Weekend (18 page)

“Mr. Solomon, Dr. Bronstein has been trying to reach you too. We paged you only a few moments ago.”

“Well, call him back.”

“I can’t. He said he was on the way from his office to the hotel to see a guest.”

“A guest? What guest? Who?”

“What guest? Just an ordinary—”

“Who?”

“I’m looking at the message, Mr. Solomon. Yes, here it is, a Mrs. Bluestone, room three fifteen.”

He hung up before she could continue and just as quickly, the phone jingled again.

“Mr. Solomon?” Rosie asked.

“Yes.”

“You hung up before I could give you the other message.”

“Other message? What other message?”

“The one from New York. I don’t know what it means but someone named Burt from your lab called long distance, no last name, just Burt, and he simply said to give you one word.”

“What word?”

“Positive.” There was a moment’s silence. “Mr. Solomon? I’m sorry, but that’s the whole message. Positive. I did ask him twice if there was anything else, but …”

“No, no, that’s all right. Unfortunately, it’s enough.” This time he lowered the receiver more slowly, staring ahead at David Oberman who lay back on his bed, his eyes closed, clutching his stomach and moaning.

Somehow, Bruce thought, the world had gone haywire. Suddenly a series of events had occurred, despite the odds and percentages
against it being overwhelming; a modern, twentieth-century resort had been thrown back through time, and delivered into the grip of an ancient plague that makes its home in the midst of poverty and degradation—everything the Congress was not. The irony was not lost on him, but he had no time to ponder its meaning.

“I’m very worried about her,” Mrs. Teitelbaum said as she came out of the bedroom, her hands clasped tightly and pressed against the bottom of her chin. Her husband looked up from the small cushioned chair. He bit his lower lip gently and nodded. His thick, bright white hair glistened under the light of the standing lamp on his side. Upset though he was, he was still a striking gentleman, one whose age, if anything, had added character to his robust facial features. At seventy-one, he was the patriarch incarnate, fatherly and authoritative; the kind of man who never publicized his wisdom, but whose advice was regularly sought.

“We’ve already called the doctor. We can’t do much more than wait.”

She shook her head and sat down on the small couch across from him. In contrast to her husband, she was a study in fragility, petite and delicate where he was sturdy and strong, but in her case, the appearance was deceptive. Although long retired from the leadership of many clubs, organizations and causes, her accomplishments on behalf of the underprivileged were documented at length in
Who’s Who
and other respected anthologies. Hers was a history of dynamic action, and unlike many of her contemporaries, she refused to let age slow her down.

“I feel responsible,” she said.

“That’s nonsense,” he chided. “How could you be responsible?”

“I was the one who talked her into coming up here in the first place.”

“You did it as an act of charity. It was the only solution. You saw how enthusiastic Tillie and Harry were when you made the suggestion. If she didn’t get away for a few days she would have driven them crazy. After all, family is family, but,” he lowered his voice, “I’m sure it hasn’t been a bed of roses for them. You know yourself that Martha Bluestone was never easy to live with. Did you forget all the aggravation she gave Gordon, he should rest in peace?”

She shook her head. “There’s no point in dredging up the past. You think it’s the flu maybe?”

“How should I know? I’m not a doctor. I never called one to help me try a case in court and no doctor ever called me for advice with a patient.”

“I’m surprised,” she said, not unkindly. “You have an opinion on just about everthing else.”

He chuckled and shook his head. Mrs. Teitelbaum looked toward the bedroom.

“She’s so exhausted from vomiting, poor dear, she can’t even lift her head off the pillow.”

“So quickly it happened. Yesterday afternoon she was full of vigor, wanting everything her way, as usual—screaming at the bellhop for handling her luggage too roughly, demanding a table in the dining room with the young people. Suddenly—”

“You think it could be food poisoning?” his wife interrupted.

“Bite your tongue. That’s all Ellen needs now, someone spreading such a rumor in the hotel.”

“I’m not spreading a rumor. I’m talking to you. Talking to you is not spreading a rumor,” she said.

“We all ate the same things,” he said in response.

“She said it started very early this morning.”

“So there you are. If it was from the food, the two of us would probably have come down with it by now too.”

