The Glass Inferno Read online

  He nodded to one of the women whom he had met while working overtime during the dedication: Albina Obligado, a graying woman with a startling amount of gold in her white teeth. She was so pleasantly Earth Mother that he felt a small pleasure at seeing her again.

  One of the elevators emptied out and the cleaning women crowded in, Albina holding the doors open for Barton. He signaled for her to go ahead and press the call button for the end cage.

  Then something about marble cladding around the elevator bank caught his eye.

  The grout around the slabs was already crumbling. Sloppy workmanship, he thought, irritated. Then he frowned and took a closer look. It wasn’t real marble after all but a polyester synthetic.

  He’d never noticed it before, but then the synthetics were excellent visual copies. Still, he was damned sure it wasn’t what the architectural team responsible for the interiors had called for.

  Somewhere along the line, somebody had been sold a bill of goods.

  Another man joined him at the elevator and Barton nodded. One of the early commercial tenants whom he knew slightly; he and his partner ran an interior decorating shop on the floor below National Curtainwall’s executive offices. Brian-no, Ian-Douglas, a large man who always seemed to dress a shade too elegantly for his size; he was the type who had probably been a swimmer in college and was now tending to softness.

  About forty-five, Barton decided, a good ten years older than ‘his partner, whose name Barton couldn’t recall.

  “Lousy night,” Barton said idly.

  Douglas started. “Oh, yes, dreadful,” he mumbled. He didn’t say anything more and Barton decided something was on his mind. Business was probably bad and he was working late after having gone out for a quick supper.

  Too bad, it that were the case. Barton rather liked the big man, though his younger partner seemed a little selfconsciously … what did they call it?”

  “hutch”? Well, everybody had their hang-ups.

  The elevator doors slid silently open and they stepped in. Barton punched 18 for his floor and 17 for Douglas.

  The doors had just started to close when suddenly a tall, rail-thin man in a wrinkled janitor’s uniform. hurried toward them.

  “Hold it, fellas-hold it, will ya!”

  Barton stuck out his foot to intercept the photoelectric eye beam at the bottom of the elevator doors. They slid open again and the thin man scurried in, still puffing.

  “Thanks a lot, Mr. Barton.”

  “Any time, Krost,” Barton said indifferently. He had never liked Michael Krost, who was maintenance supervisor for five of the office floors, including those of National Curtainwall. A sour-looking, middle-aged man with a thick head of coarse, graying hair, there was a furtiveness about him that put Barton on edge. Word had it that Krost was a lush and had once been caught drinking on the job. For some reason, Leroux had interceded to save him. Probably for old time’s sake, Barton thought.

  Krost had come over from the Melton Building where National Curtainwall had been headquartered until they moved into the Glass House.

  “Sure good to have you back aboard, Mr. Barton,” Krost said.

  “Just the other night I was telling Daisy that you were out there on the West Coast showing them how a big architect and a construction team operate.

  Mr. Leroux must think a lot of you to send you out on a project like that.”

  Douglas retreated to the far end of the elevator to avoid the odor of stale beer and faintly mildewed clothing that hung around Krost like a fog. Barton ignored it.

  “What floor, Krost?”

  “Make it twenty for me, Mr. Barton.” Yellow teeth showed through in a thin smile. “Got to ride herd on them cleaning women up there, yes sir.”

  The cage stopped at seventeen and Douglas got out, obviously grateful to get away from Krost. Then it was Barton’s Turn, Krost shouting after him: “Daisy and I, we both hope you have a good weekend, Mr. Barton!”

  National Curtainwall’s offices occupied the entire floor, as well as a portion of the two above it. The entrance to the executive suites was at the far end and normally one ran the gamut of three secretaries before entering.

  Tonight, all the anterooms were deserted. Barton shucked out of his topcoat and draped it on the tree before entering the inner suite.

