily involved. Sixteen and seventeen had been pretty well knocked down before and the fires on eighteen and twenty-one were being contained-then the explosions occurred. After that, all hell broke loose.”

“What about the fire at the top, Jim?”

“That’s a gas fire-at least it was when it started. The gas lines serving the upper ‘floors ruptured after the explosions and that set it off. I’m not sure how bad it is now.”

“What plans does Chief Infantino have for fighting a fire on the sixty-fourth floor?”

Artaud looked at him as if he were stupid. “Look,’man, the electrical system is completely knocked out, which means the building’s booster pumps aren’t working.

There’s no way to fight that fire, no way at all-we can’t get water up that high.”

For a moment Quantrell just stared. He hadn’t thought.

of that. He had imagined it would be difficult, a difficulty that would make for an even more sensational story. But he hadn’t thought it would be impossible. He was suddenly aware of his own silence and quickly said, “You mean that the fires on the top floors will simply burn out of control?”

Artaud nodded. “That’s right, unless they can figure out some way of jury-ring it so there’s juice for the boosters. Look, mister, I’ve got to go.” He turned and ran for the building. Quantrell faced the camera head-on.

“That’s it for the moment, ladies and gentlemen. While the major portion of your city’s fire-fighting force is still embattled on the eighteenth through the twenty-fifth floors, the fire also rages at the very top of the Glass House with no immediate prospects of either fighting it or containing it.” He paused as Zimmerman hurried up and handed him a note. Quantrell glanced down at it and then looked grave as he faced the camera once more.

“Ladies and gentlemen, as you recall from our bulletin of ten minutes ago, an explosion of a high-pressure steam line in the Glass House rekindled the fire on the lower floors as well as starting a new blaze at the very top. I have just been told that it did considerably more than that. The explosion has destroyed a good portion of the south facing of the building’s utility core. In doing so, it wrecked the guide rails of the scenic elevator being used to evacuate diners from the Promenade Room lounge.

The elevator with its last load of passengers was on its way down when the explosion occurred and is now stranded at about the twenty-fifth floor with an unknown number of passengers aboard.

Whether any of them were injured in the explosion is also unknown at this time. We will continue live coverage of the fire at the National Curtainwall Building-the worst fire disaster in our city’s history-throughout the night. This is your K.Y.S reporter Jeffrey Quantrell. Please stay tuned.”

He turned to Kimbrough. “That’s enough of me for now,” and called Zimmerman over. “Kimbrough, get some shots of the elevator. We can handle the commentary with voice over. Al, try and find a cop or a fireman who saw the explosion from the outside, from the plaza.” As Kimbrough walked away, Quantrell called after him: “And try and get some footage of the cascade of ice on the west face-it makes the building look like a popsicle.”

He stood for a moment staring up at the Glass House.

He was shaken from his reverie by Jan. “It’s a beautiful building, isn’t it?” she asked.

“It was,” he corrected.

“I’ve seen film clips of a high-rise fire in Sdo Paulo, Brazil.

All forty floors ‘ were on fire; it was one solid torch. Even the buildings across the street were going up from the radiant heat.”

He nodded. “I’ve seen them, too.”

“Can you imagine the Glass House going up like that’ She shivered.”

He was suddenly wary. “I’m not sure I ever thought of it.”

She laughed. “You’re lying, it would be impossible not to.” She was right, he thought. In his mind’s eye, he could see the Glass House in flames for its full sixty-six stories.

It would be a frightening, exciting, and, in its own way, beautiful sight. A part of him shied from the horror while another part contemplated it with a morbid fascination.

“You trying to tell me something?”

She smiled without much warmth. “You’re getting too involved.”

“And that’s bad?”

“Not for tonight. A week from now, yes.”

“There’re always stories,” he said quietly. “They may take some digging but they’re there.”

She looked at him curiously and he had the feeling that she was studying him like he was a dying species.

“Not like this one. Is there anything particular you might want me to do?”

“Talk to some of the tenants,” he said dryly. “Get some on-the-spot interviews.” He watched her walk Away, noticing the slight, confident swing to her hips. He had misjudged her, he thought.

She wasn’t the Girl Friday type after all-she was future competition.

And she would use her assets-all of them-quite as coldly and dispassionately as he used his. He was staring at the future and as far as she was concerned, the issue was already decided.

He turned away and checked his tape recorder. Infantino would be reluctant to talk but there were ways of making him. A few judicious goads and Infantino would blow up. A little editing-well, it was ingenious what you could do with a taped interview and a splicer.

He had no desire at all to misrepresent Infantino’s views, just heighten them dramatically by removing the redundancies and qualifications. It was a tight moral line to walk, but news was first of all drama, a fact of life that Quantrell had learned long ago.

He found Infantino standing by the CD communications van, talking with another man. When Quantrell got closer, he recognized Will Shevelson. What the hell was he doing here? But, of course, he couldn’t stay away.

Quantrell pulled the fur collar of his coat up around his ears and shivered as a sudden blast of cold air raced through the canyon streets. He felt uneasy running into both Shevelson and Infantino at the same time; by now they must have compared notes and probably elected him villain of the year. He looked hastily around for Kimbrough and spotted him in the lee of one of the fire trucks, reloading his camera before he caught the elevator shot.

