Promenade Room at the top. Barton squinted; he could just make out the tiny spot of light crawling slowly up to the rooftop restaurant. They hadn’t done too badly, he thought; the most popular postcards in the local drugstores were those of the Glass House at night. It had become a symbol of ‘the city.
The traffic was easing now and a few minutes later Barton was driving down the ramp that cut through one of the plazas into the basement garage. He caught a glimpse of the,plaza just before the building overhang blocked his view-a broad expanse of buffed terrazzo and native fieldstone on which white ceramic planters holding young conifers were scattered. White fieldstone and terrazzo steps ascended to the lower lobby, curving around a gleaming, free-form sculpture of gold-anodized aluminum and Plexiglass rods. At night, the rods were the light pumps of multiple-colored bulbs bidden in the base so that the delicate webwork of rods and wires was bathed in a slowly changing pool of light.
He wheeled the car to the parking attendant’s booth and stepped out into the welcome warmth of the building.
“How long you going to be, sir?” The car hiker slid into the seat he had just vacated.
“Not sure-probably until about eleven. Fill up the tank while you’re at it, will you?”
“They sure don’t do much for you at the airports these days, do they?”
“Hell, they don’t even empty the ashtrays any more.”
Barton walked past the gas pumps and caught the elevator up to the lower lobby. Just before the doors closed behind him, he heard the roar of a jack rabbit start and then the screech of tires. He smiled to himself; at least some things in the world never changed.
. The lower concourse looked more finished than when he had last seen it. The shop windows glistened with displays of jade and Christmas cards, imported cameras, and stereo components. One display, intended for holiday vacationers, featured men’s sport shirts and short in a riot of Hawaiian colors. Barton paused for a moment to look at them.
Two years of working for National Curtainwall and he hadn’t yet found time for the traditional two weeks in August. His resentment started to build; then he shrugged. Next year for sure, he promised himself, and stepped on the escalator to the main concourse.
Barton felt another-wave of pride as he walked into the first-floor lobby; for a brief moment he felt like taking off his hat, as if he were ‘ in a cathedral. It didn’t have the overwhelming vastness of the lobbies in the newer hotels, but it was still a superb utilization of space. The proportions of the floor area were almost classical in their relationship and the exterior tinted glass walls extending two stories up gave a feeling of openness. At the far end of the concourse stood the tall, bronze doors of Surely National whee, at the opposite end, jutting into the lobby, itself, loomed the tiled mural walls of the square utility core that held the elevator banks and the numerous electric, steam, and gas lines that served the building.
The scenic elevator pierced one side of the cord near the entrance, soaring up the shear wall, the external face of the utility core, to the Promenade Room.
Barton recalled that Jenny had never ridden in it. He made a mental note to use it after dinner; the ride might take the edge off the evening for her. The elevator cage was darkened during its ascent or descent-the lights visible from the street were in the base-and the illusion of hanging suspended in space over the city below was breathtaking.
The lobby was filled with employees leaving for the evening and for a moment Barton felt like a salmon swimming upstream. The office population of the building was close to three thousand and they all seemed to be trying to leave at once. The lights flicked off in Surely National, dimming that end of the lobby.
He shoved his way through to the information desk opposite the bank of elevators that served the business floors. The dark-haired girl behind it, dressed in a chic gold-and-red uniform and wearing a little pill-box hat, looked vaguely reminiscent of “Johnny” in the old Philip Morris ads. She flashed him a stewardess-type smile.
“I’m sorry, sir, but the Promenade Room is booked solid for the evening.”
Six months away and already he looked like a tourist, Barton thought.
“On a night like tonight?”
The smile became tentative; she was afraid he was going to be difficult. “It’s the start of the holidays, sir, and we seem to be the ‘in’ spot in town.” She tried to soften the blow. “Another night, perhaps?”
“I’m with Wyndom Leroux’s party,” Barton said shortly. “Did he leave any messages?”
She looked impressed and shuffled through the papers on the desk.
“His reservation’s not until eight o’clock but I don’t see any messages. Is there anything … ?”
He turned away. “Thanks anyway.” The best idea would be to drop his bag in the offices, freshen up, and head for the Promenade Room bar.
He was almost to the elevator bank when he spotted Dan Garfunkel, the head of security, talking to a young guard. Garfunkel was a thick, heavy-set man in his fifties. He had spent twenty years with the police force and another ten with the Burns Detective Agency. He was dressed in a plain, dark suit, his only badge of office being the two-way radio attached to his belt on the left hip; there was no mistaking his position, however. Everything about him spelled out “cop,” Barton thought. He was balding, with a thin fringe around the sides like a monk’s tonsure, and had a beard so heavy that Barton guessed he shaved twice a day when he -was on the job. He had a quiet, intense way of talking and was one of the few men whom Barton had ever met who could chew somebody out in a whisper. He was doing just that as Barton approached.
“I know it’s not your shift but I’m short two men and you’re the last one on the roster, so that makes it your baby. You don’t like it, I’ll find a cop who wants to moonlight. Remember that the building officially closes at six and you start to check ID’s then. Any reservations for the Promenade,Room, send them over to Sue. Any difficulties, call me on your two-way. Don’t get smart with the people, you’re as much public relations as you are security. And I don’t want to hear any more complaints about kids in the lobby.”
The guard nodded, stony-faced, and walked away. Garfunkel stared coldly at Barton for a second and then a mind that never forgot a face found an identification to go along with it. He shook his head, relaxing. “He’s a good man-four years in the MP’s-but I swear to God nobody wants to work any more, Mr. Barton; they all want a free ride.
A little sleet and suddenly everybody’s sick or their car won’t start or their great-grandmother dropped in unexpectedly from Dubuque.”
Barton looked sympathetic. “How shorthanded are you?”
“A third of the shift didn’t show-it was Sammy’s great-grandmother from Dubuque, believe it or not. Which means I’ll have to spend the evening in the monitoring room, watching the idiot tubes with Yates.
Helluva way to handle security, especially with all the shoplifting, burglary, and petty vandalism we’ve been having-Christ, we even had a rape last month. I’ve been after the super to install infrared sensors in the stairwells so we’ll know if we’ve got trespassers, but nobody wants to spend the money.”
“How’s the leasing going?”
Garfunkel shook his head. “Almost all of the commercial and office floors are leased,” he said, ticking them off on his stubby fingers.
“Fifty through sixty-four are still nearly empty, though some of the suites aren’t finished yet-you should try and make the rounds through that mess. And then there’s this guy Quantrell and his broadcasts. He’s really got it in for the boss and a lot of people watch him and get skittish. Me, I think Mr. Leroux ought to sue the bastard.”
Barton had heard a little about Quantrell and his telecasts out in San Francisco. But mention of the apartment floors brought another thought to mind.
“How’s Jernigan coming along?” Harry Jernigan had come from Burns along with Garfunkel. A handsome, athletic black in his early thirties, Jernigan was deputy head of security and responsible for the residential floors.
Barton had met him once and the man’s natural sense of dignity had impressed him.
Garfunkel smiled. “Harry’s doing great, just great.
Some of the older tenants called him ‘boy’ at first; then they found out he had a master’s degree in fine arts and that ended that. A lot of the women give him the eye but he doesn’t let it get to him. If they could see what he’s got at home they’d all Turn green. I feel sorry for Harry, though; he’s got more relatives sponging off him than Standard has oil wells. He’s a good man, Mr. Barton. If I ever left here He shrugged. “Yeah, and someday the meek will inherit the earth.”
“Times are changing, Dan; he’ll do okay.”