  A few lights glared in the Credit Union area, as well as some of the other offices. He might luck out and run into, somebody with some solid information after all, he thought hopefully. The Credit Union people, of course, would be working on accounts. NC employed close to five hundred people in the local offices alone and a lot of them must have withdrawn money or c paychecks for the long weekend.

  Barton snapped on the lights in his. office, dropped his small suitcase on the floor, and stepped over to the window to stare -out at the darkening city, half hidden by clouds and pelting sleet. They’d be spending the night in a hotel for sure; he wouldn’t drive out to Southport after supper for all the tea in China. And it might be a good time to talk to Jenny, to set some things right that had been going very wrong these last two years.

  He loosened his tie and hung his suit coat in the small office closet; then he started down the hall to see who might still be around.

  Lights glowed in the architects’ division. He walked into the first office, knocking on the door as he entered.

  “You ought to be home watching the tube, Joe, how come so late?” he asked. Joe Moore had left Wexler and Haines the same time he had and was one of the few men at NC with whom Barton felt genuinely comfortable, probably because he wasn’t a company man. Five, years younger than himself, Moore was a crackerjack architect whose only character flaw-if it could be considered a flaw-was that he preferred to spend his evenings bowling and his Saturday afternoons golfing rather than putting in overtime doing and dying for dear old Curtainwall.

  It wasn’t a lack of ambition, but rather a sense of proportion an out life, an attitude that Barton admired.

  Moore shifted his chair away from the drawing board so Barton could see better. “Leroux’s new brainstorm.

  Take a look.”

  Barton glanced over his shoulder at a superb color rendering of a new high rise. “It’s for a site in St. Louis.

  The property was acquired and cleared last year and next month they start excavating for the foundation.” Moore paused. “Once they start, it should go pretty fast in spite of the weather.”

  There was something in his voice that made Barton bend closer to the board. It was a beautiful building, he thought; it would be a credit to any city. Then he felt the back of his neck go red.

  “You know,” Moore said slowly, “it’s the same kind of similarity you find in housing developments where all the homes are built from the same master plan and only the exterior trim and the details differ-the garage is on the left side instead of the right or maybe there’s a car porch instead. Why shouldn’t St. Louis have a Glass House? Color it blue instead of gold, put the scenic elevator on the northern exposure, make a few minor changes in the curtainwall …”

  “The industry would laugh at him,” Barton said in a flat voice.

  “You think so? Start figuring the savings, the speed in construction. You practically eliminate the architectural expense.

  You know most of the problems in advance-you crank them out like the houses in a subdivision. He’ll be selling a beautiful building at a cut-rate price and he’ll still make a killing in time savings alone.”

  “You’re not kidding me?”

  “That rendering cost five grand, that’s no joke.”

  “He doesn’t need a renderer, he needs a retoucher.”

  Barton felt feverish. “Leroux knows I won’t go for this.”

  … Maybe he thinks he can sweet talk you.”

  “On something like this?” Barton was outraged. “Come on, Joe!”

  He sat down on a nearby chair. “Who’s supposed to be the chief architect?”

  Moore was silent for a moment, star
ing down at the rendering, then looked directly up at him. His voice was flat. “It came with a promotion and a title and a lot of money. I couldn’t Turn it down.”

  “You won’t be doing any drafting,” Barton said contemptuously.

  “You’ll be making tracings.”

  Moore kept a poker face. “If it helps any Beth’s been sick and I really need that money. Leroux’s always resented that I wasn’t one of his boys, then he saw his chance and made his move. So now I’m his-body, soul, and talent, come rain,’shine, or the Inverness Open.”

  There wasn’t anything to say, Barton thought. Moore had to play the hand that was dealt him, he didn’t have any choice.

  Moore fumbled for a cigarette. “How’s Jenny?”

  “Okay. She flew in yesterday, stayed with the Lerouxes last night, and spent today shopping with Thelma. We’re having dinner in the Promenade Room at eight. Command performance.”

  “She’ll hate that.”

