The Glass Inferno

CHAPTER 7

Well, the old saying was sure right, Krost thought to himself. It took a real drinker to recognize another drinker.

He smiled half crookedly with secret knowledge and said, “Mr. Donaldson said, you got trouble up here, Mr. Bigelow?”

Bigelow stared at him with red-rimmed eyes and read the same message.

“Back there,” he said curtly, jerking his head in the direction of the executive suite. Krost padded obediently after him through the storage room, glancing curiously about at the styrofoam Santa Clauses and reindeer; it looked like the toy section of a huge department store, he thought. Then they were in the suite itself and Bigelow was pointing an accusing finger at the refrigerator in the kitchen nook.

“How the hell can a man entertain a client without any ice? I don’t know what’s wrong with the damned thing, the light won’t even come on.”

“Yes sir, it sure must be inconvenient, but we’ll have it fixed in a jiffy, Mr. Bigelow.” His eyes were darting about the suite as he was talking.”If Bigelow was entertaining, there wasn’t much indication of it; he was the only one present in the suite, there were no coats on the sofa or business papers scattered over the coffee table or brief cases leaning against it.

Krost knelt down by the refrigerator. “I don’t know what’s wrong with companies any more, you get things right from the factory and quality check or something before they shipped them out but, no sir, they never seem to touch the things, it’s just sell ‘em and forget ‘em.” What was wrong was that the plug had been pulled out of the wall in back but it was hard to get at and not immediately noticeable. You’d have to get down -on your hands and knees and fish around in the dust behind the unit, but Bigelow didn’t look like the type who would be willing to wrinkle his trousers or get grease on his fancy, thick-heeled shoes. “Should have it fixed in a moment, Mr. Bigelow; doesn’t look like anything major.”

Bigelow was nervous and getting more so. “Just go ahead and fix it, don’t talk my ear off about it.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Bigelow, like I was telling Daisy the other night, you really can’t concentrate on anything difficult if you’re talking at the same time. If silence isn’t golden, at least it sometimes pays off.”

Krost spotted it then. The closed door, probably the bathroom, had to be the bathroom. And not a sound from it. He had left a pair of pliers on the counter and stood up to get them. Two glasses in the sink, one with a thick smear of red around the rim. Well, it just had to be that way; who would be entertaining a client on Thanksgiving Eve?

Maybe Donaldson was dumb enough to think so but he certainly wasn’t.

He made noises with the pliers for a moment, then pushed the plug into the wall socket and blinked at the sudden flood of light from the refrigerator in its darkened nook.

“I guess that’ll do it, okay, Mr. Bigelow?” He’d give a lot to know who was up there; Bigelow didn’t look like the hooker type. Maybe one of the secretaries who worked in the building; that’d make for a nice scandal, maybe even a profitable one. He slipped the pliers in his rear pocket and backed out of the nook.

“Yeah, that’ll do it,” Bigelow muttered, holding open the door at the other end of the suite. Then Krost caught something out of the corner of his eye and turned slowly to admire the view of the city through the huge windows.

He was right-a copy of Variety wedged between a couch cushion and the armrest. He wasn’t in any hurry to leave now.

“You sure do have a beautiful view from up here, Mr. Bigelow. Never seen the city look so nice before, even if it is raining.”

Bigelow stared at him for a second, then pulled out his wallet and found a five-dollar bill, folding it into Krost’s hand. “Thanks a lot for fixing the refrigerator,” he said grimly.

“I really appreciate it.”

Krost looked down at the bill. “Why, there’s no reason for you to go doing this, Mr. Bigelow! We maintenance people don’t charge for our services; it all comes with the rent …” He still didn’t move and Bigelow slowly pulled out another five, this time holding it just outside the door.

“I know what it’s like to be pulled away from your regular duties for something like this. I’m sorry I’ve kept you this long.” His looks were murderous and Krost knew the game was over, though he considered he had done rather well in playing it out for,an easy ten.

“Thanks again, Mr. Bigelow.” Once in the hall, Krost thought: Who did the dirty old bastard think he was kidding with that story about a buyer from out of town?

