Shevelson nodded affably and felt in his pockets for matches to light his cigar. Infantino took it out of his mouth. “I wouldn’t want one of my men to slug you -they’ve seen enough of fire for tonight.”
Shevelson shrugged. “That’s right, Barton; the duct holes probably weren’t fire stopped like they should have been.
Sloppy workmanship, I agree. But you know better than to talk to me about it. Talk to the utility people-they’re the ones who made the poke throughs. Or talk to one of the city inspectors from the Department of Building and Safety; he’s the guy who should have raised hell about it.
But maybe he had a heavy schedule that day and didn’t have time for much more than a walk-through. And, after all, the city’s not paying him enough for him to really bust his ass and find every little flaw, even if he had the technical expertise to know what he was looking for in the first place. Or maybe someone paid him to overlook every little flaw.”
“There should have been fire barriers in the stairwells to prevent smoke spread,” Barton said slowly. “That was your responsibility; we called for them.”
“So you did. But the city fire codes didn’t require them and maybe the developer considered them an expensive luxury. In this case, there was no maybe involved -he didn’t want them. At the time of construction, the city code didn’t require pressurized stairwells, either. Your original design called for them though, didn’t they?”
“That’s right, so why weren’t they pressurized?” Barton asked angrily.
Shevelson took out another cigar. “You sure I can’t smoke, Chief?
There’s enough water in the lobby here; I don’t think we need to worry about a few ashes on your salvage cover.” He lit up without waiting for permission and turned back to Barton. “Look, Barton, why do you think I was fired?
Because I approved of the changes that were made?” He shook his head.
“I don’t particularly like you but you designed a beautiful building.
Everything considered, you also designed a fairly safe one. I didn’t call for the changes; your boss did. I was just a flunky for the construction company.”
“You’re saying that Wyndom Leroux was responsible?”
“Who else? He paid the bills.” He turned and blew the cigar smoke away from them. “Maybe he was just being a good businessman.
You people draw up pretty plans and then somebody had to make an estimate and put it out to bid; or if it’s a scope project, find a construction company that will at least be reasonable. If the project’s up for bid it sure as hell better be a competitive bid.”
Barton shook his head. “It didn’t have to be. The construction company was a satellite company.”
Shevelson raised an eyebrow. “Knudsen? I knew Leroux had an interest, but I didn’t think it was that heavy a one. But it still doesn’t change things. Leroux wouldn’t stay in business very long if his own construction company couldn’t built his buildings at least as cheap as anybody else.”
He could imagine Leroux saying it, Barton thought: He was running a business, not a charity. He had settled for minimum compliance with the fire codes, cut costs to the 9) bone, and eliminated All the “frills.
“You sound like you’re defending him.”
“You’ve got to be kidding!” Shevelson was suddenly bitter. “I was fired because I didn’t agree with him, because I didn’t believe in building firetraps no matter how pretty they look against the skyline.”
He suddenly changed the subject, his eyes narrowing in anger.
“Where the hell were you during construction? You’re pretty loose with your accusations. What were you doing? You were senior architect; it was your baby more than anybody else’s.”
“I was transferred to Boston during the primary construction work,” Barton said tightly. “I was in San Francisco when they were working on the interior.”
Shevelson was contemptuous. “Your work in Boston was really important, wasn’t it? And have you really done anything more than spin your wheels in San Francisco?
It never occurred to you that Leroux might simply have wanted you out of town during the construction? That if you had stayed here, you would have asked to be site supervisor, and if you hadn’t gotten it you would have been over here every day anyways checking? Then what would you have done when you discovered that Leroux was cheapening it little by little? Blown your stack and quit? But Leroux got what he wanted.
He got you-and he got you out of the way.”
“You’re right,” Barton agreed angrily. “I would have blown my stack.
But there’s one difference between us, Shevelson: You knew. I didn’t.
Why didn’t you go to the city officials or to the Fire Department?
You knew what he was doing. You knew all the violations; what did you do about them?”
“That’s.the point,” Shevelson said slowly. “There really weren’t any violations. Oh, maybe a few minor ones here and there,. But nothing major. And nothing I could prove.
Some coincidences perhaps, like the sudden change in city fire codes eliminating pressurized stairwells. My case was essentially an emotional one so I took it to the papers and the television stations and, nobody did anything but Quantrell. Now, God knows, I’m sorry about that.” Shevelson stood there for a moment, his face drawn, fighting to keep his anger on the inside. Barton and Infantino kept silent and waited. “Everything he did was Perfectly - - . legal. A little chintzing here and a little chintzing there until finally the building was a weak version of what it was meant to be. Maybe it was no more dangerous than other buildings in the city, but this was one that I built.” He cocked his head at Barton, the expression on his face that of a man who doubts that he’s really being understood.
“You want to know who writes the fire codes in this city, Barton?
Ask the developers. Ask the people who own the buildings; they’re the ones who write the codes.
The Fire Department inspectors come around and it’s cut and dried.