  “I expect I’ll hear all about it.” Barton thumbed the rendering.

  “What does the old man want to see me about? This?”

  “He’ll probably mention it but I don’t think it’s the real reason.

  Ever hear of a TV newscaster named Quantrell?”

  “Garfunkel told me about him downstairs.”

  “He’s running an expose series on Leroux and the Glass House.

  It’s too popular.”

  Barton felt puzzled. “What’s that got to do with me I don’t know the man, I’ve never met him, I’ve never even seen his show. What’s the deal?”

  Moore spread his hands out in appeal. “Look, all I know is what I hear. You were good friends with the first assistant fire chief, Mario Infantino, right? He’s also a division chief, right? You used to sit it on fire-code meetings with him, right? And you and he buddied during army reserve meetings back here, right?”

  “So?”

  . “Leroux thinks that Infantino is feeding Quantrell information about National Curtainwall-confidential information.”

  ” Barton stared.

  “I still don’t get it. One, Mario wouldn’t do it and two, where would he get the information?”

  “I guess that’s why Leroux wants to talk to you,” Moore said quietly.

  “Or so the rumors go.”

  “You’ve got my sympathy on Beth,” Barton said stiffly. “Thanks for the gossip-don’t work too late.” He stood up and walked down the hall to the executive washroom, ignoring Moore’s shouts behind him. He needed cold water, a lot of it.

  For a moment, the room took his mind off himself. It was a sybaritic dream, the Florentine marble and gilded wrought-iron basin fixtures in the shape of dolphins, plus a solid wall of mirrors. It was the sort of john that Douglas would probably have designed, Barton thought, then smiled at his own prejudice.

  He turned the taps to run water into the basin, thinking of what he might say when he saw Leroux later. When he had first met Leroux, he had been chief architect for Wexler and Haines; the Glass House had been their account. He had liked Leroux and had deliberately impressed him with his knowledge of architecture and construction techniques.

  Leroux had offered him a junior vice-presidency in National Curtainwall. He had accepted and at the same time had broken up with Quinn Reynolds to court and marry Jenny, whom he had met several months before and with whom he had fallen in love.

  It now looked like he had made a mistake, he thought grimly. Two of them. He cupped the cold water in his hands and sloshed his face with it, coming up gasping.

  . His major disappointment had been that he hadn’t been given the chance to oversee. the construction crews on the Glass House, that Leroux had not appointed him site supervisor. Instead, Leroux had transferred him to Boston for a year and a half and then to San Francisco to make a preliminary survey for a high rise to be built in the wharf area near the Embarcadero freeway. It was a tricky assignment, not only because of the building code problems attendant to any construction near the San Andreas fault, but also because of growing civic opposition to high rises. Then Leroux had called him two days ago, in the middle of his preparations for an appearance before the Board of Supervisors. He had to see Barton as soon as possible about various vague problems. It wasn’t like Leroux and something in his voice had made Barton uneasy.

  He dried his hands and face and adjust his tie in the mirror. The face that stared back shocked him. The graying at the temples, the slight puffiness to the jowls, the faint lines etching themselves around the eyes … He was thirty-eight and no amount of squash playing at the club, no number of steam baths seemed to take away the slight sag to the chin line, the faint pudginess that was slowly softening the trim outline of his body. Even Jenny-or A perhaps, especially Jenny-had remarked on the chin on him.

  On the other hand, Leroux was made for the business; he thrived on it. He was in his early sixties and looked fifty. He claimed to be a self-made man, though Barton doubted that; somewhere in his background there was a prep school or an eastern college. But the self-made bit fit his own myth as a drifter who worked in the oil fields of Louisiana, then married Thelma, and bought her father’s construction firm on an extended note. It had been a small company but with Leroux at the helm, it had grown rapidly. He branched out into general contracting and formed National Curtainwall when he built a small high rise in downtown Raleigh after the end of the Korean war. And now Leroux was on his way to becoming … what?

