It was a glorious Friday morning, one that made Magda, the forty-seven-year-old Hungarian beauty who served as hostess for the Congress, thank God she was alive to enjoy it. If she were superstitious, she might have considered it an omen, that such a dazzling day could only be a forecast of a magnificent weekend and season to come.
Taking the scenic route from her cottage to the old farmhouse a half mile away, she walked past the first tee of the newly designed golf course, so expertly manicured and nurtured that it looked like something created artificially in the hotel’s stagecraft basement. Surely the technicians came out at night while the guests slept and rearranged those little divots and sand traps. She chuckled at the thought and took in a few deep breaths of the crisp fresh country air, made even sweeter by the hundreds of colorful dahlias, marigolds, daisies and peonies that dotted the flagstone pathway. She marveled at the beauty of the monarch and tiger-tailed butterflies that fluttered above and smiled as she passed the sign Sandi had put up near one of the gardens when she was eight years old. “Please do not pick us. We bloom for your pleasure. Thank you. The flowers.” Even though it wasn’t yet nine o’clock, the sun felt as if it was at full strength and she welcomed the shade the tall oaks and elms provided as she continued on her way.
Arriving at the farmhouse a few minutes later, she tapped lightly on the outer screen door. “Good morning. Anybody up?” Ellen Golden leaned out of the window directly above. The two-story residence still bore the same wooden shingles and black shutters Pop Golden had hammered on forty years ago.
“I thought we were going to meet in the coffee shop.”
“It was such a nice day, I thought I’d get some fresh air before the crowd arrives. I offer myself as your personal escort,” Magda said, bowing with a flourish from the waist.
The farmhouse was characteristic of so many of the old buildings constructed in the Catskills at the turn of the century—two-level, multi-roomed wooden structures with numerous architectural after-thoughts added on as the original farmers started to take in boarders. This one still had the cast iron grillwork that took hours to clean properly.
Ellen opened the screen door and pushed back a few strands of her light brunette hair. Even though it was outdated by over a decade, she still wore it in the same pageboy style Lauren Bacall had popularized in the forties. Phil had liked it that way. “You’ve got her sexy voice and the body that goes with it. Bogart is one celebrity I’ll make sure we don’t invite up here.” Right now, even though she was only thirty-eight years old, she sure as hell didn’t feel sexy. She looked wistfully back into the house.
“Maybe I should wake Sandi and say good-bye before I leave.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t. She’ll know where you are. Besides, she was up pretty late last night. I saw her in the Flamingo Room close to midnight last night ogling Bobby Grant.”
“I’m afraid I’m leaving her alone more than I should.”
“She probably loves it,” Magda said, taking her friend by the arm. “When I was her age, I loved to feel independent. So did you.”
“Girls her age need guidance, especially when they’ve just lost their father.”
“I’ll keep an eye on her for the next couple of days.”
Ellen nodded and then closed the door silently behind them. They started slowly down the stairs, each wooden step reacting with a familiar squeak.
For Ellen, stepping off that porch was like descending into another world. A city block ahead of her stood the grand main building, towering and impressive in its architectural simplicity, baked in a reddish pink stucco that reminded travelers of Marrakech at sunset. In contrast, ribbons of iron fire escapes criss-crossed the sides, black dull metal that seemed reluctantly slapped on to satisfy various safety codes.
It was a tall building, seventeen floors high, one of the largest in the rural Catskill world where even a twelve-story skyscraper looked gigantic. The view from the penthouse was breathtaking. On a clear evening, one could easily see sixty miles around. One guest even swore he saw the Empire State Building from his terrace, a claim Ellen and Phil laughingly chalked up to a full moon and the effects of an equally full bottle of Scotch.
There, to the left, were the half dozen clay tennis courts, already in use by the early risers. The quick snap of a serve, the sound of the ball slapping across the court, the squeak of sneakers turning and twisting, all of it was audible as the two women made their way from the farmhouse.
As they continued on the central pathway to the main building, watching the grounds keepers and gardeners already at work mowing and scything the lawns and hedges, Ellen nudged Magda and pointed to the clusters of small cottages on their right. They were primarily private bungalows, each with its own patch of grass and flowers, mostly sought after by honeymooners and illicit lovers.
It was strange to have to admit, but after nearly fifteen years, the hotel, all 650 rolling acres of it, still had the power to hypnotize her. Phil used to say it was the world’s most demanding mistress. It had a presence and personality of its own; it often took more than it gave but in the long run was worth it and it would probably still be there long after they were gone. Today, unfortunately, as she looked around at the land she loved so dearly, Ellen wasn’t quite as sure.
Despite the fact that they were one of the Catskills’ few year-round resorts, they were still heavily dependent on a strong summer season. The ten weeks between July 4th and Labor Day were crucial because winter facilities notwithstanding, there were still weeks during the spring and fall when they were lucky to break even. On top of that, in the midst of her untimely transition into power, she was confronted by the phenomenon of a changing vacation world; a world, in 1958, of jet airplanes, prepackaged tours, and the lure of Miami and the Caribbean. And then there was Jonathan.
