The Glass Inferno

CHAPTER 70

The UH-1 settled slowly to the terrazzo plaza, bounced slightly; the pilot cut the power and the rotors slowed.

Infantino said, “We’re here, Craig,” and Barton blinked and unbelted.

He felt old and tired and desperately in need of both a bath and a bed. He pushed back the copter door and stepped out into the cold. Small flakes of snow were still falling, the winds still whipping across the plaza.

“It’s all over,” Infantino said quietly.

“Not completely,” Barton said dryly. A group of reporters and cameramen had surrounded the helicopter and surged forward as the blades came to a halt. Flash bulbs lit up the night and the questions tumbled at them one after the other, half of them torn away by the wind.

“Later!” Barton shouted. “Later! There’s still a lot we’ve got to do!” He pushed through the crowd of newsmen, who now turned their barrage of questions on Infantino.

At the edge of the crowd, he sensed somebody at his side.

“Mr..Barton?”

He glanced around, ready to fend off another reporter, then relaxed.

“Hello, Dan how’s Griff?”

“The doctors say he’ll make it.” Garfunkel nodded at another group of reporters and evacuees a hundred feet away. “Your wife and the Lerouxes came through okay.

They’re shaken up and Leroux has a sprained wrist, but nothing worse than that.”

“Thanks, Dan.” Barton took a breath. “Is there a final census on the building? Anybody still unaccounted for?”

“The firemen have pretty well gone through it floor by floor,” Garfunkel said slowly. “There were more casualties than we had thought-thirty-one deaths from various causes, mostly burrs and smoke inhalation. Thank God, it was the start of the long weekend. We haven’t been able to account for Lex Hughes, one of the accountants at National Curtainwall, and several others. I suppose they’ll find them when they go through the ruins.” He gestured at the tarpaulin-covered sculpture. “There hasn’t been a positive identification of the woman yet, though we’re pretty sure we know who she was.”

A conservatively dressed man walked up and suddenly interrupted.

“Mr. Barton,” he said smoothly, “I’d like to have a moment with you.

Brian of International Surely.

We-“

“Mr. Brian,” Barton said carefully, “you really don’t want to talk with me and, to be frank, I don’t want to talk with you. I’m not even sure I work for Curtainwall any more. The man you want to see is Wyndom Leroux.”

“But it will only take-“

“Mister,” Barton said, his voice thick with exhaustion and annoyance, “I’m too damned tired to be polite, to you or anybody else. Now get lost. Go see Leroux-it’s his building.”

The man stared at him’ for a second, then abruptly turned and half ran, half walked toward the far group that included Leroux. Barton glanced around for Infantino, then noticed that Mario had torn himself away from the reporters and was over at the comm van, struggling out of his proximity suit. Good idea, Barton thought, and started to undo the latches on his own. In it he had felt like an aluminum-clad Santa Claus looking for his stainless steel reindeer. ‘Tis the season, he thought sourly….

It was winding down, Infantino thought. Crews would still be at work through the early morning but they would be primarily salvage companies. The bulk of the companies had completed their mission and were draining hoses on the plaza and rolling them up. Others were stowing tools and respirators while still others were in the basement cafeteria catching a quick cup of coffee before returning to their firehouses.

He contacted his battalion chiefs one by one, taking a brief moment for small talk and compliments before giving them their final orders.

Chief Jorgenson came out of the lobby clutching a cup of coffee and a candy bar he had filched from the cigar stand.

“Chief, how do we thank you?”

Jorgenson managed to smile. “Don’t worry about it; the city will send you a bill. Then there’s always the possibility we’ll have to ask your help someday.” They shook hands and Jorgenson was gone.

Infantino found Captain Miller in the lobby and asked for a casualty report. Miller took a notebook from his pocket and began to go through the depressing details.

Who was it who had said it? Infantino thought bleakly.

The brightest and the best - - . Gilman, Lencho, a dozen others.

“What about Chief Fuchs?” he asked at last.

Miller shook his head. “Both legs crushed; he’ll probably lose a lung. He’ll be in intensive care for … Well, better ask the doctors, they didn’t know when I talked to them a few minutes ago.

He’ll make it, but it’ll be strictly a desk job for him from now on in.

