“That rendering cost five grand, that’s no joke.”
“He doesn’t need a renderer, he needs a retoucher.”
Barton felt feverish. “Leroux knows I won’t go for this.”
… Maybe he thinks he can sweet talk you.”
“On something like this?” Barton was outraged. “Come on, Joe!”
He sat down on a nearby chair. “Who’s supposed to be the chief architect?”
Moore was silent for a moment, staring down at the rendering, then looked directly up at him. His voice was flat. “It came with a promotion and a title and a lot of money. I couldn’t Turn it down.”
“You won’t be doing any drafting,” Barton said contemptuously.
“You’ll be making tracings.”
Moore kept a poker face. “If it helps any Beth’s been sick and I really need that money. Leroux’s always resented that I wasn’t one of his boys, then he saw his chance and made his move. So now I’m his-body, soul, and talent, come rain,’shine, or the Inverness Open.”
There wasn’t anything to say, Barton thought. Moore had to play the hand that was dealt him, he didn’t have any choice.
Moore fumbled for a cigarette. “How’s Jenny?”
“Okay. She flew in yesterday, stayed with the Lerouxes last night, and spent today shopping with Thelma. We’re having dinner in the Promenade Room at eight. Command performance.”
“She’ll hate that.”
“I expect I’ll hear all about it.” Barton thumbed the rendering.
“What does the old man want to see me about? This?”
“He’ll probably mention it but I don’t think it’s the real reason.
Ever hear of a TV newscaster named Quantrell?”
“Garfunkel told me about him downstairs.”
“He’s running an expose series on Leroux and the Glass House.
It’s too popular.”
Barton felt puzzled. “What’s that got to do with me I don’t know the man, I’ve never met him, I’ve never even seen his show. What’s the deal?”
Moore spread his hands out in appeal. “Look, all I know is what I hear. You were good friends with the first assistant fire chief, Mario Infantino, right? He’s also a division chief, right? You used to sit it on fire-code meetings with him, right? And you and he buddied during army reserve meetings back here, right?”
“So?”
. “Leroux thinks that Infantino is feeding Quantrell information about National Curtainwall-confidential information.”
” Barton stared.
“I still don’t get it. One, Mario wouldn’t do it and two, where would he get the information?”
“I guess that’s why Leroux wants to talk to you,” Moore said quietly.
“Or so the rumors go.”
“You’ve got my sympathy on Beth,” Barton said stiffly. “Thanks for the gossip-don’t work too late.” He stood up and walked down the hall to the executive washroom, ignoring Moore’s shouts behind him. He needed cold water, a lot of it.
For a moment, the room took his mind off himself. It was a sybaritic dream, the Florentine marble and gilded wrought-iron basin fixtures in the shape of dolphins, plus a solid wall of mirrors. It was the sort of john that Douglas would probably have designed, Barton thought, then smiled at his own prejudice.
He turned the taps to run water into the basin, thinking of what he might say when he saw Leroux later. When he had first met Leroux, he had been chief architect for Wexler and Haines; the Glass House had been their account. He had liked Leroux and had deliberately impressed him with his knowledge of architecture and construction techniques.
Leroux had offered him a junior vice-presidency in National Curtainwall. He had accepted and at the same time had broken up with Quinn Reynolds to court and marry Jenny, whom he had met several months before and with whom he had fallen in love.
It now looked like he had made a mistake, he thought grimly. Two of them. He cupped the cold water in his hands and sloshed his face with it, coming up gasping.
. His major disappointment had been that he hadn’t been given the chance to oversee. the construction crews on the Glass House, that Leroux had not appointed him site supervisor. Instead, Leroux had transferred him to Boston for a year and a half and then to San Francisco to make a preliminary survey for a high rise to be built in the wharf area near the Embarcadero freeway. It was a tricky assignment, not only because of the building code problems attendant to any construction near the San Andreas fault, but also because of growing civic opposition to high rises. Then Leroux had called him two days ago, in the middle of his preparations for an appearance before the Board of Supervisors. He had to see Barton as soon as possible about various vague problems. It wasn’t like Leroux and something in his voice had made Barton uneasy.
He dried his hands and face and adjust his tie in the mirror. The face that stared back shocked him. The graying at the temples, the slight puffiness to the jowls, the faint lines etching themselves around the eyes … He was thirty-eight and no amount of squash playing at the club, no number of steam baths seemed to take away the slight sag to the chin line, the faint pudginess that was slowly softening the trim outline of his body. Even Jenny-or A perhaps, especially Jenny-had remarked on the chin on him.
On the other hand, Leroux was made for the business; he thrived on it. He was in his early sixties and looked fifty. He claimed to be a self-made man, though Barton doubted that; somewhere in his background there was a prep school or an eastern college. But the self-made bit fit his own myth as a drifter who worked in the oil fields of Louisiana, then married Thelma, and bought her father’s construction firm on an extended note. It had been a small company but with Leroux at the helm, it had grown rapidly. He branched out into general contracting and formed National Curtainwall when he built a small high rise in downtown Raleigh after the end of the Korean war. And now Leroux was on his way to becoming … what?
And what about himself? Barton thought. The problem was simple.
He wanted to be his own boss; he didn’t want his buildings stolen from him. So what was he going to do about it?
He felt the anger rise in him, shrugged if off, and walked back to his office. It was five minutes to six, too early even to go to the Promenade Room to get drunk enough so he would have the guts to do something he could be sorry about later.
He turned on the television set on top of the office bookcase, sat back in his swivel chair and lit up another cigarillo. The news would be coming up at six o’clock.
Now was his chance to watch Quantrell and see what all the shouting was about.
CHAPTER 2
Jeffrey Quantrell leaned forward in his seat and said, “Look, cabbie, if you can’t-make it any faster than this, then drop me off in front of the Towers rather than at the side entrance; I’m late now.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Quantrell-it’s all this holiday traffic, a lot of people have been let out early.”
Jeffrey Quantrell leaned back, letting the heavy fur collar of his coat cradle his head and neck. It wasn’t everybody in town who would be recognized by their cab driver, he thought; one of the advantages of having a six- and an eleven-o’clock time slot-and something to say on it. K.Y.S-TV was great for fame, if not so good when it came to fortune.
The cab braked to a halt in front of Clairmont Towers, its tires sliding for an instant before they found new purchase. Small puddles of water were freezing on the asphalt and the sidewalk. The holly wreath decorating the main entrance of the Towers had already grown inch-long fingers of ice.
Quantrell shivered, pulled his hat low over his ears, threw open the taxi door. He thrust a bill at the driver, yelled “Keep it!” and slammed the door behind him. For a moment he fought for a footing against the wind and the driving sleet, then sprinted for the entrance, skidding every few feet on the sidewalk slick. He made it to the revolving door and pushed his way in, his glasses immediately fogging in the warmth of the building.
