Abattoir Read Free Page B

sought shelter here during a snowstorm. He froze to death.”
    Cantrell moved to answer another question, but the reporter was persistent.
    “Yes, that was the coroner’s ruling, sir, but don’t you think it’s odd that a man could freeze to death when he had already started a fire, and there seemed to be plenty of fuel to keep it going?”
    Cantrell matched the reporter’s gaze. “I’m sorry, I don’t have an answer for that.”
    The crowd seemed to shift uncomfortably, but nobody seemed to have anything to say.
    “What about workers dying on the job?”
    The reporter’s polite voice now had a sharper edge.
    “What’s your question?”
    Cantrell’s voice was also growing harder.
    “Your construction workers. My count is that three died during the renovations, and many walked off the job. Why?”
    Cantrell swallowed. “Tragically, there was a heart attack, a stroke, and one fatal fall during the reconstruction. This was a very, very difficult renovation. Unfortunately, despite all of our precautions, there was a run of bad luck. I can’t think of another way to put it. On a job like this, where there’s plenty of danger, the margin for error is extremely small. And, yes, some workers did walk off the job. I really can’t blame them.”
    He cleared his throat and before the reporter could speak again, invited the new tenants for coffee in the conference room.
    “There are a few practical details I’d like to go over with all of you, and perhaps you’d like the chance to meet your new neighbors.”
    He turned to the others. “For the rest of you, thank you very much for your attendance today.” They filed to the front door—the thwarted reporter among them—while the tenants followed Cantrell to the conference room.
    Like the rest of the building, the scale was impressive. There were 30 people here, but the room could easily have held three times that. Designed both for conferences and social events, the room was further testimony that Cantrell had achieved the synthesis of art and function. A long walnut table dominated the center of the room, but there was plenty of space to accommodate sofas and easy chairs along the marble and silk-covered walls. Warm sconces bathed the room in soft amber illumination. English countryside paintings added to the gentle and soothing ambiance.
    The tenants positioned themselves at various spots along the table, settling into soft leather chairs, awaiting his words.
    “I want to welcome you all—the first residents of the Exeter.”
    He began with a lengthy talk on practical matters—parking, trash and recycling; the use of common rooms for parties and events, keys and security, then fielded questions from the room.
    “Now,” he continued. “Let’s have everyone introduce themselves; tell us a little about who you are and why you’re here. After all, we’re all neighbors now.
    “I’ll begin with myself. My flat is in the tower, just behind the clock. The point I’m making is that I’m not an absentee landlord. I want you to know that I’m here to help with whatever you might need, whenever you might need it. Now you, sir.”
    He gestured to the man who was sitting to his right; a short, rather rotund older gentleman, about 60 years old. He’d shaved his balding pate and wore expensive glasses, ornate and oversized, jeans and an expensive silk shirt, opened halfway down to reveal a heavy gold medallion laying upon his hairy, graying chest.
    “Stu Brown,” he announced in a deep and gravelly voice, the accent reminiscent of Brooklyn. “I’m in the bar and restaurant business. I’d be surprised if most of you haven’t been in one or more of my establishments at one time or another—the Lancelot, Rick’s, the Lime Light, Fifteenth Street Grill . . . ”
    Some of the others nodded their heads in recognition.
    “ . . . I’m pretty damn good at what I do,” Brown continued. “I make people happy.”
    He smiled, the expression insincere,