He’ll never go near a fire again The old man should have known better, Infantino thought bitterly. But if it had been him and it had been his son, who knows………. What about young Fuchs?”

“Minor injuries; they’ll probably hold him a day and release him.”

Miller added automatically, “Good man, by the way.”

“Yeah, I know-he learned it all from his father.” A department inspector came up and handed him a note.

He read it slowly, thanked the man, and walked outside to the plaza.

His car was at the curb. He took off his helmet and wiped his eyes, wondering how she had talked her way through the police lines.

Then he noticed that Doris was a passenger and that one of the rookies was driving. He walked over and she saw him and rolled the window down.

“You should be home in bed,” he said quietly. his eyes were drinking her in.

“You, too,” she said “There’s still some winding down to do, but I think they can do it without me. Worried?”

“Not too much,” she said, but Infantino could tell she was lying.

He reached through the window and squeezed her hand, then opened the rear door and got in the back seat. She came back to join him.

“You got anything to eat at home?”

“There’s a steak in the refrigerator.”

“That’ll do,” he said softly, “that’ll do just fine.” He suddenly spotted Barton crossing the street and rolled down the window to shout, “Hey, Craig, can I see you as soon as you’re free?” Barton yelled, “Be back in a minute,” and Infantino leaned back in the soft seat.

“Christ, I’m tired.” He leaned over into the warmth of his wife’s body and was dozing in seconds. Doris put her arm around him and didn’t move, even though the position was a little cramped and awkward for her. She ran her fingers lightly through his hair and watched the parade of tired men roll up their hoses on the plaza and climb in their trucks and silently roll away. An ambulance a few cars ahead caught her eyes and she watched it curiously for a moment. A woman -one of the cleaning women, by the look of her dress-was being loaded into it, while a heavy-set man in his forties and a young boy were watching.

She wondered idly if they were related somehow …

The ambulance doors closed and Douglas turned to Jesus and said, “Don’t worry, she’ll be all right. A little smoke and a sprain; they’ll probably let her out in a day or two.”

“Sure, man, I know,” Jesus said. He didn’t meet Douglas’ eyes.

He was beginning to shiver again.

“You riding with us, buddy?” the driver called from the front seat.

“Yeah, I’ll be coming along,” Jesus shouted. He turned back to Douglas, suddenly looking him straight in the face. “Look, man, would you come along? Mama would like it and so would I.”

“I’d like to,” Douglas said, “but I can’t. I have to meet someone.”

Jesus’ eyes flicked away again. “Sure, man, I understand.”

They stood there in silence for a moment, Jesus looking small and slight in the old turnout coat that a fireman had given him. “The street’s a crappy place for a human being,” Douglas said at last.

“It’s none of my business but I’d like to see you off of it.”

“It is your business, man!” Jesus suddenly said violently. He shook his head, trying to say something. “Okay, okay, I’ll try.”

“I know people who can probably get you a job,” Douglas started.

Jesus interrupted. “You were really great, man.” He suddenly squeezed Douglas’ arm and Douglas reached out absently and grabbed his hand. He stood for an instant, holding it, then gave it a firm handshake. There was a fleeting return squeeze and Jesus walked around the ambulance and started to climb in. He turned and yelled, “You take it easy’ fat man.”

And then Douglas had it. “I know a furrier,” he shouted. “He needs somebody to help out around the ‘shop.”

Jesus paused, half in and half out of the ambulance.

Douglas could see his withdrawal symptoms were returning, now that the excitement was over. Jesus managed a smile, his eyes bright.

“Hey, you mean it, man? I can tell fox from rabbit at a hundred feet!

I’ll see you tomorrow, no, I mean Monday! Next time I’ll even knock!”

“I’ll be expecting you!” Douglas shouted. Then the driver reached out and pulled Jesus inside. The ambulance roared away.

Douglas waved and watched it go. Not Monday, he thought. The kid would be looking for a fix again. Maybe in a week? In a month? He turned to leave, then glanced back at the receding ambulance. It wasn’t that easy; you didn’t Turn your back and just walk away. There were doctors he knew, welfare workers who could get Jesus into a methadone treatment center or a halfway house.

What Jesus really needed was somebody to give a damn.

He smiled to himself. Concern. That was the only real requirement for a self-elected foster father. Everything else was minor.

