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.
FB2 document info
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Frank M. Robinson
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The Glass Inferno Page 45