If there was any buyer, it was Bigelow himself and. the price he was paying was probably pretty steep. Women like Miss Elmon didn’t come cheap, that was for sure.

Hell, he hadn’t asked Bigelow to give him any money, he thought self-righteously; that was all Bigelow’s idea-his guilty conscience speaking. Then he remembered his electric lantern; he had left it on the kitchen counter. He thought of going back for it, then figured it wouldn’t be wise. ‘Not right then, at any rate.

He took the elevator back up to twenty-five and paused before the door of the Apex utility room, fumbling for his key. -God, he could use a drink right now; the least Bigelow could’ve done was to offer him one. Probably have saved him ten bucks in the bargain, but, of course, that had been guilt money….

It was then, with sudden panic, that he remembered the coffee cup with the immersion heater. Sweet Jesus, not again! He could feel the sweat start to pop on his forehead. He thrust the key in the lock and slammed into the room, to lean against the door with a sigh of relief.

The cup was just where he had left it, the heater leaning against the inside edge. Then he noticed there wasn’t any steam coming from the cup. He leaped for it, but not soon enough.

Krost reached for the wall plug at the precise moment the heater exploded. It was at that second in time that all the water in the cup boiled away and with no water to cool the coils, the aluminum covering melted and slumped.

The coils promptly short-circuited and the aluminum covering itself erupted in a shower of metal sparks. One of them hit the back of Krost’s hand and he swore and jerked his hand away, knocking over the Windex bottle.

The brandy spilled out on the porcelain table top and in a flash, the surface of the table was covered with flickering blue flames as the burning brandy spread.

Krost hastily tried to smother the flames with his bare hands, scorching the hair on the back of his knuckles, The flaming brandy was now dripping on the floor in front of the table and running in blazing little rivulets toward The solvent locker. Krost stomped frantically on the flames, then ran to the mop sink and grabbed up the mop leaning against it and swung the head against the fiery streams. The blue flames had just started to dance around the bottom of the locker when he brought the damp strings down on them, extinguishing them more by the violence of his action than by the faint moisture in the mop.

He turned back to the table. The puddle of brandy was already drying, the alcohol having burned itself out, but there was still some liquor in the tipped-over bottle.

Flames were puffing from its throat as the alcohol vaporized and burned at the mouth. Panicky, Krost lifted the mop and swung it down on the bottle, knocking it off the table to shatter on the floor. The brandy was all gone now, the last of the alcohol dying in a faint burst of azure.

Krost stood there gasping, frightened now by the heavy beating of his heart. It had almost been the Melton Building fire all over again but, thank God, this one he’d caught in time. He looked around. Jesus, what a mess … He got a broom from the locker and swept up the little pieces of glass, then wet the mop and scrubbed the floor and the table top. A flat piece of cardboard served as a dustpan. He brushed the shards of the cup and fused remains of the immersion heater onto it and started to dump them into a nearby trash barrel, then hesitated.

That’d be a dead giveaway. Instead, he wrapped the debris in paper towels from the locker and stuffed the thick wad into a pocket-he’d dispose of it on another floor.

Finally, he stood back and inspected the room. Except for the several burned spots on the table where droplets Of hot metal had splashed, there wasn’t anything to indicate there had been a fire. He put the spoon and the jars of coffee and dried cream back in the top locker and then washed out the mop. Nobody’d ever know, he thought.

The faint odor of brandy and the smell of burning metal had already disappeared into the air-conditioning ducts.

Now, sweet Jesus, he could really use a drink. The brandy was gone but there was more where it had originally come from-the wet bar and liquor display in Consolidated Distributors - on the twenty-second floor.

Well, why not? He had to check on the cleaning women anyway and he could get rid of the cup pieces and the fused heater up there, too.

Or … He teetered in the doorway, uncertain. He could always go back to where he had left the bottle he had brought to work. He considered it for a moment, then thought hell no, grinning to himself.

It was too early and, besides, he’d save that for dessert.

Consolidated was out of anything of real quality and along about midnight, he’d be in the mood for quality.

Krost was starting on a bender but as well as he knew himself, at that particular moment, he didn’t realize it.