Well, the elevator could wait; it wasn’t going anyplace.

He caught Kimbrough’s eye and motioned at the van.

Kimbrough nodded.

There was no sense trying to be social; neither one of them would buy that. Get in, ask his questions and get the answers, and then get out.

“I understand it’s impossible to put the fire out on upper floors,” he said to Infantino.

“You didn’t hear it from me,” Infantino said curtly.

“Can you confirm or deny the report?”

“I don’t have to make a choice,” Infantino said coldly.

“The department gives out press releases after the fire, is over, not during.”

“In your opinion, would you say this is the work of an arsonist?”

“I’m not saying anything in my opinion,” Infantino said sharply.

He pointed at the cameraman. “Get your man out of here or I’ll have him thrown out; he’s in the way of the fire-fighting crews.”

Quantrell glanced quickly around. I don’t see any.”

“You’ve got to have twenty-twenty vision for this job,” Infantino said. “I can see them coming along any minute.

Now beat it.”

Kimbrough circled around to the left of Infantino, getting more of Quantrell and less of the division chief.

“Wasn’t the filling station in the garage against fire regulations?”

Quantrell persisted. Let Infantino throw him out; that would look great. And he knew that Infantino realized it as well. “Or did your department approve it?”

“No comment,” Infantino said dryly. “Whatever I could say might prejudice negotiations between the owner and the insurance company.”

“What about casualties from the fire So far?”

“No comment pending notification of next of kin.”

“I think the public would be interested in knowing how many persons have been hurt or have died by this time,” Quantrell said, not b(bothering to hide his annoyance.

Infantino smiled thinly. “I think the public would condemn any interviews by me at this time,” he said dryly and turned his back.

The bastard was learning, Quantrell thought. He turned to Shevelson.

“How do you feel about your predictions on the Glass House coming true, Mr. Shavelson?”

“Stuff it, will you, Quantrell?”

It took an effort but Quantrell kept his voice reasonable. “It seems to me that you would be pleased to see a perfect demonstration of your charges against Leroux’s skirting of good building practices. I don’t mean,” he added hastily, “that you feel anything but dismay about those who have been killed or wounded.”

“There’s another casualty,” Shevelson said tightly. “The Glass House itself. I helped build her-she’s part mine, with all her defects. I’m sorry, it doesn’t please me that she’s going up in flames.”

Quantrell motioned to Kimbrough and shoved the microphone toward Shevelson. “Do you have any other comments?”

Shevelson took the cigar out of his mouth and looked thoughtfully at Quantrell. “Yeah, you can kiss my sweet ass,” he said softly. He dropped his cigar on the ice where it sizzled briefly. “I think the chief told you to leave the area. If you need any help I’ll be glad to give you some.”

Quantrell motioned to Kimbrough and backed away.

“You called me, Shevelson, I didn’t call you. You were the one who wanted to spill his guts. You wanted revenge and I gave it to you-because it served the public interest. You’ll have more to say all right, but you’ll be saying it in the courts. Leroux’s a lead-pipe cinch for, indictment and you’re slated to be the chief prosecution witness. Or you will be when I tell the authorities you were my source.”

Shevelson spat on the ground, part of his spit splashing on Quantrell’s boot. “Get the hell out of here, Mac-and I don’t give a shit if you get this on film or not.” He took a threatening step, forward. Quantrell turned and walked away, with Kimbrough trailing behind. He couldn’t use the exchange on the air, it would only corroborate Clairmont’s charges of a vendetta. But his face burned and he felt like he was back in the sixth grade when the school bully had challenged him to a fight and he had run away. For twenty-five years he hadn’t been able to make up his mind whether he had backed down because he had been a coward or simply because it had been the smart thing to do. He knew at the time that if he fought, he, would be badly beaten. But for years now he wished he had been a dummy instead of the brightest one in the class-dumb enough to get the crap beat out of him back then so he wouldn’t spend the rest of his life doubting his own personal courage.

And then the wind came up and there were other things to think about and do. He walked back to the station’s mobile van to talk to the unit director who was handling the station’s live coverage of the fire.

“Jeff, we’re getting some beautiful shots from the helicopter.

You want to go on camera to handle them?” He gestured at the master monitor in front of him. The yawning image on the screen was an overhead shot that took in the whole side of the, building, including the shattered utility core.

“Sure, give me about five minutes, wig you? Kimbrough, get some footage of the elevator, will you? How many times do I have to ask?”

“Twice is enough,”. Kimbrough protested. “With a dozen other requests in between. Why the hell didn’t you slug him, Jeff? He would’ve creamed you but you would have felt better. Who knows, you might even have gotten in a lucky punch.”

Quantrell stepped outside with Kimbrough and watched him jog toward the side of the building. Quantrell turned, absently lit a cigarette, and stared into the snow-filled sky..

His gaze traveled over the light-washed plaza and stopped for a moment on the crumpled aluminum and Plexiglass sculpture. A tarpaulin had been pulled over the shattered base and the snow around the edges was only slightly pink now. Above thy deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars go by….

Poor creature, he suddenly thought. Poor, desperate creature. He wondered who she had been.