Gridiron - Philip Kerr

'I wouldn't tell that to Tulane Law School,' Mitch advised him.

'Shit, it'd be worth it, though.' He laughed. 'So, make the calls will you, please, Mitch?'

Mitch shrugged. He knew better than to try and argue with

Richardson. But Richardson noted his expression and nodded.

'Look, I know you think I'm being paranoid about this, but I know what I'm talking about. Right now I've got two lawsuits against me. My ex-maid is suing me because of the nervous shock she claims she suffered when I fired her ass for bad time-keeping. A fucking dinner guest at my house is suing me because he claims a fishbone got stuck in his frigging throat. And before you know it Allen Grabel will be trying to cut himself a slice.'

'Grabel? You've heard from him?'

'No, no, I'm talking theoretically. But who's to say he won't try and hit me with constructive dismissal? The guy hates my guts. You should have heard what he said when he left. He told me he wanted to see me dead. I had half a mind to report him to the police. The guy wants to hurt me, Mitch. I'm surprised that I haven't heard from an attorney already.'

They came out the back of the building where the Bentley was waiting. Richardson handed his briefcase and computer to Declan and took off his coat before climbing into the back seat. He did not close the door. That was Declan's job.

'Yojo's funeral is on Friday,' said Mitch. 'At Forest Lawn.'

'I never go to funerals. You know that. Especially in this city. Life's too short as it is. And I don't want anyone else going from the office either. Friday's a work day. Anyone who wants to go can take it as part of their vacation. Send a flower arrangement if you think it's necessary. You can put my name on the card if you like.'

'Thanks Ray, I'm sure he'd appreciate it.'

Richardson was already dialling a number on his portable telephone. As Declan closed the Bentley's door Mitch smiled thinly. He almost wished it was Ray Richardson who was dead. Now there was a funeral people attending would be happy to count as a holiday. The only wonder was that someone had not put out a contract on him. Send an envelope around the office collecting for that particular good cause and you might get several thousand dollars. Hell, someone might even offer to do it for free.

Mitch watched the car disappear. Then he turned and walked to the edge of the terrace. There were days when the smog lay thick across the city like dry ice so that even the distant downtown skyline was covered. But today the air was relatively clear and Mitch could see eight miles across West LA. He could easily distinguish one skyscraper from another: the Arco Towers, the First Interstate, the Microsoft Building, the Crocker Center, the SEGA building, the Library Tower. But there were none of them like the Gridiron. It seemed to have thrust its way out of the ground like some bright and shiny new-born white thing, for some purpose as yet undisclosed to the city's human inhabitants. He felt that the building was something almost mobile and, to that extent, it seemed to express something of the essence of LA: its freedom of movement. Mitch smiled as he tried to recall the copy Joan had written for the lavish silver-coloured book that the firm had produced to promote its own on-going buildings and projects. What was it she said? Usually most of what she wrote was ludicrously grandiloquent. And she was always irritatingly free with the use of the word genius in connection with her husband. But on this occasion one particular hackneyed phrase had struck a chord with Mitch.

'Brave new world, that has such buildings in it!'

Perhaps that wasn't so inappropriate, he thought. This really was a building that represented a new tomorrow.

Every night Sam Gleig came on duty he reported in person to the site office on the seventh floor, to see if there were any special instructions and to check out who might be working late. He could have picked up the telephone and achieved the same result from the desk in the security guard's office on the ground floor. But with twelve hours of solitude facing him, Gleig preferred a little human contact. Have a bit of conversation with whoever was there. Shoot the breeze. Later on he would be glad he had made the effort. The Gridiron was a lonely place at night. Besides, tonight he was curious to hear the official verdict on Yojo's death.

In an effort to keep fit Gleig usually avoided using the elevator and took the stairs. The treads were made of glass to ensure the maximum penetration of light into the stairwell. At night each one of them was lit up by an electric light the colour of water in a swimming pool. The stairway to heaven. That was what Gleig called it. A religious man, he never mounted the stairs without thinking of Jacob's dream and quoting the text from the Book of Genesis to himself:

'Then Jacob awoke from his sleep and said, Surely the Lord is in this place; and I did not know it. And he was afraid, and said, "How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven." '

In the site office he found Helen Hussey, the site agent, and Warren Aikman, the clerk of works, filling their briefcases and getting ready to go home.

'Evening Sam,' Helen said pleasantly.

She was a tall, skinny redhead with green eyes and lots of freckles. Gleig liked her a lot. She had a good word for everyone.

