Weekend (10 page)

“I guess I’ll have to wait. We might as well take those lounges in the second row, there,” Alison pointed. “It’s really getting crowded.”

“Um.” Sandi started again and accidentally kicked a sandal that had gotten in her way. It rolled over the tiles and plopped into the pool.

“HEY!” Grant Kaplan shot up from his lounge and went after his shoe. He had to jump into the pool and dunk himself to get it, for it was already sinking to the bottom.

“Oh my God,” Alison said.

“It’s not my fault. He left it out in the middle of the path.”

Grant pulled himself over the side of the pool. “Thanks a lot.”

“You should have kept it under the chair where it belongs.”

He let the sandal drip into the pool. Sandi watched him for a moment. He wasn’t bad looking, she thought, kinda cute the way his ears stuck out from his head.

“Just leave them in the sun a few minutes.”

“They’re sensitive,” he said, coming back to his chaise. “They might burn.”

“Very funny. I’m Sandi Golden and this is my friend Alison.”

“Hi,” Alison said. Grant remained mum. The man and woman on the lounges to his left took one look at them, gathered their things, and walked away.

“Might as well sit here,” Sandi said. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Long as you don’t kick anything else of mine into the pool.”

Sandi threw her beach towel on the lounge beside his and Alison sat down on the other one. She pulled down the bottom of her suit to relieve her hips of the tension. Sandi looked around again and then, in a very dramatic gesture, dropped her robe to her feet. Alison gasped.

The bikini pants cut just above the seam of her rear end, dipped at the sides, and crossed about an inch under her belly button. The bra uplifted her small breasts, but the sides of it were so abbreviated that what was revealed seemed more than there actually was. The suit was black with thin gold stripes. Heads turned. There were a few whistles. Men standing nearby stopped in mid-conversation and stared in silence.

“Where did you ever get a bathing suit like that?” Alison asked.

“Like it?” Sandi turned to show it completely. “It’s French. The newest style. The boutique just got them in.”

“Your mother actually let you wear it?”

“Well, not exactly,” Sandi said, knowing full well what her mother’s reaction would be. “She hasn’t seen it yet, but I think I’m safe for a while. She’s so busy she’ll never get anywhere near the pool.” She picked up her robe and took the suntan lotion out of her pocket. “Could I ask you for a favor?”

“What is it?” Grant said. He had been lying back, trying hard not to be impressed with this girl. God, she was pretty. But she was probably too old for him anyway.

“Just rub some of this lotion over my back and shoulders.” She turned and handed it to him without waiting for his reply. “Thanks,” she said when he hesitated. He pressed the tube and a blob of orange gel popped onto her skin. “Don’t you want to tell us your name?”

“Grant.”

“Grant. That’s one of my favorite names, isn’t it, Alison?”

“Oh yeah, sure.” Alison was still getting over the shock of what Sandi looked like in that bikini. Nobody would ever believe that she was just a thirteen-year-old kid.

“Are you here with your parents?”

“Just my mother,” Grant said, rubbing out the gel into small gooey circles. When he came near the strap of her top, he stopped. “My parents are divorced.”

“Really?” She turned around. “How come?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That’s too bad. I thought maybe you could tell me something about living with a single parent.” She took back the suntan cream, then turned and lay on her stomach, staring at him. “I bet you’re having a lousy time so far, huh?”

“That’s for damn sure.”

“If I came here as a guest, I think I’d have a lousy time too.”

“What do you come here as?”

“The owner’s daughter,” she said, trying not to make a big deal of it. Grant didn’t change expression. She liked that. “Going to the Champagne Hour tonight?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Neither are we.”

“But I thought …” Alison began. Sandi kicked her with her right foot. “I’m going in the water,” Alison said. “It’s too hot around here.”

“You wanna do something different tonight, Grant?”

“What’s different?” The idea of something different turned him on.

“You’ll see. Meet us in the Teen Room at nine.”

“I’ll have to check my appointment book,” he said. She laughed. Then without warning, she scooped up his sandal.

“C’mon,” she said, tapping him gently with it. “Let’s play dive for the footwear.”

“Hey!” He sat up but she was already at the edge of the pool. “Bring that back.” It was too late. She was already in the water. He looked for a moment, then finally made a move to get up. She was laughing hysterically and holding the sandal above her head. Despite his reluctance, he ran and jumped in after her.