Then the excitement and the euphoria drained away and he suddenly realized he was all alone-alone with the twin disasters of a bankrupt business and the collapse of a relationship he wasn’t sure he could live without.

Which wasn’t quite true; he could live without it, but the question was whether life would be worth living. He walked away slowly back across the plaza, stepping over the tangle of hoses and unconsciously making a wide detour around the canvas-sheathed sculpture.

“Ian! Ian Douglas!” He turned. Larry was running toward’him, the smile on his face one of intense relief.

Then he was up to Douglas and hugging him. “My God, Ian, they told me all about it. They told me all about you!”

Douglas took a breath. “They didn’t tell you everything,” he said sadly. He explained what he had almost done and that the firm was bankrupt.

Larry looked puzzled. “Ian, there was no need for that.

In the first place, we would have gone into Chapter Eleven, not bankruptcy. The second thing is there was no need for it in the first place. We’re not bankrupt, we’re not anywhere near it. At least we won’t be.”

He had to have it out, Douglas’ thought. If it tore him apart in the middle of the plaza, he had to have it out.

“Look, Larry, I’m getting older. It’s a tough thing to admit; I don’t suppose it’s anything that anybody likes to admit. It’s natural that you should-well, become interested in somebody else.”

Larry looked puzzled. “ian, I don’t understand, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“I saw you at lunch,” Douglas started. “Oh, it’s none of my business, but . .

“You mean Mitch,” Larry said finally. “The guy I had lunch with at Belcher’s one day. He’s an old friend …”

friend, Ian. He’s happily married and he’s got four kids.

He manages e motel chain and we were talking about the decorating contract for the Midwest.” He suddenly slapped Douglas on the back.

“And we got it, Ian! If we don’t do anything else for the next two years we’ll make a fortune!”

He paused and quieted a little. “ian, for as long as I can remember, you’ve been carrying the weight for both of us. I thought it was about time to do my share.”

“I wish you had told me,” Douglas said. He felt slightly miffed.

“Do you begrudge me a surprise, Ian?”.

Douglas smiled. “No, I guess I don’t.” He suddenly remembered something and reached into his pocket and pulled out the netsuke of the water buffalo. “I tried to save the ‘Minotaurmachie’ and I couldn’t.

But I managed to save this. I guess I’ve always liked it-and it’s one of a kind.” - Larry took it and turned it over in his hand for a moment, half caressing it. “One of a kind,” he repeated.

He suddenly looked up at Douglas. “Ian,” he said quietly, “why did you doubt me?”

“Jealous, I guess,” Douglas admitted. He looked away and his voice suddenly cracked “I guess I’m getting old.”

His friend’s arm was suddenly around his shoulder.

“Man, I’ve got news for you,” he said softly. “I don’t know anybody who’s getting younger. The car’s down this way.” Larry had parked just ahead of Jernigan’s distinctive Mustang with the broad blue racing stripe; Douglas would’ve known it anywhere.

Jernigan’s wife was behind the wheel. Douglas knew her only slightly but nodded to her as he passed. As they pulled out, he could see Jernigan walking toward his car, along with Garfunkel…

“It’s been a helluva night,” Garfunkel said. “There’s not too much more that we can do here; you get on home with your wife.”

Jernigan nodded. “Thanks a lot, Dan-sure you don’t need me here?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” He paused. “Something I want to ask you. You ever play pro ball any time?”

Jernigan looked surprised. “No, why do you ask?”

“I heard about the catches you made. I figured-you know-that you had pro experience or something.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Dan. I may look it, but the only thing I ever caught in my life was a cold.”

They stood awkwardly by the car a moment, Jernigan waiting for Garfunkel to say something more. Garfunkel picked idly at a piece of dirt on the door, then said: “That woman who works with Mamie-she don’t really have to be a knockout or anything. I mean, you know, like she’s pleasant to be with? I’m getting a little old for the foxy ones.”

Jernigan grinned. “Mamie’s told her a lot about you.

I think you’D like each other a lot. Just don’t get upset at Leroy.

I figure we won’t eat until early evening so you’ll have time to catch a nap before you come over.”

He suddenly reached out and squeezed Garfunkel’s shoulder.