  And what about himself? Barton thought. The problem was simple.

  He wanted to be his own boss; he didn’t want his buildings stolen from him. So what was he going to do about it?

  He felt the anger rise in him, shrugged if off, and walked back to his office. It was five minutes to six, too early even to go to the Promenade Room to get drunk enough so he would have the guts to do something he could be sorry about later.

  He turned on the television set on top of the office bookcase, sat back in his swivel chair and lit up another cigarillo. The news would be coming up at six o’clock.

  Now was his chance to watch Quantrell and see what all the shouting was about.

  CHAPTER 2

  Jeffrey Quantrell leaned forward in his seat and said, “Look, cabbie, if you can’t-make it any faster than this, then drop me off in front of the Towers rather than at the side entrance; I’m late now.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Quantrell-it’s all this holiday traffic, a lot of people have been let out early.”

  Jeffrey Quantrell leaned back, letting the heavy fur collar of his coat cradle his head and neck. It wasn’t everybody in town who would be recognized by their cab driver, he thought; one of the advantages of having a six-and an eleven-o’clock time slot-and something to say on it. K.Y.S-TV was great for fame, if not so good when it came to fortune.

  The cab braked to a halt in front of Clairmont Towers, its tires sliding for an instant before they found new purchase. Small puddles of water were freezing on the asphalt and the sidewalk. The holly wreath decorating the main entrance of the Towers had already grown inch-long fingers of ice.

  Quantrell shivered, pulled his hat low over his ears, threw open the taxi door. He thrust a bill at the driver, yelled “Keep it!” and slammed the door behind him. For a moment he fought for a footing against the wind and the driving sleet, then sprinted for the entrance, skidding every few feet on the sidewalk slick. He made it to the revolving door and pushed his way in, his glasses immediately fogging in the warmth of the building.

  “Helluva night, isn’t it, Mr. Quantrell?” Frank, the ancient newsboy just inside the entrance, had his paper ready for him.

  Quantrell grabbed it, tucked it under his arm, and flipped him a quarter. “Yeah, it sure is,” he said and ran for the express elevator, pushing the button repeatedly with his thumb. He could probably run up the stairs faster. he thought. He fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief and dabbed at his glasses, only succeeding in smearing them by the time the elevator doors opened.

  The s
tudios of K.Y.S-TV occupied the thirtieth floor, with the affiliated AM and Fill stations taking up the floor below. The Clairmont Towers itself was forty stories high, with the penthouse the private warren of William Glade Clairmont, the elderly millionaire who owned both the building and the stations, as well as a dozen other enterprises throughout the state.

  Quantrell left the elevator and plunged down the hall toward the newsroom, ignoring, the greetings from the people he passed. He was in no mood to be sociable, particularly with fellow workers who, he knew, had no special love for him anyway. Well, you never got ahead by playing nice guy, he thought. Success bred its resentments; the supporting cast almost always resented the star.

  The newsroom was the typical bull-pen madhouse of jammed-together desks, a dozen typewriters chattering away, a few monitor screens mounted halfway up the wall, and little cubicles off to one side for the anchormen and a few top investigative reporters like himself. That had been the first battle he had won at K.Y.S. To him, covering the news meant more than filling out a film information sheet and then having some editor/producer write his story and an anchorman do the wrap-around while he himself might appear on screen for all of thirty seconds.. He had won a position as an investigative reporter and the minor skirmishes fought since had established the relative freedom with which he could work.

  He had won all his battles, he thought proudly, dating back to the days when he had worked for the local station in Tuscaloosa, covering Governor Wallace barring the doors of the university during the early days of integration.

  Christ, there had been casualties along the way, he reflected. He was now one of the most hated-and respected-men in the business. But this time he wasn’t fighting a battle; he was fighting a war. When it was over, he would have bested one of the largest businessmen in the city, built up the ratings of the station until they topped anyone else’s in the state, and put himself in line for a network anchorman spot.