Jonathan got up quickly as Nick Martin came through the door. He extended his hand.

“How was your check-in?”

“Smooth, but I understand I missed the big rush.”

“Sit down,” Jonathan said, gesturing toward the couch. He walked around the desk and took his seat. “You’re going to see this place at its best. We’re booked to capacity.”

“The grounds are beautiful. I can just imagine how it’ll be when slot machines, blackjack, baccarat and craps are added to your other attractions.”

“It’ll be fantastic,” Jonathan said, his face lighting up with anticipation. There was no way in the world he was going to let this possibility get fouled up.

“For the life of me,” Nick said, “I can’t understand why this place is such a marginal operation.”

“It’s simple,” Jonathan said, “we’re running behind the times. It’s 1958 and they’re still running this place like a turn-of-the-century borscht belt boarding house. You wouldn’t believe the inefficient operation and maintenance procedures they tolerate.”

“But you’re the general manager,” Nick said. He eyed Jonathan cooly. There was no humor in his expression. Jonathan squirmed in his seat.

“I’m questioned at every turn. Just today Ellen Golden made me put staff back in an area where I showed her in black and white they were unnecessary. She just doesn’t understand it’s not a mom-and-pop candy store operation any more; it’s big business. She has no concept of financial feasibility.”

“What’s she like?”

“A naive woman with no business perspective, no vision regarding the future. Her husband kept her at the social end of things but now she’s got it in her head she wants to take over the business operation as well. One season with her at the helm and we’ll sink faster than the
Titanic.
”

“Suppose we decide we like this place. Will she go for a silent partnership?”

“I thought so in the beginning but now I’m not so sure. In addition to everything else, she has a thing about gambling and how it would destroy everything the Congress stands for.”

“You surprise me, Mr. Lawrence,” Nick said quietly. “I understood, from our previous conversation, that you could almost guarantee her interest. Now what you’re saying is quite different. Am I to understand you haven’t been altogether honest with us the past few weeks?”

Jonathan was momentarily stunned. “Of course not. I’ll be able to deliver her exactly as I promised. It just might take a little longer, that’s all. Believe me, I want this deal to come through as badly as you.”

“I’m sure you do. But, as the saying goes, time is money. If you don’t deliver, we’ll go somewhere else, after calling in our loan and possibly bankrupting you, of course. Actually, it’s not such a bad idea. One hotel less to compete with.”

“Please, Mr. Martin, there’s no reason to do anything rash. I just need some time to talk to her, that’s all. I’m sure that once she’s aware of just how bad the situation is, I’ll be able to get her to see things my way.”

“All right. I’ll give you until tomorrow. If not, I’ll speak to her myself and, I might add, find my own president of the corporation if she agrees to see things my way without your help.”

Jonathan sat up sharply. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Mr. Martin.”

“Fine,” Nick said and he stood up to leave. “Oh, one more thing, Mr. Lawrence,” he said as he reached the door, “I trust that from now on you will be totally on the up and up with us regarding what’s happening here, that you won’t be holding anything back. If there’s anything my people in New York like less than surprises, I can’t think of it.”

For a split second Jonathan flinched as he thought about the cholera possibility. If Nick ever found out he was keeping that from him—but how could he? Only he, Sid Bronstein and Bruce Solomon knew about it and there was hardly any way their paths would cross.

“No surprises. I promise.”

“Good. Then I’ll be in touch.”

As Nick closed the door, Jonathan sat back and took a deep breath. Somehow everything seemed to be going wrong. It wasn’t fair. But then again, it never was. And it never had stopped him before.

The tension, the electricity, the anticipation. It was everywhere, and Bruce Solomon couldn’t help being caught up in it. He was genuinely looking forward to the evening ahead but at the same time felt a nagging guilt that perhaps there was still something more he should be doing to track down the possible carriers. After all, he wasn’t at the Congress to have a good time. Then again, there was really nothing more he could do until he got the results of the lab tests from New York. Besides, he rationalized, the better he understood what went on at the hotel, the more effective and less likely he would be to overlook anything of importance. At any rate, there was nothing to be gained from sitting alone in his room and brooding.

