to Calabasas tonight.
It would be a few hours at least before the water receded and he could even attempt leaving the building, much less slogging through the mud, the rubble, and the bodies on the streets. And even if he could, did he really want to do that in the pitch darkness of a blacked-out, demolished metropolis?
A horrible thought came to him. Come daylight, there would be hundreds of corpses. Mutilated. Bloated. Strewn everywhere, washed up by the flood. Marty didn’t think he had enough corners in his mind to hide all the death he was going to see. He doubted anyone did.
Going home crazy wouldn’t help Beth very much, would it?
No, he told himself, it certainly wouldn’t.
So maybe it would just be better for everyone concerned if he just found a comfortable chair and waited until things out there were under control. At least until the National Guard finally showed up and started covering the bodies.
And Marty was tired, so very, very tired. Every tendon and sinew in his body ached. He could feel the sting and pain of every scratch, bruise, gash, and bullet wound. His feet were swollen, scored with blisters. And he reeked of piss, blood, coconut oil, sweat, and drying mud.
Would he really be any good to Beth returning home like this?
He couldn’t go on, not tonight.
Maybe not even tomorrow.
What he needed was a rest. A long one. Marty started looking for a place to sit.
The leather chair in the office wasn’t bad, one of those big, over-stuffed executive models. It offered status, class, and absolutely no lumbar support, but it was perfect for what Marty had in mind. He was just about to try it out when he heard the whistling.
It wasn’t really a tune, more of an aimless, semi-musical improv, the sound people make when the body is at work and the mind is on hold.
Marty followed the whistling down one corridor and through another. As he got closer to the sound, he also began to smell smoke.
The corridor curved and led him to an enormous, wood-paneled conference room. The long table was covered with stacks of files and computer disks, which a balding man, still in his Versace suit, was feeding into a fire he had going in a custodian’s metal garbage can.
“If you’ve come to file a claim, we’re closed,” the man spoke without looking up, startling Marty, who didn’t know he’d even been seen.
“Do you work here?” It’s not that Marty really cared, but he wasn’t leaving for a while and he wanted to know who he was stuck here with.
“I’m Sheldon Lemp, the CEO of Quantum Insurance. And if you have a claim, you’ll have to come back another time, though we won’t be able to help you then, either.”
“I just want to stay here for a little while, if that’s okay. It’s safer than being on the street right now.”
“You’re right about that,” Lemp dropped diskettes into the fire by the armful. “This building is made of solid steel with a spring-and-roller suspension system that allows it to ride out a quake. Most homes, by comparison, are made of wood and concrete which, no matter how much they are reinforced, will just crumble. Eighty percent of the properties we insure are homes.”
“I thought most insurance companies got out of offering earthquake coverage after Northridge.”
“They did, so people flocked to us, checkbooks wide open,” Lemp lifted an entire stack of files in his hands and dropped them into the fire. Sparks flew out, forcing him to step back.
“Hey, take it easy,” Marty said. “Those sparks could set the whole building on fire.”
“It’s okay, we’re insured.” Lemp laughed with delight bordering on hysteria. Marty watched him warily, trying to judge if the man was a danger to him.
When Lemp’s laughter finally ebbed, along with the flames, he dumped more files into the fire. “This quake wasn’t supposed to happen for another twenty or thirty years. That’s what all the experts said. Did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Since 1994, we’ve written 17,000 residential earthquake policies in Southern California with an average annual premium of $1400. That generated an enormous amount of cash, which I invested to capitalize our reserves and maximize profits. Since I’d been assured there wouldn’t be another quake for decades, I felt comfortable with a greater level of risk than our board of directors did, so I found inventive ways to circumvent their oversight.”
“I see,” Marty glanced again at the hundreds of files and disks that covered the long table. “You made some bad investments and now you don’t have the money to pay your claims.”
“There will be some legal issues to contend with,” Lemp flung disks into the fire one-by-one, like little Frisbees. “Thousands of civil suits, certainly, as well as criminal prosecution on state and federal charges.”
“So you’re destroying the evidence.”
Lemp laughed again, an anxious twitter. “Oh, there’s far too much of that. I can only hope to hide one, negligible aspect of my financial activities, some modest loans I granted myself as token compensation for the valuable, additional services I was rendering for the company.”
“Doesn’t telling me all about it kind of defeat the purpose of covering up the crime?”
“Not really,” Lemp smiled at Marty. “When I’m finished burning all this, I’m going to kill myself.”
Marty wondered how long you had to talk to someone before their death had any emotional impact on you or whether just seeing someone before they died was enough.
He checked his watch. His eyes were so tired, he had a hard time focusing on the dial underneath the cracked crystal. It was nearly 8 p.m.
“Look, Sheldon, I’m going to find a couch and lie down,” Marty said. “Could you do me a favor? Try not to set the place on fire before you off yourself.”
“Sweet dreams,” Lemp chucked a hard-drive into the fire and started whistling again.
Marty left the conference room and went back to the front lobby, which had three nice couches to chose from. Lemp may have squandered the company’s cash, but at least he bought some good, comfortable furniture before it was gone.
He stripped off his pack, letting his wet, crusty jacket slide off his shoulders with it, then kicked off his shoes. His socks were stuck to his feet like a second layer of skin. Marty sat on the edge of the couch and carefully peeled them off, placed them on the coffee table to dry, and then he lay back, letting his body sink into the soft cushions.
Marty was asleep before he even closed his eyes.
CHAPTER NINE
T he building was ablaze and they were trapped on the top floor, cornered by the flames below.
“What are we going to do?” Fred Astaire asked him.
Marty handed him a rope. “Tie yourself to the pillar, we’re going to blow the water tanks on the roof.”
“We could all drown.”
“You ever heard of anybody drowning in an office building?” Marty gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Trust me. I’ll get us out of this.”
Marty did a quick pass through the room, checking on everybody, making sure they were securely tied in place. Once he was certain everyone was ready, he strapped himself to a pillar alongside Paul Newman.
“You’re the bravest sonofabitch I’ve ever met,” Paul said.
“I’m just an ordinary man in an extraordinary situation.”
“We got a word for that,” Paul looked him right in the eye and morphed into Buck. “We call ’em heroes.”
“As soon as this is over, I want to see that napkin collection.” Marty took out the remote control and pressed the switch, igniting the explosives.