'Evening, Miss,' he said. 'Good evening Mr Aikman.'

'Sam,' grunted the clerk of works, too tired to talk very much. 'Ah, what a day. Thank God it's over.' Instinctively he straightened his college tie, ran a hand through his grey hair and found it still full of dust — the result of inspecting a ceiling on the sixteenth level while workmen had been re-laying the plenum floor on the level above. As the Yu

Corporation's personal representative on site, it was Warren Aikman's job to inspect the site periodically and provide a complete case-history of the whole job; and to refer any discrepancies between the design policy and the finished building to Mitchell Bryan or Tony Levine. But Aikman's frustration had more to do with Helen Hussey than with the interpretation of any architectural details. Despite having told her he loved her, more or less, Helen still refused to take him seriously.

'So,' said Sam, 'who's working late tonight?'

'Sam,' she scolded, 'what have I told you? Just ask the computer. Abraham is programmed to know who's working late, and where. It has heat sensors and cameras to help you.'

'Yeah, I know, it's just I don't much like talking to a machine. It ain't very friendly. A bit of human contact is still important, you know what I'm saying?'

'I'd rather talk to a machine than to Ray Richardson,' said Aikman. 'At least there's a slim chance that the machine has a heart.'

'I don't mean to bother you none.'

'You don't bother us at all, Sam.'

Aikman's telephone rang. He answered it and after a second or two sat down behind his desk and scribbled a note. Covering the mouthpiece he looked up at Helen Hussey and said, 'It's David Arnon. Can you wait a minute?'

Relieved that she would have an opportunity to get down to her car without having to fight of Aikman's wandering hands in the elevator, Helen smiled and shook her head.

'I really can't,' she whispered, 'I'm late as it is. See you tomorrow.'

Aikman grimaced with irritation and nodded. 'Yes, David. Do you have the specification there?'

Helen rippled her fingers at Aikman and walked to the elevator with Sam Gleig.

'They say what happened to Mr Yojo yet?'

'Apparently he suffered a massive epileptic fit,' said Helen.

'Figured as much.'

They stepped into the elevator and told Abraham to take them to the parking lot.

'Poor guy,' he added. 'Kind of a waste. How old was he?'

'I don't really know. Thirty something I guess.'

'Damn.'

'What's the matter, Sam?'

'I just remembered I forgot my book. Left it at home.' He shrugged apologetically. 'You've got to have something to read on a job like this. And I can't stand to watch TV. TV is pollution.'

'Oh, Sam,' said Helen, 'you've got a work-station. Why don't you use the electronic library?'

'Electronic library, huh? I didn't know there was such a thing.'

'It's really simple to use. Really simple. It works kind of like a juke box. Just select the multimedia library icon on your work-station and the computer will list all the available categories of material it has on disc. Choose the category and then the title and the computer will play the disc for you. Of course it's mostly reference books here, but they're all of them interactive, with audio excerpts and film footage. The Variety Film Guide is just wonderful. Believe me, Sam, it's a lot of fun.'

'Well thanks, Miss Hussey. Thanks a lot.' Sam smiled politely, wondering if it was actually possible to read anything from the library: from the way Helen had described it, it sounded like just another way of watching television. After leaving prison he had vowed he would never watch television again.

He watched her get into her car and then went back up to the atrium floor where the piano was playing an Impromptu by Schubert in the style of Murray Perahia. Although he liked the music, Gleig was always a little unnerved by the sight of the keys playing as if an invisible person was sitting on the piano stool. More so now that Hideki Yojo was dead. It still shook him when he remembered those blackened eyes. Epilepsy. What a way to go.

Death was a subject often on Gleig's mind. He knew it was the solitude of the job that was responsible. Sometimes, touring the building at night, it was like being inside some huge mausoleum. Preoccupied with death and dying, and with so much time on his hands he had become something of a hypochondriac. But what worried him more than the idea that he too might suffer an epileptic fit was the awareness that he knew nothing at all about it or what warning signs to watch out for. As soon as he had the opportunity Sam accessed the encyclopedia in the electronic library.

After selecting the appropriate category with his mouse there was a momentary pause and then an Aaron Copland fanfare of trumpets that caused his heart to leap in his chest.

'Welcome to the encyclopedia,' announced the computer.

'Damn,' he exclaimed nervously, 'don't do that. Machine, you scared the shit out of me.'

'The information resource that covers all fields of human learning and history in all times and places. Quite simply, you have before you the most complete information archive anywhere on earth. Entry titles are alphabetized according to the English language A-Z.'