Feeling almost justified, he let himself luxuriate in the pulsating waters of the sunken marble tub. The hotel did so many things to make a guest feel rich and pampered, even when stuck in a modest room like his. The bathrooms were filled with dispensers of various shaving lotions, shampoo and French colognes. The beds had built-in vibrators. By merely dialing a specified number one could order a masseur or masseuse to the room, get the latest weather forecast, set up tennis, golf or dancing lessons, reserve a table in the night club or order gourmet specialties and drinks from the kitchen or bar. It was, for most, a fantasy come true.

The gala “Welcome Cocktail Party” was due to begin in fifteen minutes. His cousin Sid had mentioned that men often dressed for it in formal attire and Bruce hoped that his blazer, gray slacks and ascot combination, the best he could come up with with two hours notice, wouldn’t make him look too much like the hick he was beginning to feel he was.

He rubbed a dab of hair tonic into his curly black hair, giving it a sheen many women would envy. He began to feel better about himself. Twirling a short strand that fell haphazardly on his forehead, he looked at his image roguishly in the mirror. It could be worse. “Go get ’em, killer,” he chuckled. He took off.

It was a sight to behold. The sweep of pale chiffon dresses, the sharply pressed tuxedos, the dazzle of pearls and diamonds, the peals of laughter and loud, exuberant conversation, all dominated the corridors and lobbies with rich vibrant images—a montage of people caught up in a swell of abandon and gaiety. On this lovely Friday evening, the hotel had turned into a luxury liner on a voyage of unadulterated pleasure.

Every word, every gesture, seemed exaggerated and everywhere there were groups of people looking, staring, taking things in. The happy couples prouder of each other than ever, the singles more aggressive than usual, their eyes darting about to see whose attention had already been caught and who still looked good enough to latch on to.

It’s a long way from the Bronx, Bruce thought to himself as he began his hegira to the cavernous Gold Room.

To the right of the entrance were a series of tables set up with an elegant buffet—Nova Scotia smoked salmon, fresh-water sturgeon, caviar, both red and black, smoked whitefish and lox, Swedish sweet and sour meatballs, chopped chicken liver castles, barbecued beef ribs with special sauce, thinly sliced prime rib and filet mignon, sweet and sour chicken wings, mini egg rolls, cocktail franks in a blanket, Hungarian stuffed eggplant and cabbage, watermelon and fresh pineapple sculptures, mouthwatering petit fours, a kosher cacophony of gourmet specialties. The chefs and bakers outdid themselves each Fourth in trying to tempt, torment and tear away even the most resistant dieter from the mast of his restraint. “Well … maybe … just this once…” All slogans of surrender. “After all, we’re paying for it!”

Bar waiters, balancing their trays of Dom Perignon like amateur Nijinskys, maneuvered themselves deftly through the crowd, offering refills before one had to ask. In the back, a five-piece combo played for those who wanted to dance, though eating and drinking were by far the most popular activities.

Magda the hostess, striking as ever in a shimmering violet shantung, moved purposefully among the celebrants, affectionately greeting people she knew and bringing special friends over to Ellen who stood by herself a few yards away from the entrance. Even guests who hardly knew her made their way over to Mrs. Golden, touching her hand, kissing her cheek, and offering subtle gestures of condolence. She bore it all stoically, her lips locked into a smile as if in a freeze frame photo, seemingly the epitome of control and dignity.

Occasionally she would pause from her small talk, turn and take a sip of champagne. Only then, her shoulders hunched, did she give the slightest hint at the turmoil raging within. It was her first major holiday without Phil and she missed him terribly. Try as she did to get caught up in the tumult and excitement, the pressures of the past six weeks were beginning to take their toll. How she wished she could see an end in sight!

Bruce, of course, had no way of knowing this. The only face familiar to him was that of Jonathan Lawrence, who seemed to go out of his way to avoid him. The hotel manager, coming into the room via the service area, moved about like an insurance adjustor, his greetings perfunctory, his charm, what little of it there was, artificial. Warmth and hospitality, the cornerstones on which the Congress had established its reputation, had no place in his personal or professional life. As far as he was concerned guests were commodities, bodies to be checked in and out with machine-like regularity. They were to be housed, fed and entertained—en masse. Personal attention, catering to individual needs, was a waste of time.