even a profitable one. He slipped the pliers in his rear pocket and backed out of the nook.
“Yeah, that’ll do it,” Bigelow muttered, holding open the door at the other end of the suite. Then Krost caught something out of the corner of his eye and turned slowly to admire the view of the city through the huge windows.
He was right-a copy of Variety wedged between a couch cushion and the armrest. He wasn’t in any hurry to leave now.
“You sure do have a beautiful view from up here, Mr. Bigelow. Never seen the city look so nice before, even if it is raining.”
Bigelow stared at him for a second, then pulled out his wallet and found a five-dollar bill, folding it into Krost’s hand. “Thanks a lot for fixing the refrigerator,” he said grimly.
“I really appreciate it.”
Krost looked down at the bill. “Why, there’s no reason for you to go doing this, Mr. Bigelow! We maintenance people don’t charge for our services; it all comes with the rent …” He still didn’t move and Bigelow slowly pulled out another five, this time holding it just outside the door.
“I know what it’s like to be pulled away from your regular duties for something like this. I’m sorry I’ve kept you this long.” His looks were murderous and Krost knew the game was over, though he considered he had done rather well in playing it out for,an easy ten.
“Thanks again, Mr. Bigelow.” Once in the hall, Krost thought: Who did the dirty old bastard think he was kidding with that story about a buyer from out of town?
If there was any buyer, it was Bigelow himself and. the price he was paying was probably pretty steep. Women like Miss Elmon didn’t come cheap, that was for sure.
Hell, he hadn’t asked Bigelow to give him any money, he thought self-righteously; that was all Bigelow’s idea-his guilty conscience speaking. Then he remembered his electric lantern; he had left it on the kitchen counter. He thought of going back for it, then figured it wouldn’t be wise. ‘Not right then, at any rate.
He took the elevator back up to twenty-five and paused before the door of the Apex utility room, fumbling for his key. -God, he could use a drink right now; the least Bigelow could’ve done was to offer him one. Probably have saved him ten bucks in the bargain, but, of course, that had been guilt money….
It was then, with sudden panic, that he remembered the coffee cup with the immersion heater. Sweet Jesus, not again! He could feel the sweat start to pop on his forehead. He thrust the key in the lock and slammed into the room, to lean against the door with a sigh of relief.
The cup was just where he had left it, the heater leaning against the inside edge. Then he noticed there wasn’t any steam coming from the cup. He leaped for it, but not soon enough.
Krost reached for the wall plug at the precise moment the heater exploded. It was at that second in time that all the water in the cup boiled away and with no water to cool the coils, the aluminum covering melted and slumped.
The coils promptly short-circuited and the aluminum covering itself erupted in a shower of metal sparks. One of them hit the back of Krost’s hand and he swore and jerked his hand away, knocking over the Windex bottle.
The brandy spilled out on the porcelain table top and in a flash, the surface of the table was covered with flickering blue flames as the burning brandy spread.
Krost hastily tried to smother the flames with his bare hands, scorching the hair on the back of his knuckles, The flaming brandy was now dripping on the floor in front of the table and running in blazing little rivulets toward The solvent locker. Krost stomped frantically on the flames, then ran to the mop sink and grabbed up the mop leaning against it and swung the head against the fiery streams. The blue flames had just started to dance around the bottom of the locker when he brought the damp strings down on them, extinguishing them more by the violence of his action than by the faint moisture in the mop.
He turned back to the table. The puddle of brandy was already drying, the alcohol having burned itself out, but there was still some liquor in the tipped-over bottle.
Flames were puffing from its throat as the alcohol vaporized and burned at the mouth. Panicky, Krost lifted the mop and swung it down on the bottle, knocking it off the table to shatter on the floor. The brandy was all gone now, the last of the alcohol dying in a faint burst of azure.
Krost stood there gasping, frightened now by the heavy beating of his heart. It had almost been the Melton Building fire all over again but, thank God, this one he’d caught in time. He looked around. Jesus, what a mess … He got a broom from the locker and swept up the little pieces of glass, then wet the mop and scrubbed the floor and the table top. A flat piece of cardboard served as a dustpan. He brushed the shards of the cup and fused remains of the immersion heater onto it and started to dump them into a nearby trash barrel, then hesitated.
That’d be a dead giveaway. Instead, he wrapped the debris in paper towels from the locker and stuffed the thick wad into a pocket-he’d dispose of it on another floor.
Finally, he stood back and inspected the room. Except for the several burned spots on the table where droplets Of hot metal had splashed, there wasn’t anything to indicate there had been a fire. He put the spoon and the jars of coffee and dried cream back in the top locker and then washed out the mop. Nobody’d ever know, he thought.
The faint odor of brandy and the smell of burning metal had already disappeared into the air-conditioning ducts.
Now, sweet Jesus, he could really use a drink. The brandy was gone but there was more where it had originally come from-the wet bar and liquor display in Consolidated Distributors - on the twenty-second floor.
Well, why not? He had to check on the cleaning women anyway and he could get rid of the cup pieces and the fused heater up there, too.
Or … He teetered in the doorway, uncertain. He could always go back to where he had left the bottle he had brought to work. He considered it for a moment, then thought hell no, grinning to himself.
It was too early and, besides, he’d save that for dessert.
Consolidated was out of anything of real quality and along about midnight, he’d be in the mood for quality.
Krost was starting on a bender but as well as he knew himself, at that particular moment, he didn’t realize it.
CHAPTER 8
The duty roster read like a crossword puzzle with half the words missing, Garfunkel thought, annoyed. Mirisch in particular had a checkered attendance record; he was a moonlighter and didn’t actually need the job, which probably explained it. He’d show up the next duty shift with some elaborate excuse but it was a cinch he wouldn’t show, tonight. Garfunkel was damned if he would call him; that was Mirisch’s obligation. Well, there were plenty of men on his waiting list; he’d pick a returned vet they needed the work and they were usually reliable.
Better to hire a new man and go to the trouble of breaking him in than to have a man continue to crap out just when you needed him. You had to be a hard nose, Garfunkel thought, or you’d get it jammed up your butt every time. He picked up the copies of the check lists that Jernigan and the lobby guard had given him and ran his eye quickly down the names. Not many people were working late, which was understandable, and it looked like the bulk were away for the weekend. He would have headed south himself and spent the holidays at his sister’s if it hadn’t been for the mass truancies among the guards. He took a final glance around the lobby-the dinner crowd was showing up in force now-then walked up the short flight of stairs to the surveillance room.
It was a small office, about the size of offices in automobile agencies, with one wall lined with sensor indicators for heat and smoke, plus about a dozen monitoring screens that covered the sensitive areas of the building-the lobbies, the garage, the tellers’ cages in the bank as well as the vault area in National Curtainwall’s Credit Union, and similar stations. Ordinarily he’d have two men on duty to spell each other at the screens and make fire patrols, but Sammy was also out for the evening.
“Things under control, Arnie?”
Arnold Shea twisted in his chair and said, “Hi, chief, glad you’re here. You know, I almost think we’re going to have a heist in the Credit Union.”
Garfunkel quickly moved in to look at the scope. On screen, Hughes was counting money and banding the bundles of bills, occasionally looking up at the camera with a thoughtful glance.