Are the valves set right? Do they work? Is the fusible on a fire door installed properly? But there are other questions to be asked and nobody seems to be asking them’ Why did this city remove the requirement for pressurized stairwells from its fire code? How come New York required neither pressurized stairwells nor smoke shafts until 1973? Why did Los Angeles allow shingle roofs-one of the greatest possible fire hazards -for so long? Who brings the political pressure to bear?
This city isn’t unique, Barton.”
He was making an indictment and a plea for understanding all at the same time, Barton thought. And at least for the moment he could see beyond the facade and understand the contempt Shevelson felt for lesser men. He had met so many of them.
“Where’s all this leading to?” Infantino asked impatiently.
“We’ve still got a fire here.”
And it wasn’t out yet, Barton thought. But Shevelson had reminded him of something: The building was his; he was kidding himself if he thought he could walk away from it. He twisted the blueprints around so they were facing Shevelson. “What are the risks we don’t know anything about? I could spend all night looking for them; you probably know them by heart.”
Shevelson was suddenly all business. “Assume the worst. There are probably few of the duct holes that are properly fire stopped and the building is peppered with them. Dangerous and sloppy, but I’m sure it was fast, easier, and cheaper; the utility people had to make a buck and Leroux wasn’t paying much. So they chintzed, too. You can assume the building has very little fire integrity. You can also assume that some of the main girders are exposed in places where ducts pass directly beneath them and are strapped to them for support. Or maybe conduits are strapped to them. In either event the fireproofing would have been scraped off the beam and five will get you ten it was never replaced.
It’s standard practice-and in a big fire, it can buckle a floor on you.
But your big worry is probably right here.”
Barton looked up at Infantino. “What are the chances?”
“Not very good.” Infantino didn’t seem impressed. The one storage room fire we’ve had is under control. He glanced over at Shevelson.
“But thanks for bringing the Prints; it’s a help to know where things really are.”
Shevelson managed a quick smile. “I remember some professor saying a high-rise building is the biggest machine there is but nobody’s written an operating manual for it yet. These were the best I could do.” He stared down at the prints for a moment, then glanced around again at the lobby. “It’s a beautiful building,” he said quietly. “It’s mostly yours, Barton, but a good piece of it is mine, too. I had to do what I could; I wouldn’t even have held up Leroux, much as I despise him.”
“You didn’t despise him at the start, did you?” Barton suddenly asked.
For a moment Shevelson was lost in thought.
‘No, I didn’t. At first, I thought he was one of the most capable men I had ever met.”
Another load from the scenic elevator suddenly emptied into the lobby. Barton searched the faces of the people getting off. There had been how many loads so far? Ten?
Eleven? Leroux had to be on the next one.
And so did Jenny.
CHAPTER 42
For Ian Douglas the world had become an infinity of stairs that led steadily upward. Scramble up a dozen steps; rest for a moment on the concrete landing; then climb another dozen. Occasionally he would try a doorknob, hoping that one of them might not have closed completely, and they could gain entry to a floor. After a dozen attempts, he gave up trying.
And there was always the smoke-first the odor, then the slight haze in the air. The haze was building, and it was getting increasingly difficult to breathe. To add to his difficulties, Albina’s twisted ankle had worsened on the thirtieth floor, and he had been forced to half carry her up the succeeding flights. He felt that he had long since passed the limits of his physical endurance; he stopped to rest more frequently. He would begin to climb ;again when he started coughing and saw that the smoke was getting thicker, slowly filling the stairwell.
They were on the forty-fifth floor when he realized he couldn’t go much farther with the burden of Albina and with his increasing difficulty in breathing. Albina was coughing steadily now, and it was obvious that it was all Jesus could do to drag himself up the steps.
Fortunately, he seemed to have shaken the withdrawal symptoms; the realization of personal danger must have flooded his system with enough adrenalin to overcome them. But they had to rest, Douglas thought, even at the risk of letting the smoke build up even more. He sat down on the landing steps and for a moment yielded to a fit of coughing.
“You go on,” Albina said quietly. “Send firemen down for me when you get to the top. Take Jesus with you and go on.”
He considered it, then rejected it. She was already weakened; she couldn’t take much more smoke. And there was something else. For the first time Douglas was in a life-and-death struggle and he desperately wanted to win.
All of his life the world had considered him weak, despite his muscle and bulk. He wanted to prove it wrong, but nobody would think it unusual if a man saved himself he would have to see to it that all three of them survived.
Jesus and Albina were both coughing now and starting to gag when suddenly Douglas remembered something he had once , read. “You two have handkerchiefs?” Jesus nodded and produced a dirty white piece of cotton. Albina fumbled in her smock and drew out a startlingly red bandanna. Douglas had a crisp linen handkerchief in his suit-coat pocket, carefully folded into the appropriate triangle.
“What are we supposed to do with these?” Jesus asked, curious.
