Weekend (30 page)

“Yes, I am. We have some unfinished business to take care of.”

“He’s no longer in this office, I’m afraid.” The secretary looked kind of sad. For a moment Nick thought Jonathan might have been one of the cholera victims Ellen talked about in the nightclub.

“No longer in this office? I’m afraid I don’t understand.” He perched on the end of her desk.

“He … he was fired, I think.” She shook her head. “It’s just incredible. I’m still spinning from all this.”

“Fired? You mean Mrs. Golden fired him?” She nodded. “Has he left the grounds then?”

“I doubt it. No one is allowed to leave the premises. He’s probably locked away in his apartment.”

“I see. His leaving, did it have anything to do with what’s going on in the hotel? I mean this cholera thing?”

The secretary hesitated a moment and then let it all spill out. She was almost grateful for the opportunity to talk to someone. It had been a very trying afternoon.

“I’ll say it did. All the time I worked for Mr. Lawrence, I knew he wasn’t a very decent man, but this was the most despicable … he never even bothered to tell Mrs. Golden about Tony Wong.”

“Tony Wong?”

“The janitor. The first guy who died. All the while he kept …”

“Died? First person?”

“Oh, my God,” she said, bringing her hand to her mouth. “Weren’t the guests told that?”

“That little detail was left out.”

“Please, please don’t tell anyone I told you.”

“It’s all right,” Nick said. “Mum’s the word.” He looked down at the desk, his gaze falling on the phone. “Wait a minute. Lawrence had his own trunk line, didn’t he?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“His own private telephone line. One that doesn’t go through the switchboard.”

“Well, yes.”

“I must use it. It’s urgent.” He headed for Jonathan’s private office.

“But …”

“Now we have a little bargain, don’t we? I’m keeping my mouth shut about the guy who died, and you’re letting me use Jonathan’s private phone.” She nodded slowly and he went in. He wasn’t eager to make the call, but he knew they would have instructions for him. The sooner he got them, the better it would be. At least for him.

“You’ll have to let me off here,” Bruce said as the cab approached the main gate of the Congress.

“That’s fine with me, just fine.” The driver pulled to the side and Bruce got out, paid him, and walked to the security booth. Two state policemen converged, but the hotel guard reminded them who Bruce was.

“What happened to the house car?” the guard asked. Bruce explained that Gary had disappeared.

“I didn’t have time to call anyone about it. I figured I’d tell the Sheriff when I got back.”

“Get in the patrol car,” the cop to his right said. “I’ll drive you around to the front.”

As they cruised down the driveway, Bruce noted that a lot of guests had obviously gone back to their recreations, though not as many as usual. From a distance, the Congress looked as peaceful as any other Catskill resort. There was nothing on the golf course, on the tennis courts, or at the pool that would suggest panic. For a moment, as Bruce looked out the side window, he imagined that none of it had really happened, that it had all been some strange dream. The new and interesting girl he had met the night before was not lying critically ill in a local hospital. Over a thousand people had not been exposed to a horrible disease. His moments of false euphoria were ended with the sight of the Sheriff’s car parked in front of the main entrance.

“Anyone try to sneak out since they were told?” Bruce asked the police officer.

“Not from here. A few did approach the side gate that leads to the parking lot but when they saw our guys patrolling, they headed back quickly enough.”

“After a while some might decide to forget their cars and try it on foot.”

“Lieutenant Fielding and the Sheriff have coordinated a round-the-clock surveillance of all the adjoining highways. They’ll go after any hitchhikers. And all drivers are being warned not to pick up anybody on the road.”

“Sounds tight enough.”

“Except for something like that chauffeur with the house car.”

“Yeah,” Bruce said. “Nothing’s ever 100 percent. Thanks for the lift.” He got out of the car.

Groups of guests were still involved in highly emotional arguments as he entered the lobby. An elderly woman, her head back, her eyes closed, was seated on a couch. She was being fanned and comforted by her daughter and son-in-law. A middle-aged couple walked around with handkerchiefs over their mouths. The main
desk was still overwhelmed with guests asking questions. Bruce spotted Lillian Sokofsky coming out of Ellen’s office.

