indicating water pressures, steam pressures excess smoke, and heat indicators, air flow gauges and The like. The room was manned during The day; during the evening,.
duplicate meters and other indicators in the basement engine room were read hourly by the night crew.
Returning to the stairwell, he sensed again the overwhelming feel of metal encasing him. He thought, tenants in their apartments never fully realize the presence of the spiderweb of steel girders that hold up their carpeted cocoons. Then he was striding along the corridors of unfinished apartments on the top floors, making notations on his pad As he went. Maybe it was the holidays, maybe it was just that people didn’t care any more. Loose lumber and sheets of plywood lying around, drums of paint and varnish-at least one of them open, stacks of asphalt and plastic tile, open crates still half filled with excelsior …
Christ, when was the last time the captain had been through? He’d report it in the morning except that Harriman was on vacation and the pipsqueak filling in for him was the type who would never talk back to a construction foreman. But somebody sure as hell had better start …
The fire stairs slowly got wider as he went down and the floors themselves quickly assumed a more finished appearance, with carpeting and wallpaper in the corridors and neatly varnished doors to apartments instead of narrow sheets of plywood leaning against gaping holes in the concrete-block walls. Each door had a small plaque on it and Garfunkel stopped to read one. Odd, he thought; as many times as he had been through the halls, he had never noticed them before. What to Do in Case of Fire.
He chalked it up as a first; probably less than one tenant in ten was even aware of the plaques. If anything ever did happen, it would be the old Navy dictum all over again: When in danger, when in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout.
The next stairwell, something about the standpipes and their attached hoses caught his eye and he stopped for a moment to investigate.
Somebody had slit one of the two-and-a-half-inch cotton fire hoses halfway through. Vandals, Garfunkel thought, infuriated-reason number one why firemen preferred to lug their own fifty-foot lengths of hose up flights of stairs. Probably kids who had access to the stairwells during the day, the same kids who would “steal” elevators for joy riding and have to be keyed down to the main lobby via the fireman’s override switch.
The next stairwell opened out on the sky lobby.
Jernigan was at his desk, staring at a point just below the counter top. The early movie, Garfunkel thought. “Hi, Harry, how’s it going?”
Jernigan looked up and smiled broadly, snapping off the set.
“Just goofing off as usual, Dan-but I’d rather be inside than out, that’s for sure.”
“Anything worth reporting?”
“If there had been, I would’ve. Slow night.” He paused for a moment, obviously in doubt as to whether he should mention something or not. “Hey, Dan, you got any plans for tomorrow?”
“Damn right-take off my shoes, open up a can of beer, settle back, and watch the game. Why, what’s up?”
“Mamie, you know how much she’s always cooking…”
Jernigan hesitated a moment and garfunkel realized with sudden panic what was coming. “There’s going to be more than enough and I can’t stand a steady diet of turkey sandwich lunches. I thought you might be willing to help out.”
“Hey, look, Harry, that’s damned-“
“White of me?” Jernigan grinned.
“Look, boss, you’re more than welcome.”
“Well, ah, I really appreciate it, Harry , but I had really sort of . .
.”
“Want to be by yourself?” There was something in Jernigan’s voice that Garfunkel had never heard before.
Softly: “Come off it, Dan.”
“I’ll think about it,” Garfunkel said slowly. “It’s really nice of you, Harry, I appreciate it.”
Jernigan looked down at some papers behind the counter. “There’s this secretary who works with Mamie.
She’s white, middle thirties, husband died a year ago.
Mamie thought she’d invite her, too.” He held up his hands.
“It’s no setup, no Cupid playing. But I figure if there’s two of you honkeys at the dinner table, Leroy will freak out and maybe he’ll move.” He added what he hoped would be the clincher. “She’s a foxy chick, Dan-, we don’t allow dogs in the house.”
Garfunkel couldn’t meet his eyes. “I’ll think it over, Harry-it’s really nice of you and Mamie, I mean that.”
Jernigan read the refusal in his voice, shuffled some papers on his desk, and switched the TV set back on. He didn’t look up. “Call me in the morning if you think you can make it, Dan. Mamie would love to have you.”
It was two more flights down before Garfunkel could bring himself back under control. The perversity of human nature, he thought. What made you reject friendship when it was offered and was something you wanted badly? And it hadn’t been easy for Jernigan to make the offer, least of all to have it rejected. Garfunkel sighed.
He couldn’t go-it would be pushing himself in, and there had also been an element of pity to the offer which he couldn’t acknowledge. Or was he being masochistic about it all?” On the twenty-eighth floor he paused for a moment, suddenly alert and suspicious. The faint smell of smoke.
He tracked it down the corridor and let himself into the offices of Johnson Tours. The slight wisp of smoke was coming from an overflowing ashtray that hadn’t been emptied; during the day somebody had crumpled up several sheets of paper and dropped them into the tray, on top of a not-quite-out cigarette butt. The papers and the other butts must have been smoldering for hours. At least once a night, the fire patrol found something like that, Garfunkel thought. If it wasn’t an ashtray fire, it was a hot plate that had been left on, or a wastebasket that somebody had dropped a lit cigarette into… . He got a cup of water from the cooler and doused the tray making notations on his clipboard to send the company a memo about the building’s fire regulations. It would be the second memo, if he remembered correctly.
Who the hell was in charge of the cleaning women on the floor anyway?
Krost, of course, it would have to be. That lush couldn’t smell smoke in the middle of a burning garbage dump. Jesus, if only he were in charge of hiring and firing for one day …
The twenty-first floor was completely dark except for a few lights in the back of Motivational Displays. Somebody using the executive suite, he thought, then remembered that Bigelow had checked in perhaps an hour earlier.
Which didn’t make sense; he had checked in alone, he didn’t have a girl with him. The next three floors were National Curtainwall’s and the lights were on in their executive offices, which wasn’t unusual.
The Credit Union was working late, of course, and recently their architectural division had been burning the midnight oil. There had been rumors of a new project on the part of Leroux, something supposed to revolutionize building.
Seventeen was dark and Garfunkel walked slowly down the corridor trying the doors of the various offices to make sure they were locked.
He rounded a corner and was about to try the utility-room door when he noticed that Modern Interiors was lit up and Ian Douglas was standing in the doorway, looking toward the other end of the hall. He hurried over.
“Something wrong, Mr. Douglas?”
The big man whirled and let out a sigh. “Sorry, you startled me.”
Garfunkel looked at him closely. A, shade too white, too pinched around the nose, breathing a little too hard.
“You sure there’s nothing wrong? No trespassers?”
“What?” Douglas’ eyes went wide and he shook his head. “No, no, nothing like that. I just thought I heard a noise, it was nothing.”
“You’re sure?”
A flash of irritation. “Yes, I’m quite sure. If I had seen anybody I would have called.”