“Piss on it,” Douglas said. Jesus looked at him, obviously not believing what Douglas had said. “Piss on it,” Douglas repeated.
“Then tie it over your nose and mouth; it will help cut the smoke.”
Jesus looked shocked. “Man, you gotta be kidding!”
“I’m dead serious,” Douglas said sharply. “Now do as you’re told!”
“Who’s telling me, man? You?”
The contempt in his voice was too much for Douglas.
He slammed Jesus against the wall, then grabbed him by the collar and slapped him twice with the flat of his hand.
The anger was bile in His throat.
“I don’t give a crap what you think of me; you’re going to do as I say! We’ve got another twenty floors to go and we’re not going to make it if we can’t breathe.
You got a better-idea? Now’s the time to tell me. Otherwise, do as I say or I’ll knock your teeth right down your throat!” He drew his fist back.
Jesus managed to straighten up even though Douglas had a heavy hand on his shirt. “You’re taking it out on me, man.” There was no fear in his voice but neither was there any contempt.
“Taking what out on you?”
“What you are.” Jesus’ eyes were steady. “I don’t give a shit, man-I probably never really did. Junkie …
queer … who gives a damn. Another ten minutes and nobody’s gonna care one way or the other.”
Douglas reddened and lowered his fist. For a moment, Jesus was the world, the sum of all the taunts and sneers and whispers that had piled up over the years. He felt ashamed of himself. “Piss on the handkerchief,” he muttered. “It’s the only thing that I can think of that might help.”
“Do as he say,” Albina said sharply. “Is he the only man here?”
Jesus turned without a word, the handkerchief in his hand.
Douglas did the same thing, while on the stairs Albina turned and with remarkable grace repeated the action. Douglas helped her adjust the kerchief around her face. Then he hooked her arm over his shoulder and continued up the steps. Jesus followed.
They managed another two flights before Douglas realized the wet handkerchiefs were more a psychological help than real. The cloth was too thin to screen the small smoke particles and it was little help in filtering out the gases themselves. Douglas started to cough again as did Albina. Jesus tore his handkerchief off and dropped it on, the steps. He said nothing and neither did Douglas.
At the next landing, Douglas noticed the fire hose behind the glass case. Suddenly he ‘ thought he saw an answer.
He stopped while the others watched, untied a shoe and took it off.
He halted it, then brought the heel down sharply against the glass, shattering it. He picked shards of glass out of the frame, then reached in and tugged the hose out of the case.
When he had about twenty feet out, he turned to the landing window behind them. “Okay, stand back away from the window.” Douglas lifted the body of the hose over his head so about ten feet of it, including the heavy brass nozzle itself, was behind him. Then he swung it Late Evening forward and down, like a whip. The brass nozzle f over his head and smashed against the window. There was a shatter of glass and a sudden blast of cold air. He did it twice more to clear the frame of large pieces of glass.
The cold air poured in from the north now and spilled down the stairwell, effectively capping the g smoke.
He had created his own inversion layer, Douglas thought, by venting the stairwell. It migh
t work They began to climb again.
Another flight up and he shivered; the temperature of the stairwell air was dropping fast. But at the same time, it was getting considerably easier to breathe.
“I’m sorry about the handkerchief idea,” he said suddenly. “I had read about it someplace; I honestly thought it would work.”
Jesus laughed. “Don’t sweat it, man. At least you thought of something. I-didn’t think of anything.”
There was a sense of equality in his, voice, of acceptance, and for a moment Douglas hated himself for responding to it. Who the hell did he think he was? But there had been no condescension. He suddenly wondered what Jesus thought of himself as an addict. Did he despise himself? Did he accept himself?
He looked at Jesus, thinking: It was hard but they both had learned to live in their own skins and accept it.
CHAPTER 43
The sidewalk and plaza in front of the Glass House were coated in a glistening sheath of ice. Infantino’s boots slipped on the glaze underfoot; he held onto the open door of the CD comm van as he stared up at the building. In spite of the scars of the fire, it was still a thing of beauty with the banks of floodlights playing on its exterior.
The queen of the city, he thought, but a tattered queen now. He could see the gaps in the curtainwall where the windows had been knocked out on the seventeenth and eighteenth floors. The thick mantle of ice ridged these floors and flowed down the outside of the building almost to the ground level.
Perversely, the effect added to the building’s beauty. The tower above was a glittering, golden gem swathed in a curtain of ice.
It hadn’t gone too badly, Infantino thought. For a while he had feared the fire might spread and they would have to bring in helicopters for a rooftop evacuation.
But the main fires on seventeen and eighteen were pretty well knocked down while the fire on twenty-one was now contained. They could look-forward to a morning of pulling down the remains of walls and ceilings and searching for minor smoldering fires hidden in remote recesses of the various floors. Sometime before dawn the majority of his companies could probably secure, coil up their hoses and go back to their cold meals still sitting on the firehouse stove. They would try to forget that they had been part of one of, the major near disasters of the city.
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