“Mamie’s a damn good cook, man, you’ve got no idea!”

Jernigan opened the door and slid into the right-hand seat. “You drive, Mamie, I’m bushed.”

“I figured. What were you and Garfunkel talking about?”

“I’m sorry, should’ve told you right off. You’ve got an extra mouth to feed tonight. Mr. Garfunkel’s giving us the pleasure of his company. And don’t get a big head about your cooking-I think he wants to meet your friend.”

Mamie sighed and started the car. “Make that three more mouths to feed.”

“Three?” He was suddenly wide awake. “What do you mean, three?”

“Jimmy and his wife were evicted. He showed up with all his baggage and said he was willing to ignore his intense natural dislike of you and honor us with his presence.”

“That’s all I need,” Jernigan said, tired. “Where the hell you going to put them?”

“I’ll find a place.”

“Just so long as they don’t wind up sleeping in our bed.”

Mamie chuckled quietly. “Not a Chance!”

“Then I really don’t give a damn,” Jernigan said. He yawned, nuzzled closer to his wife, and fell immediately asleep. She keyed the starter and moved slowly out into the street, beeping once at Garfunkel as he trudged slowly back to the building. He turned and waved and then disappeared down the steps into the lower lobby.

Garfunkel helped himself to coffee, ladled in the cream and a couple of spoonfuls ‘of sugar, and looked around the lunchroom for a place to sit. Most ‘ of the tables were taken up by firemen and policemen going off duty, then he spotted Donaldson at a table by himself, his pinkish-red hair streaked with soot and no longer neatly combed over his bald spot.

“Mind if I sit down?”

“You already are,” Donaldson pointed out. “Hen, you’ll be somebody to talk to besides the hose and hatchet boys. What’ve you heard about Griff?”

“He’ll live,” Garfunkel said shortly. “It wasn’t as bad as we had feared. He’ll even be able to come back to work.”

Donaldson cheered up. “It’ll be good to see his fat face around, telling me how to do my job.”

Garfunkel gulped at his coffee, then suddenly noticed Lisolette Mueller and an older man-what was his name?

Claiborne?-at the next table over. They were, he noticed, holding hands on top of the table. He nudged Donaldson. “I guess you’re never too old at that.”

Donaldson followed his eyes. “Christ, I should hope not,” he said fervently.

…

At the next table, Lisolette said quietly, “I’m sorry I worried you so much, Harlee, but I was afraid that nobody would think of the Albrechts.”

“I didn’t know where you went,” Claiborne said, trying to act put out but not quite succeeding. “I was …

quite concerned.”

“I couldn’t leave a note,” she said. “It would have taken too much time. And if I had stayed until you returned, I was afraid you would tell me all the logical reasons why I shouldn’t do it.”

“It was a very brave thing to do,” he said quietly.

The strain and the fatigue now began to catch up with Lisolette and tears started to leak down her face. “Do you think they’ll be all right, Harlee?”

He pulled his chair around so he could put a comforting arm around her. “I’m sure they win,” he said softly.

“I’m quite sure they will.” He paused. “Their uncle came for the children. They didn’t want to leave you.”

She nodded and then got a little control of herself.

“What will you do now?”

“I’m not sure,” he said thoughtfully. “I have no relatives to hold me here, and very few friends… .”

Lisolette drew back, her face puzzled. “What about me?”

“Lisa,” he said slowly, “I tried to take your money.

They call it ‘conning’ someone. I give people some charm and in turn they give me some money. It’s not a nice way to make a living.”

“Did you never … like your ‘ladies’?” Lisolette asked.

“Lisa, I liked them all!” he said proudly.

The sparkle was suddenly back in her eyes. “A gentleman can be forgiven his indiscretions.”

“Gentleman?”

“Yes, gentleman.” She leaned back in her chair and was suddenly all business. “Harlee, I have a friend in the travel agency business who would be absolutely delighted to have such a charming man as you among her employees.” She put a hand to his mouth as he started to object.

“It’s hardly charity. There are tours to be arranged for retired people, schoolteachers who may be more interested in the ruins of Greece than where the ‘swinger’ spots in Athens are, that kind of clientele. They have no faith in a younger person, in somebody who’s never seen the world as I’m sure you have.”

