possible deaths. They don’t have to happen every month, even once would be enough.”
“I’m not without sympathy for your views,” Fuchs spit out. “I resent that you seem to be without any understanding of mine.”
“We’re talking -while the Glass House burns,” Infantino said quietly.
“Can we get the blueprints from the Department of Building and Safety?
Or if they don’t have them, from the insurance company of National Curtainwall itself?”
Fuchs nodded, his anger spent. “I’ll have it checked.
Anything else?”
“We’ll be sending men into tight, sealed rooms and compartments-we’ll need all the respiratory equipment we can get.”
“I’ve already taken care of that.” Fuchs turned to go back to his car, his aging shoulders bent against the wind.
“I’m not through!” Infantino shouted.
Fuchs turned. “You’ve got everything in the city now.”
“In this city, yes. I think we ought to contact the department in Southport. They’ve got new, high-capacity respirators and a hundred-foot tower can throw water to the thirteenth floor.
I’ll put them on the alert, but I’m not going to ask for help at this stage of the game. I doubt we’ll need more equipment; I think we can handle our own dirty work.”
Infantino nodded. He could understand Fuchs’s reluctance to borrow equipment before he absolutely had to.
“Thanks a lot, Chief-you’ve given me everything I’ll need.”
“You think so?” Fuchs said dryly. “I haven’t wished you good luck and I haven’t offered any prayers for you - and you need them both at any fire.” He turned to walk back to his car. “Can I offer you a lift?”
“No thanks,” Infantino said shortly. He hurried into the firehouse, nodding to the house watchman in his tiny booth near the front of the apparatus floor. The four companies that used the firehouse as division headquarters were gone and, except for the house watchman, the station was deserted. A skillet with a dozen half-cooked pork chops was on the back BURNER of the stove in the kitchen, the chops already jelling in their own grease. Scraps of lettuce were scattered over a cutting board.
It took him only a few minutes to slip out of his pants and coat and pull on boots and a turnout suit, fumbling to clip the coat rings tight.
He grabbed up a pair of gloves and his high-impact helmet and ran out into the garage to his service car. He fastened his safety belt and flicked on the ignition and the two-way radio.
The car was immediately flooded with crackling conversations. He listened for a moment, then roared out of the garage, his siren wailing.
The Glass House was going up much faster than he had thought possible. The weather was partly to blame; the difference in temperature between the air outside the building and the air inside was creating a stack effect.
Cold air was heavier and tended to flow into the building through the doors and the numerous small holes and cracks in the Curtainwall, then rise like smoke up a chimney.
At the moment, he thought, the Glass House was the tallest chimney in the city.
CHAPTER 27
The engineer in the control room was drawing his hand across his throat: less than a minute for the tag- off.
Jeffrey Quantrell turned slightly so that he was looking directly into the eye of Number Two camera. His expression was still that of a concerned citizen, shocked and saddened that the fire he had predicted so long for the Glass House had become reality. There was the slightest tinge of I-told-you-so in his delivery.
“Whatever the outcome of the developing disaster on Lee Avenue, this undoubtedly is only the beginning. In its own way, the Glass House is not unusual-there are dozens like it in the city that, due to poor construction practices and outright violations of the building codes, are firetraps in the sky. In the long run, what can be done about it is up to you. For the rest of the evening, of course, K.Y.S will interrupt its regularly scheduled programming from time to time to bring you the latest on the fire that is currently gnawing at the vitals of the Glass House. Thank you-and good night.”
He held his solemn pose until the light winked off and the floor manager signaled him. He had called the shots to the letter, he thought, and he had done a good job of reminding the viewer of just that-without claiming too much credit for himself.
He savored the moment for a second longer. Everybody thought he had been crying wolf but here it was-the biggest disaster the city had seen in years. It didn’t matter whether they canceled his contract now or not; he could get almost any broadcast job in the country tomorrow if he wanted it.
He straightened his necktie and sauntered out of the studio. The floor manager smiled broadly and waved a friendly congratulation.
Quantrell didn’t bother to acknowledge it. The bastard would’ve crucified me six hours ago if he could’ve, Quantrell thought. Half the personnel in the studio would now be buddy-buddy, and be back to waiting for another chance to sink their knives.
Carter, the director, stuck his head out of the booth as Quantrell walked by and said, “Nice going, Jeff-talk about falling into a cesspool and coming up smelling like a rose.”
“Thanks, I like you, too,” Quantrell said casually.
Behind him, he heard Carter shout, “It’s nice to know it hasn’t gone to your head!” Another knife out for him but it didn’t matter any more; it didn’t matter what any of them thought-he wasn’t going to be there that much longer, and not by their choice, by his.
He waved to Clairmont’s secretary and walked past ‘her desk before she could stop him. He knocked on the door once and walked in. “Hi, Vic, just thought I’d check bases before taking off to watch Leroux’s building burn.”
Clairmont leaned back in his chair and glanced at his watch.
“Well, I lose-I bet Marge it would take you two minutes to get here once you were off the air and it’s taken you all of three. What kept you?”
Cool, Quantrell thought. “The autograph seekers in the hall-there’s a whole mob of them out here.” He took the chair by the desk. “Are you sore because I was right, VicI thought you were a bigger man than that.”
“You went over my head,” Clairmont said tightly. “Do you expect me to congratulate you about that? My uncle called ten minutes before you went on the air; otherwise you would have been playing to a dead camera.”
Quantrell managed to look contrite. “I knew I was right and I went to any lengths to prove it. If you’re sore, blame fate-I didn’t set fire to the building. In the long run, I think my actions and attitudes will be of benefit to the station.”
“And to Jeffrey Quantrell’s personal ambitions?”
“I didn’t know it was a crime to be ambitious. If it is then I’m guilty of it and I imagine you are, too.”
“I’ll be goddamned if I’ll have you running upstairs on every little thing, now that you’ve pulled this one Off”, Clairmont flared.
“You wouldn’t have done the same thing in my shoes?”
Quantrell asked calmly. “I think you would’ve, especially if you believed in what you were doing as much as I do.”
He leaned forward. “You didn’t leave me any choice, Vic-you had greased the skids for a quick trip back to the sticks and I wasn’t going to go without a fight. If it helps, the visit to the Old Man was strictly a one shot.
I don’t play billiards that well and sooner or later he’s going to remember that I broke his favorite cue.”
Clairmont half smiled. “He told me about that, too.”
Quantrell studied him for a moment. “The story isn’t over yet; it will take a lot of work and a lot of cooperation from your end. From now on, it’s your story-as much as mine and I’ll make sure the Old Man knows it.”