“Then what could it be?”

“Patience, my dear,” he said. “The doctor will be here soon and he’ll tell us, I’m sure.”

They heard a moan from the bedroom and looked at each other anxiously. Mrs. Teitelbaum quickly got up and went in to her friend. The old man stood up slowly, wishing there was some way he could alleviate some of her pain. His wife reappeared before he could even prepare to act.

“She’s messed the bed something awful and has terrible stomach cramps. Call again for the doctor.” He nodded and went to the phone.

“Good morning. This is Mr. Teitelbaum in room three fifteen. I called earlier for a doctor for Mrs. Bluestone and … good.” He hung up the receiver. “She said Dr. Bronstein is in the hotel and on the way up.”

When he heard the knock on the door he seized the knob quickly and opened it. Bruce Solomon stood there nervously, dressed in a sweatshirt and slacks. Blanche Teitelbaum stepped forward.

“You’re the doctor?” she asked somewhat incredulously.

“No, I’m his cousin. I’m meeting him here. My name’s Bruce Solomon. I’m … a lab technician and I thought I might be of some assistance.”

“Thank you, but the operator just told me the doctor should be here at any moment.”

“Who’s sick?” Bruce asked, ignoring Mr. Teitelbaum for the moment.

“Our friend, Mrs. Bluestone.”

“Stomach trouble?”

“Yes,” Sam said quickly. He looked at his wife and then back at Bruce. “Why? Are there other people here with the same problem?”

Before Bruce could reply, he heard the elevator doors open and stepped out to intercept Sid. The moment he saw the expression on Bruce’s face, he knew the worst had happened.

“I got my call from New York ten minutes ago. You were right about Tony Wong. The lab confirms he died of cholera.” Bronstein nodded without speaking and entered the room.

“She’s in there, doctor,” Mrs. Teitelbaum said, opening the bedroom door. Bronstein went in quickly without speaking and closed it behind him. Sam sat down restlessly on the couch but Blanche remained standing, staring at Bruce.

“Is there something going on here we should know?” she asked straightforwardly.

He motioned for her to sit down, then said quietly, “Very possibly … but we won’t know for sure until Sid finishes his examination.”

Blanche’s eyes grew narrow. She could smell trouble a mile away. Slowly she moved to the couch and sat next to her husband.

“We’re all in some danger, aren’t we?” she asked, but without the slightest note of panic in her voice. Bruce was impressed with her control.

“Yes,” he said, his voice full of sadness, “yes.” They all turned as Bronstein reappeared.

“Call down for an ambulance,” he said, looking at Bruce and shaking his head sorrowfully.

“There’s another one in room four twelve,” Bruce said. “His name’s David Oberman.”

“Another what?” Mrs. Teitelbaum interrupted. “Exactly what is going on, Dr. Bronstein? Mrs. Bluestone is our best friend. We brought her up here with us. Certainly we have the right to know.” Bronstein hesitated. “We are also close, longstanding friends of the Golden family, doctor. If there’s food poisoning at the hotel, I can assure you we’re not about to announce it on the public address system.”

“I’m not sure it’s food poisoning,” Sid finally began. “It might be something worse.” He tried to choose his words with care. “I won’t know until we run some tests. I just received the necessary antisera … but someone on the staff has died of cholera. Your friend’s symptoms, unfortunately, are quite similar to his.”

Mrs. Teitelbaum brought the palms of her hands to her cheeks. Her husband opened his mouth as if to speak but it occurred to him that, for maybe the first time, he didn’t know what to say.

“There are two precautions you must take,” Bronstein went on, looking first at Mr. Teitelbaum and then at his wife. First, I want you to go back to your room right away and scrub your hands vigorously. Secondly, and this is very important, we don’t want to do anything that will set off a panic. I’m sure you understand how important that is. I’m asking you, for everybody’s sake, not to say a word about this to anyone until we have a chance to contact the proper authorities. They, in turn, will take whatever actions are appropriate.”

“But … is it contagious? How widespread … are my wife and I in any danger?”

“We’re not sure,” Bruce said in all candor, “but we’ll be in constant touch.” He lifted the phone to call the ambulance.