“Thank you very much, Lisa,” he said sincerely. “But there are little legal matters . .

She smiled. “I doubt that any of your ladies would have her heart more set on revenge rather than restitution.”

“And you?” he asked.

There was a hint of a smile on her face now, the sort of hint that made her seem years younger and suddenly a little opaque to him. How long had it been since he had felt quite uncertain around a woman? he wondered.

“Hey, fellas, look what I found wandering around the thirty-fifth floor!”

Lisolette and Harlee automatically turned toward the door where a fireman stood holding a spitting, slightly drenched cat.

“Schiller!” The cat bounded over and Lisolette scooped him up, her nose wrinkling at the smoky, slightly singed odor to his fur.

The fireman came over and took off his helmet. “I’m glad he’s yours, lady, though my kids would’ve loved him.

I figure he’s only got one life left anyway-he must have used up eight of them just surviving up there.”

“Thank you very much,” Lisolette said. She stood up and Harlee followed after her to the line of cabs on the far side of the plaza.

“We might as well stay in the same hotel until we can move back in,” Harlee said. He added.firmly: “I have no intention of losing track of you, you know.” He held the cab door open for her and nodded to two women passing by. They had been with the party sitting behind them up in the Promenade Room….

Thelma Leroux acknowledged the greeting and continued talking intently to Jenny. “I hope I haven’t been too forward. There was a lot to be said tonight and it seemed as if the opportunity might never come again.”

“No,” Jenny said quietly. “Somebody should have said it to me a long time ago. It’s very hard for someone like me to see life in that way-but I’ll try.”

“It’s not all that bad and you have a good husband.

He’s worth trying to hang on to.”

Impulsively, Jenny hugged the older woman. “Thelma, thank you so very much.” Thelma smiled and said, “I’d better get over to Wyn-the reporters have cornered him and he’ll need moral support.” She walked quickly away, turned once and waved, then disappeared into the crowd.

Jenny looked around for Barton and spotted him at the edge of the plaza, in deep conversation with a burly-looking man, somebody she didn’t know at all. She hesitated a moment, not wishing to interrupt….

Will Shevelson said, “Well, Barton, I guess you won’t be needing me any more.”

“What can I say, Will? Without the blueprints Shevelson shrugged.

“Do me a favor and don’t send them back.” He glanced up at the building briefly. “Whatever I felt for it is gone now. It’s just another photograph on the wall of my den.” He laughed a little. “Just another pretty face.” He turned away. “Take care of yourself, Barton.”

“You, too, Will.”

Jenny came up then and Barton silently put his arm around her shoulder and walked over to the crowd. Leroux had broken away from the reporters for a moment, the police holding back the cameramen. Barton said quietly, “I want to speak to him alone for a moment; Jenny. Be right back.”

Leroux noticed him at the same time and left Thelma to meet him.

“I can guess what you’re going to say, Craig.”

“That I’m quitting? You’re right. Any reason why I shouldn’t?”

Leroux was abruptly intense and for a second the plaza and the night fell away, leaving the two of them isolated from the rest of the world.

“Lots of reasons, Craig. Good professional reasons. Good personal reasons. Probably the most important one is that right now I need you more than I ever have.”

Barton was quiet for a long moment and the world gradually came back.

The snow struck, melted, and ran down his face. The sharp wind was cold against his back and the plaza stank of smoke and fire and death.

The man in front of him suddenly seemed shrunken in stature, a man who pleaded rather than offered. A man growing jowly and old who had been too anxious for just one more cast of the dice.

“We’re quits, Wyn. I’m tired of working for a pyramid builder.

Maybe I think pyramids are out of style. I’d,like to build places for people to live in, rather than ware, houses in which to store them.”

“She was your baby,” Leroux said softly. “She can be rebuilt-rebuilt the way you want her. She’s still structurally sound.

You know we can do it.”

Barton stared up at the ice-encrusted building by Leroux and for the first time could see nothing of him in it. It was a different building than the one he designed, he thought. There was no reason to pretend an attachment that no longer existed.

“I’m sorry, Wyn, I’m not interested.”

Leroux’s face became that of a stranger. “all right, Barton. I hope you never regret it because I’ll never take you back.”

He turned to go and had gotten about three steps away when Barton suddenly asked: “Why did you do it, Wyn?”