“How’s it going?”

“About as expected,” the nurse said. “The hypochondriacs are coming out of the woodwork. Fortunately for us, there were eight other physicians in the crowd this weekend and they’re lending a hand. We’ve set up a medical area near the athletic director’s office. There were three pretty definite new cases since you left, but I think they’re milder than this morning’s. I put their names up on the board for you.”

“Thanks. I’m going to check in with Sid and then go see Fern Rosen’s roommate. I’ll be back in the office later.”

“How’s Miss Rosen doing?”

“It’s critical right now. The next few hours will tell.”

“Oh, someone named Halloran was looking for you.”

“Did he say what he wanted?”

“No, but he looked worried. Maybe he thinks he has it, too.”

“Maybe,” Bruce said, but for some reason he didn’t think that was the reason. He made a mental note to see him as soon as he could.

The Pelican Lounge filled slowly. People were tentative about gathering around a bar, even an “open bar.” Some wondered if the cholera could be passed to them from the glasses. “Alcohol kills all germs,” the bartenders told them. Gradually initial fears diminished. The temptation of free drinks won out. The bartenders were emphatic in their demonstrations of cleanliness. Glasses were held up to the light and inspected with dramatic interest. Early on, everyone took notice of it, but as the drinking became more intense and increased, the crowd lost its desire to participate in the sterilization process.

What they sought instead was a way to forget. A new attitude began to develop among the drinkers—a bizarre joviality built out of tension and fear. Statements made in jest became refrains for the late afternoon. “It’s too late now, so what the hell…” “I came up here for a good time, and I’m going to have it come hell or high water…” “If I’m going to die from something, it might as well be booze!” The celebration became louder. If the Angel of Death indeed hovered about, then this might be their one last fling. It was stupid to sit around and brood. “What the hell,” someone yelled, “you only live once.” The more they drank, the more they felt justified. Newcomers were chastized for wearing long faces and letting free liquor go to waste. “It’s party time, everybody. Enjoy!”

The music started up. The three-man combo was cheered. Laughter and applause gave way to people shouting requests and singing along with the band. The Pelican Lounge began to look and sound like a New Year’s Eve party. Although the bartenders were working harder and faster than usual, they too contributed to the atmosphere of frivolity, keeping up with their customers drink for drink. After all, even they might as well eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow…

At the center of all this was Melinda Kaplan. She had grown impatient waiting for Nick, and after her third drink began flirting with every available man. The small crowd that had gathered around her grew larger. She encouraged them to join her, led them in song and soon looked like a queen holding court. Other women, jealous of the attention she was commanding, tried to compete. They soon settled on imitating whatever she did. If she called out a song
for the combo, they joined in with the men to demand it. If she began dancing, they did too. At one point, she was lifted onto a small table while the men around her cheered. She bumped and ground her hips suggestively to the rapid beat of the bongos and everyone applauded.

Melinda’s vivaciousness stimulated the other women, and soon many were permitting themselves to be fondled and caressed in ways they seldom tolerated in private, much less in public. Someone started to imitate Bronstein making his speech about cholera only he substituted the word “syphilis” instead. The ensuing laughter was contagious, the conversation raw. The noise grew so loud it spilled into the lower lounges, attracting passersby. A few of them, mostly straight-laced and generally older people, gathered at the entrance and looked at the revelers as though they were witnessing a party conducted in an asylum. They muttered and shook their heads.

Thirty minutes later when the combo went on a break, some feared the party was over and melancholy began to creep in. Some of the men stepped outside for a breath of fresh air while the women sat at the small tables and looked exhausted. Even the bartenders began to slow down. Melinda felt the change but she didn’t want it to end. If it ended, what else would there be? Suddenly she raised her arms and stepped on a chair.

“Hold it everyone, hold it.”

What little noise there was subsided. Even the bartenders stopped what they were doing. The titular head of this spontaneous insanity was about to speak

“I say we make our own good time. The hell with the music. There’ll be a party in room fourteen sixty-five right after dinner tonight!”

“The hell with dinner,” someone shouted. There were cheers of affirmation.