“I dread going in there with Jonathan and the accountants next week,” she said, as they continued across the lawn. “Phil mentioned a few months back that we could be headed for serious trouble, but he was always too busy to get into specifics. I just hope I’ll be able to understand what they’re talking about.”
“You’ll learn,” Magda reassured her. “You may not know all the answers but then again,” she asked with a shrug of her shoulders, “who does? All you have to remember is that you’ve had fifteen years of live-in experience and in many areas, probably have a better idea of how things should run than they do.”
“I hope I can convince them of that.”
“Convince yourself. Once you do that, you can convince anybody.”
Ellen gave her friend a smile that did more than express her thanks. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“And I don’t know what I’m going to do if I don’t get some breakfast.” She held her hands to her stomach in mock agony. “Are you ready to hear about our plans for the weekend?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Ellen said, feeling a surge of excitement. Magda built her confidence. “Let’s get started.”
Without further conversation, they quickened their pace toward the main building, drawn to it like a magnet by its problems, challenges and demands.
Melinda Kaplan was dragging her son up to the Catskills for the second time in three years, carting him along on a journey his father laughingly referred to as her “Sexual Transfusion.”
“It’s Operation New Man,” he said, “and believe me, your mother plots it out like a military strategist. I feel sorry for the first soldier she captures. He doesn’t stand a chance. I should know.”
He laughed again and went back to his drawing board. It was always like that when Grant made his weekly visits. His father would take off on some topic, his favorite being “your mother, Melinda,” then return his attention to the work at hand, causing Grant to feel more like a piece of the furniture.
“You’re fifteen years old, son,” he had recently told him. “By now you must be learning enough about women to understand what hell I went through living with your mother.”
Then, when he got home, Melinda would begin. “What wonderful things did he have to say about me this time? Were any of his sluts over there, because if they were… What did you talk about? Did he tell you what a horrible woman I am again because if he did …”
Usually it got so bad he would run up to his room and turn on his Chubby Checker records so loud it hurt even his own ears.
“Turn that damn shit down,” his mother would scream but he didn’t care. He’d do anything he could to torment her, the same way she and his father tormented him, always using him as the pawn.
He started setting the fires with the same kind of apathy and nonchalance that characterized most of the other things he did. In fact, that was the biggest and most frequent criticism in all the letters and conferences relating to his school work.
“Grant Kaplan is totally indifferent to his work, completely unconcerned about his productivity.”
“Kaplan doesn’t appear interested in anything, including himself.”
“Grant has little enthusiasm. He pretends to listen but doesn’t hear a thing. He just doesn’t seem to care.”
“I’ll talk to him about it,” Melinda would always say.
He remembered the first morning she had come to his high school. He was thoroughly embarrassed by the way she had sauntered into the building in her low-cut dress and flirted so outrageously in front of everybody with the young dean of students. Christ, did she have to be on the make everywhere, even in his school?
“It’s been so hard for us these past three years,” she told the dean. “I get absolutely no help from his biological father.” She loved to refer to her “ex” now as “biological.” Grant understood the emotional implication, but it still made him feel like the result of some sort of laboratory experiment.
And that’s exactly how he was beginning to feel. Even now, at this crucial meeting, he really didn’t have any feeling. If the dean was having a problem hiding his hard-on, that was his problem, not Grant’s. As usual, the discussion ended with both sides promising to try harder to motivate Grant, neither one knowing or caring that his mind was millions of miles away.
The first fire was so small and insignificant, he actually left right after it was set. It was a shed behind Gerson’s Luncheonette, a few blocks from where he lived in Teaneck, New Jersey. He found the can of gas behind the ’58 Ford in the driveway. He was just wandering home from school, taking a longer route than usual, when he saw the can, the empty shed, and made the connection. For the first time in a long time, he had come up with an idea that interested him.
He had been smoking since he was eleven, not bothering to sneak most of the time because his parents were too busy arguing to take notice, so he already had a spare pack of matches in his pocket.
He lifted the can with the gas in it so casually that even if someone was watching, it would never occur to him that Grant was doing something wrong. Then he went to the back of the shed, found a place where the boards were loose, and stuffed in the soaked rags. A minute later he looked behind him, reassured himself there was no one around, and threw the rest of the gasoline over the area.
He tossed in a lighted match and was just able to get back fast enough to see it go up in a whoosh without singeing his hands and face. The colors were interesting enough, but the heat was more than he bargained for. He watched for a moment, then moved on as if nothing had happened.
By the time he reached the corner of his block, he heard the sirens. He waited for the fire trucks to pass, then went home as usual. His mother didn’t ask why he was late. Most of the time she wasn’t even there, preferring to spend her afternoons drinking late lunches with the girls, going to the hairdresser or shopping for the latest fashions. He didn’t even look for news of the fire in the local papers the next day. In fact, for a few days afterward, he nearly forgot about it altogether. That was before the supermarket.