“I’ll go up to Oberman,” Bronstein said, picking up his bag and moving toward the door.

“I’ll meet you there. I left the door unlocked. Hello,” he said to the operator, “this is Bruce Solomon. I’m calling for Dr. Bronstein.”

Sam Teitelbaum reached for his wife’s hand but she quickly pulled it back.

“I’ve got to wash up.”

Bruce caught the look of terror in her eyes. He knew it was about to begin.

As Nick Martin came around the corner of the hall corridor, he reached out and instinctively caught the two-year-old tow-headed youngster just as she was about to fall backward on the carpet. Her giggling stopped the moment his hands braced her forward.

“Whoa there,” he cried. He lifted her straight up and then down again. She was silent until her feet touched the ground. Then she started to cry.

“What are you crying for, Amy?” her mother asked, walking toward them quickly. “The nice man stopped you from falling. I’m sorry,” she said, her eyes widening as she looked at the dark-haired man in front of her. She tugged down on her slipover blouse and reached out blindly for little Amy’s hand. The baby hugged her mother’s leg, but continued to stare up at Nick.

“No harm done,” he said. He tapped the little girl softly on the top of her head and walked on. The instant he moved away, she broke free once again and toddled merrily down the corridor.

Nick stopped in front of Melinda’s room and checked his watch. For assignations like this he preferred being late. Better they should wait for him. He paused, then knocked at the door.

She was standing there wrapped in a large beach towel, the ends tucked in loosely at her breasts. The skirt of the towel ended just above her pelvis. Her face was still flushed from her last set of tennis, but it hardly detracted from her beauty. On the contrary, it created a sexiness all its own. She smiled and stepped back to let him in.

“You did say your tennis lesson would be finished at eleven-thirty,” he said. “If I’m early …” Damned if she wasn’t playing the same game as he.

“No, not at all … it’s just that things got so backed up at the courts we ran late. I haven’t even had a chance to shower.” She looked at the clock on the end table and smiled at him warmly. “Please, come in. There’s a draft.”

He moved in quickly and closed the door behind him.

“Looks like you got in a lot of exercise,” he said, touching his hand to her wet cheek.

“It was great. Too bad you couldn’t join me.” She pushed her hair back with both hands and the towel slipped, revealing more of her breasts and the crevice between them.

“I had some business to take care of,” he said. He was going to reach for a cigarette but changed his mind. His attention was riveted on the little tuck in the towel. There were more exciting ways of getting gratification.

“Just what is your business, Nick? You make it out to be so mysterious.”

“It’s nothing mysterious,” he said smiling. “As I just said to someone this morning, you might say I make a profession out of bringing things back to life.”

“Do I look like I’m dead?” She was challenging him and he loved it. He stepped forward and brought her body to him. She lifted her face to meet his lips. As they kissed, she undid the tuck in her towel. The terrycloth material dropped quickly. Her naked body felt small but comfortable in his arms. She moaned as she twirled the bottom of his earlobe in her fingers. He knelt down and scooped her up in his arms to carry her into the bedroom.

Gazing down at her as he began to undress, it occurred to him that she was one of the most delicious packages of sensual pleasure he had ever seen. Her firm, full breasts quivered only slightly as she turned to greet him. Her small waist turned with gentle lines into hips that were slim and perfectly proportioned. But something was out of sync. It eluded him for a full five seconds. Then he realized, almost with a shock, that she had no pubic hair. Much to his astonishment, it turned him on.

As he kissed and fondled her body, the strangest images formed in his mind. He was king of the universe and she his nubile slave, a vestal virgin who had never been with a man before. It was like making love to a fantasy, she was so compliant, so in tune with his directions and desires. He was able to mold her into whatever sexual experience he wanted.

Her left hand cupped his balls almost as if she were weighing them. Her forefinger and thumb encircled the top of his prick and began to move up as far as the tip, then down to the bottom. The friction hardened him, swelling him to his full size. She was kissing his neck, working her way down to his chest, moving with even more energy and intensity than he. The inexperienced partner of his imagination had suddenly turned into a professional, and although he hadn’t been in a whorehouse for more than twenty years, he found himself recalling, with great gusto, one of the most exciting experiences of his life.