“Who wants to take a chance eating their food anyway?” someone else said.

“Now, now, keep the party going now.” A chant developed. Melinda clapped her hands. Why not, she thought. “Now, now, keep the party going now.”

“NOW!” she screamed.

Two men helped her down from her chair. Others demanded bottles of liquor and glasses from the bartenders. The momentum was such that there was no resistance. It seemed like a good idea to get these crazy people out of there anyway. Not everyone followed Melinda and her entourage out, but enough did to create a wild parade through the lobby and to the elevators. When Melinda got into the first one, she seemed to be the only woman, surrounded by a dozen men. They sandwiched her into the middle and cheered as the doors closed. Others took to the stairs, despite the number of flights.

The lobby once again took on the air of gloom that had pervaded it ever since Ellen’s speech. The bartenders in the lounge began cleaning up the mess. A few guests remained to drink, but the atmosphere was dark and dreary. The bartenders cleaned with quiet exhaustion. Guests who had heard about the hilarity peeked in and searched for evidence of the so-called bacchanal. Obviously there had been some exaggeration. Who in his right mind would carry on like that in the midst of a crisis anyway?

Ellen and Sid had just stepped out of the elevator when they were approached by a frantic woman about forty years old.

“You’ve got to help me, Mrs. Golden. It’s my mother … my mother.”

“She’s sick?” Dr. Bronstein asked.

“No, but she refuses to come down to dinner. She won’t eat or drink a thing. She says she’d rather die from starvation.”

“All right,” Ellen said, “I’ll have one of the nurses go up and talk to her. What room—”

“No, she won’t believe anyone but the doctor, and even that’s somewhat doubtful. She remembers cholera from the old country, she says.”

“I’d better go up to see her,” Bronstein said. “I’ll catch up with you in a few minutes.”

“Thank you, doctor, thank you.” The woman practically pulled him back into the elevator.

Ellen went up to her office. Sheriff Balbera was on the phone at her desk. When she entered he stood up, but she waved him back into the seat. After a moment, he hung up.

“Your chauffeur took off.”

“Took off?”

“Dropped Bruce Solomon and a patient at the hospital and then drove away. The hotel car’s been located at the South Falls-burgh entrance to the thruway but no sign, so far, of the driver. One of my men is bringing the car back now.”

“Where’s Mr. Solomon?”

“He just went up to see someone.”

“Not another victim?” She moved to her desk.

“No, I don’t think so. Just a roommate of one. Incidentally, Gary wasn’t the only guy on staff to run away, Mrs. Golden. There’s a confirmed report about two of the carpenters climbing the fence. We located them in that rundown apartment house nearby, the one everyone calls the Bowery.”

“I can’t blame them. I feel like running myself.” She looked down at a phone message left on her desk. It indicated that an emergency meeting of the Catskill Hotelman’s Association was to take place at five o’clock. It was now ten to six. Oh well, even if she could pull rank and get off the grounds, it was too late to attend. Besides, what was the difference? The difference came via a phone call ten minutes later. It was Bernie Jaffe from the Ambassador. He was the current president of the association.

“We were sorry you couldn’t make it, Ellen, but we understand your situation.”

“You do? That’s good, because I hardly do.”

“Things are that bad, huh?”

“Well, thank God we haven’t had as many serious cases as was feared, but we’re still in no position to be optimistic.”

“You know we’re all here if you need anything. This, on top of Phil’s death, why it’s just too …”

“Thank you, Bernie. Thank everyone.”

“A couple of things though, Ellen,” he said quickly, anxious to get to the point “We’ve been discussing the situation at length, as I’m sure you understand. Being that you’re kind of cut off from the world up there, you’re probably not aware of the tremendous publicity you’ve had. The story’s broken in all of the major papers. The press should be coming up in force.”

“Well, I certainly don’t intend to get involved in that aspect. Gerson Kaplow, the public health officer …”

“Forget Kaplow. He’s worthless. I can’t think of anyone who’d want him for a spokesman. No, what I was getting at is this. We, as a hotel association, have come up with a sort of unified response to the situation. I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to consider the impact of all that has happened—not only on the Congress, but on the entire industry. …”