Leroux hesitated, then turned back to him. “Some of our interim financing fell through at the last minute,” he said calmly. “We couldn’t find additional financing in time and it was either cut the size of the building or pull in our belt as far as it would go. Too much depended on it, Barton. I didn’t build the building you wanted-but if it’s any satisfaction to you, I didn’t build the one that I wanted, either.”

Barton watched him walk across the plaza to where Thelma stood.

He couldn’t be sure but it looked as if Leroux were leaning on her as they walked away.

Jenny was at his side now and said quietly, “Was it difficult?”

“To quit?” He shook his . he . ad. “No, it was easy.” He thought for a moment. “He’s not unique, Jenny. He cut a lot of corners but then most builders do. The real tragedy is that he’s ‘not the man he thought he was.”

They walked slowly along the line of parked cars toward Infantino’s. Through the window, Barton could see Infantino dozing on his wife’s shoulder. She started to wake him up and Barton made a shushing sound with his finger, then reached through the partly opened window and gently shook Infantino’s shoulder. “Hey, smokeeater, wake up!”

Infantino shook himself awake, glanced at Barton and started to say something, and then suddenly frowned.

Behind them, Barton could hear Quantrell shouting: “Something for the wrap-up, Chief? Any indication it was arson or what might-have started the fire?”

It took a moment for Infantino to focus his eyes and then he said calmly, “There’ll be a statement from the public relations department later in the morning. If you get there early maybe you’ll be fourth in line.”

Quantrell stared at him steadily for a moment. “I’ve got a long memory, Infantino.”

He turned on his heel to leave and Infantino shouted after him: “You’ve got a big mouth, too!” He turned back to Barton. “Craig, can you make it down to the department later today? We’ll need a statement “Sure thing,” Barton said. And then: “Mario, any idea how it started?

Was it arson?”

Infantino shook his head. “I talked with the inspectors -they don’t think so. Earlier this evening, they found part of a broken brandy bottle in between some half-burned mats in one of the utility rooms on seventeen.

Funny, you would’ve expected it to be completely consumed but part of the label was even intact. Matted cotton burns, but I guess in this case, it acted partly as insulation. Anyway, they presume somebody stashed the bottle, lit a cigarette, and probably stubbed out the match on the matting before leaving the room. Just a guess, it’s hard to really tell.”

“Brandy?” Barton said slowly. “I can imagine who put it there.”

He told Infantino about Krost and his constant tippling. “Poor, stupid, incompetent bastard.”

Infantino yawned. “There’re plenty of those in the world, Craig.

It’s full of grown-up kids playing with matches. There’s always one of them ready to do the one stupid thing that ends up in this kind of disaster.”

“It could have been anybody,” Barton said. “Or any building.”

Infantino nodded. “And it could happen again. It will happen again;’ He laughed cynically and rested his head again on Doris’ shoulder. “It’s like death and taxes, Craig.

It’s inevitable.”

“And that’s why we have firemen.”

“That’s a real comforting thought, Craig. Thanks a lot.” He suddenly smiled, said, “See you around, buddy,” and signaled to the driver. The car started up and Barton could see Infantino’s head loll suddenly to one side, was asleep already.

He watched the car turn slowly into the traffic, then glanced down at Jenny. “Where to now, Jenny?”

“Home,” she said simply.

He frowned. “Southport’s a long way away.”

“I didn’t mean Southport,” she said quietly. “I mean home-any place where you are.” She looked up at him.

“The nearest hotel will be fine. We both could use some sleep and after that”-she paused-“I think we ought to try and get to know each other.”

He gripped her arm and they started walking toward the string of cabs.

The dark clouds are clearing now, The wounded building in the healing embrace of cold air and pelting snow. It is early morning and the salvage crews are seeking out the last sparks of the fire and destroying them. In one corner of the penthouse, which the salvage crews have not yet reached, a spark glows brightly in a shattered section of expensive walnut paneling. A breeze fans across it. The spark flares, touches a splintered piece of wood, and for a moment the pale ghost of the beast is, outlined against the cold morning air.

Then a chilling wind blows through the opening, driving rain and sleet before it. The small flame sputters and blackens, a tiny wisp of smoke marking where it had been.

The beast is dead.