The Glass Inferno

by Thomas N. Scortia

  He keyed the starter motor. It coughed and the blades twisted once more.

  “We’ve got thirty seconds before all hell breaks loose!” Barton said tensely.

  “I’m doing my damnedest, Captain.” The slight film of sweat on the pilot’s face glistened in the light from the instrument panel. He tried again and Barton sighed with relief as the motor caught and the blades began their accelerating dance around the rotor. The ‘copter shook itself in the wind, rose several feet and rotated slowly.

  Then a gust of air caught it and it rose faster. The cabin rotated and stabilized as the pilot worked the antitorque pedals.

  They were five hundred yards away from the Glass House now, heading east.

  Barton glanced back. At that moment the shape charges and their connecting lines of Primacord detonated simultaneously. The Observation Deck filled with fire and boiling smoke. The windows around the side of the deck abruptly flew out in jagged shards that sailed over the streets below. The roof bowed slightly upward from the pressure wave and then sank in the middle along the line that bordered the garden area. Sheets of aluminum curtainwall puffed outward, split and peeled away from the steel frame.

  Inside the building, the concrete floor of the Observation Deck rumbled and cracked away from its supporting beams. Huge sections of it fell to the machinery room below. Clouds of steam and half-vaporized Freon blew out through the window holes under the pistonlike pressure of the falling floor sections. The fires on the machinery floor puffed out instantly. The weight of the falling masses of concrete and the sudden deluge of thousands of gallons of water in Turn shattered portions of the machinery-room floor, which caved in toward the center.

  The water and the Freon plunged down the slope to the flaming apartment floor below, smothering the fires and then flowing down the stairwells and the elevator shafts.

  It was over in fifteen seconds. In the ‘copter Infantino and Barton had watched the disaster in silence. Barton suddenly felt sick.

  The building looked as if a giant claw had raked across it, tearing at its skin and muscle and digging deep into its vital organs.

  It had been his baby, Barton thought. He had conceived it and seen it delivered from his drawing board into the hands of Leroux, who had served as midwife.

  And now he had just helped to murder it.

  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 drinkin
g 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?”

&nb
sp; 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.