'No kidding,' grunted Gleig.

'All diacritcal marks and foreign letters without parallels in English are ignored in this alphabetization.'

Gleig shrugged to himself, unsure if his previous remark had been critical or not.

'Titles beginning with numbers, such as 1984, the novel by George Orwell, are alphabetized as if the numbers were written out Nineteen Eighty-Four. When you have decided upon the entry that you require you may take up any cross-references, or you may browse among countless subjects that are grouped around the original entry point. Now type your chosen subject please.'

Gleig thought for a moment and then typed uncertainly:

IPPYLEPPSY

'The subject you require does not exist. It may be that you have misspelled it. Try again.'

IPPILEPPSY

'No. That's no good either. Okay, here's my suggestion. If you are searching for information on a disease of the nervous system characterized by paroxysms, in which the patient falls to the ground unconscious, with general spasm of the muscles and sometimes foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog, aka "the falling sickness", then the word you require will now appear on screen in its correct spelling. If this is the subject you require then indicate your choice by typing YES.'

EPILEPSY?

YES

Almost instantaneously Gleig was watching a film of a man lying on the ground jerking uncontrollably and frothing at the mouth.

'Heavenly Father,' he breathed. 'Lord above. Will you look at that poor sonofabitch?'

'It has been estimated that 6–7 per cent of the population suffer at least one epileptic seizure at some time in their lives, and that 4 per cent have a phase when they are prone to recurrent seizures.'

'Is that a fact?'

The picture changed to the marble head of a bald and bearded man.

'The definition of the condition is generally attributed to Hippocrates.'

'Is he the guy who committed suicide?'

The computer ignored the interruption.

'Epilepsy is not a specific disease but rather a complex of symptoms that results from any number of conditions that excessively excite nerve cells of the brain.'

'You mean, like Miss Hussey?' Sam Gleig chuckled obscenely. 'Man, she sure as hell excites my tired old brain.'

The picture of Hippocrates gave way to several other pictures: one of the brain, an electroencephalogram, the German psychiatrist Hans Berger, and the father of British neurology, Hughlings Jackson. But it was the computer's explanation of the types of seizure and in particular focal seizures and their causes that really interested Sam Gleig.

'A focal sensory seizure may sometimes be caused by a stroboscopic light and for this reason those people who suffer from photosensitive epilepsy are often advised to avoid nightclubs and computers.'

'God damn,' breathed Gleig as he recollected the burn he had sustained on the back of his hand from the fancy-looking desk lamp on Hideki Yojo's desk.

'Of course. It wasn't the computer screen at all. God damn. It was the desk light. It was red hot.'

He looked instinctively at the back of his hand. The burn, about the size of a quarter, was still there. Remembering some of the nightclubs he had been to as a younger man and the nauseous effect that the flashing lights had sometimes produced in him, Gleig was suddenly sure that he could now offer a slightly different explanation for what had caused Hideki Yojo's death.

'What else could it have been?'

He reached for the telephone, thinking that he had to call someone and tell them what he suspected. But who? The cops? The ex-con in him recoiled from any further contact with LAPD. Helen Hussey? How would she feel about him calling her at home? Warren Aikman? Maybe he was still working upstairs. Except that Sam liked talking to the clerk of works about as much as he liked talking to the LAPD. Aikman had a habit of making him feel small and unimportant. Maybe it could wait until the morning after all, when he could tell Helen Hussey in person. Besides, it would give him an excuse to speak to her. So he stayed where he was, browsing through EPILOBRIUM, EPISCOPACY, EPISTEMOLOGY,

ERASMUS, ERNST, EROS and ESAU.

Allen Grabel found himself on the fourth floor of the Gridiron, near the computer room. As plans went his was not a particularly sophisticated one, but he did not doubt it would be effective. To screw Richardson he would screw his building. And the best way to do that was to screw the computer. Just walk in there with a heavy object and do 40 million dollars' worth of damage. Short of killing Richardson he could think of no more effective way of getting back at him. He had wanted to do it earlier, only something had stopped him. Now he was actually on his way. He had a flat sheet of steel in his hands, about the size of a roof tile, something the builders had left behind in the basement. It was not very easy to carry but, having resolved to do some damage, he had discovered a lack of blunt instruments about the building. This was all he had been able to find. And the corners looked sufficiently unyielding to smash a few screens and maybe puncture the computer housings themselves. He was approaching the little glass bridge when he heard the Disklavier piano starting to play. It was a piece of music he recognized by Oliver Messiaen. And it heralded someone crossing the atrium floor.