“I’ve never met the man, I’ve never even watched his show until tonight.”
Leroux laughed shortly. “What did you think of it?”
“I think he’s a muckraker. And I think somebody’s been feeding him inside information.”
“That’s right. Somebody is.”
“And you think it’s me.”
“I didn’t say that. I suppose it’s a possibility.”
The drink was helping, Barton thought. He signaled for another.
“You gave me a good job, Wyn; you gave me opportunity. In retrospect, I’m not so.sure I should have taken the job, but at the time I appreciated it. And you think I would repay you by acting the informer?”
“Why not? It happens every day. Few businesses operate on gratitude and those that do don’t operate very long.”
“I don’t.have the motivation,” Barton said dryly. “And furthermore, I don’t have the information. I never worked with the construction team-you pulled me off and sent me to Boston, remember?
If I had been here, they sure as hell wouldn’t have used synthetics for the cladding around the elevator banks. I assume you knew about that.”
“Why ask me? It sounds like a cost factor; accounting handles that.”
He changed the subject. “Why should Infantino have a knife out for us? If he’s such a good friend of yours, why is he stabbing you in the back-which is what he’s doing when he teams up with Quantrell.”
Barton could feel the anger start to build. That was fine, he thought, let it. “You’re being a little paranoid, Wyndom. Who told you that Infantino had teamed up with Quantrell? I know him well enough to know that he wouldn’t do that; he wouldn’t sell out.”
In the darkened alcove, Leroux’s face almost looked satanic.
“Anybody will sell out if the price is right. All you have to know is the price-and it isn’t always money.”
The situation had rattled Leroux, Barton thought, more than he had figured it could have r should have. “All right, how bad is it?”
Leroux twirled his empty glass in his hand. “If it were just the Glass House, we could probably ride it out. But newscasters in other cities have picked up the Quantrell broadcasts; they think we’re vulnerable, that Quantrell wouldn’t be saying what he is unless he actually had something. Now it’s monkey see, monkey do. We’re under attack in half a dozen cities where we have major projects building or on the boards. In some areas, the pressure has been enough for the city to launch an investigation. Usually we’re suspected of circumventing local building codes or we’re accused of shoddy workmanship. Here, the leasing of the Glass House has come to a halt-in fact, we’re starting to lose tenants.
You want to read the balance sheets? You’re welcome to; they’ll provide you with quite an education.”
“Why me, Wyn?” Barton asked at last. “I come into town and everybody knows that I’m the guy under suspicion. They wouldn’t think that if you didn’t think that.”
“Circumstantial,” Leroux admitted. “If you didn’t know And you wanted the information, you still had access to it. Id say that you don’t show good judgment in your choice of friends.”
Three drinks down and he had come to a conclusion, Barton thought.
It was one that he had been a long time arriving at but now that he was there, he wasn’t sorry.
“Wyn,” he said slowly, “I’ve got a few things to admit but they’re not what you think. First of all, I’m tired of this discussion. I personally think you’re tired and upset, otherwise you would have thought all this out before sending for me. Second, I’ve been too goddamned busy to run around feeding information to Fire Department division chiefs or rating-happy TV reporters. You can believe me or not on that score; I don’t give a damn.
And, finally, I guess I’m tired of my job. You did me a favor in giving it to me and now I’m doing myself a favor in giving it back to you. I don’t like the political in-fighting in a corporation. And now, through ‘no fault of my own, I find myself in the middle of it.
I’m not a politician or a CPA or a public relations man; I’m an architect and it occurs to me that you’re never going to use me as one.
From what I saw of Joe Moore’s latest assignment, you’re not in the market for architects anyway. So my recommendation to you is that you go out and hire yourself that politician and that CPA and that PR man-I’ve just resigned all three posts.”
Barton drained his glass and stood up, a trace unsteady. “That’s all I’ve got to say. To be honest, I thought that when it came down to it all I would say was ‘I quit.” I guess we’re never too old to surprise, ourselves.”
Leroux was smiling. “Sit down, Craig, before you fall down. You might as well have dinner-you could use it - and the food here is good.
Besides, don’t forget that you didn’t come alone, though perhaps you would just as soon.” His smile faded. “I believe you … I believed you before you got here. Frankly, I can’t do without you.
Maybe that’s what hurts. That and the fact that after twenty years in the business, your blood gets replaced by computer read-out sheets from accounting. Business is a game, Craig, and it’s not how you play it, it’s whether you win or lose.”
Barton sat down. The charming self-pity of one of the most powerful men he knew. I need you, son, was what Leroux was saying and he could feel himself responding.
It was that-and what he knew Jenny would say if she thought the whole trip had been for-the purpose of turning in his resignation.
She’d never understand, he thought, not in a million years.
“About Quantrell,” Leroux continued. “I’ve taken steps to muzzle him that I think will be effective.”
Barton leaned back in the booth and sighed. Here went the old ball game but there were some questions that he had to ask, too; answers that he needed to have.
“Do you want to muzzle him because he’s wrong-or because he’s right?”
Leroux looked at him with a friendly openness, the tension of the earlier conversation’gone. “You want my frank opinion of his charges?”
“If you want to discuss them.”
Leroux smiled. “I’ll be delighted to, Craig-I was hoping you would ask me.”
CHAPTER 13
The faint glow in the darkened room has brightened to the point where an observer, if he were present, could make out the shadowy forms of three fifty-five-gallon drums and half a dozen carboys, as well as metal shelving extending along one wall. Some of the shelves have louvered steel doors; others are open and display rank on rank of metal cans and bottles, their labels smeared from careless pouring.
The glow is coming from a thousand tiny sparks nibbling at a stack of quilted cotton pads, the kind movers use to protect the surfaces of valuable wooden furniture.
The pile of pads, stacked untidily against the wall beneath some of the metal shelving, is almost five feet high; in places, cotton batting shows through holes torn in the worn fabric covering. The sparks are feeding on the charred threads of the third pad from the bottom.
The smoke sensor in the ceiling has so far failed to detect the curling tendrils of smoke; the accompanying heat sensor will not sound an alarm until the temperature in the room reaches at least 135 degrees,. The temperature is still somewhat on the chill side and warm air blows gently from the ventilator grill, fanning the sparks below.
In the center of the charred cloth and blackened cotton, intricate chemical processes have finally yielded enough energy for the threads to reach the kindling point. The bed of sparks suddenly glows brighter and a tiny flame abruptly appears like some sinister yellow butterfly emerging from its cocoon. It dances over the rapidly charring fabric and is quickly joined by others.
The infant beast has learned to walk.
CHAPTER 14
Jeffrey Quantrell stood quietly in front of the huge blowup of the Glass House, favoring the unseen audience with his “sincere” smile while the network sign-off credits were matted over his on-screen image. As soon as the