“You’re going to have a great time at the Congress this weekend,” Melinda was saying. “I hear they have a new teen room filled with all sorts of pinball machines, ping-pong tables and …”
“Ginger peachy.”
“Well, Christ,” she said, taking her eyes off the road. “If you don’t give anything a chance, what the hell do you expect?” She had to swerve back as the car behind began to pass and the driver honked his horn. “Drop dead!” she screamed. “Son of a bitch has to ride right on top of you. Look at all those idiots crowding up.”
“You did cut him off, mom.”
“That’s right, Grant. Be critical. Ever since the last visit to that father of yours, you’ve been critical of everything I do. Look,” she added. “any other fifteen-year-old would be jumping for joy about going to a resort hotel for the July Fourth weekend.”
He started to jump up and down on the seat.
“Cut it out. I said, CUT IT OUT! I’m warning you, Grant, if you ruin this holiday for me. …”
He stopped jumping for joy on the front seat and looked out the window at the monotonous scenery off Route 17. The speed of the car tended to liquefy it and make it all a blur.
His thoughts began to wander. The supermarket. He remembered it with unabashed glee. Now that was a blaze! He had noticed the loading door in the back was opened one evening and thought … It was easy enough to pull off and the idea seemed amusing at the time, although the next day he was disillusioned with the dirty remains, the charred frame, the debris. He had started the incandescence at night, which was at least visually exciting. What made it most interesting was the incredible number of people the fire attracted. All those men, women and children out there, watching, talking, their eyes widened with amazement and all because of him, Grant because of what he had done. And to think the dean of students thought he lacked imagination!
“We’re getting close,” his mother announced, suddenly excited at the thought of all the sexual possibilities the next four days held in store. There was a lightness in her voice, a happy note Grant vaguely recalled from days of pre-adolescence when they were all together, when the world had a semblance, a logic, a pattern. “See that sign.”
He gazed at the billboard that read,
THE CONGRESS HOTEL ONLY THE BEST FOR OUR GUESTS FIVE MILES TO YOUR LEFT
“I can hardly wait.”
She looked at him crossly, then stopped for a light.
The Congress hotel, Grant thought. The first time he had been there, right after the divorce, he had hated it: all those organized teen activities, the dumb children’s dining room with murals of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs on the walls, and going to sleep alone in the room every night because his mother was down at the bar planning to do who knew what with who knew whom. Everyone always on his back to participate, join in, be part of the group. Up there it was a sin to be a loner even if you were just a kid. And then, when he finally got up the courage to start up a conversation with a pretty girl the same age, she ignored him.
He didn’t want to think about that any more. They were approaching the entrance to the hotel and he concentrated on the tall, modern main building. He closed his eyes for a long moment and, as the car wheels droned on, he imagined the large edifice reflected against the night sky. It was all lit up, but not with candles and decorations. Coming out of the top was this giant flame, the tips of it licking at the stars. What a sight, he thought, and with all those people looking up… Some of them would probably think it was an extra thrown in as part of the July 4th entertainment. Unless they were stuck inside. He smiled at the thought.
“What’s so funny, Grant?”
“Huh?”
“You’re sitting there with an absolutely idiotic smile on your face.”
“Oh, that. I just remembered a joke someone told at school.”
“I’d like to hear it. I need some good ones for the dinner table. Nothing like a good joke to make a first impression.”
Her son thought fast. “How do you get a Jewish girl to stop fucking?”
“What kind of language is that?” Melinda asked, but she had to admit it was an interesting question. Something she hoped she’d never have to find the answer to. “I don’t know. I give up. How?”
“Marry her!”
“Grant, that’s disgusting. It sounds like something your father must have told you.” It was kind of funny though, she thought, especially since so many people came to the Congress especially for one or the other.
Grant didn’t bother to respond. He was looking down the highway and thinking about the hotel again, imagining the bright red and yellow flames reaching up as if to embrace the moon. It was really something to think about, In fact, he was almost looking forward to getting there.
“Good morning, ladies,” Moe Sandman said as he came out from behind the horseshoe-shaped counter at the center of the coffee shop. The clean white apron was tied snugly around his flabby widespread hips.
“How was it last night?” Ellen said.
“Fourteen dozen bagels, seven pounds of cream cheese, over ten pounds of lox,” he said, rubbing his bloodshot eyes.
“You’d think we didn’t feed them enough at dinner,” Magda chuckled.
“You worked the nightshift, Moe?” He nodded. “Since when are you doing double shift?”
“Since Jonathan Lawrence made me cut back. According to your general manager, we’re overstaffed down here. According to my feet, he should have his head examined.”
“It’s the first I’ve heard of it,” Ellen said.
“I don’t like to complain, but …”
“Let me look into it.”
They gave him their orders.
“What are you going to do about it?” Magda asked after he had left.
“I’m not sure. I suppose a general manager should be able to hire and fire but—I just wish I knew how much leeway Phil gave him.”
“It shouldn’t matter what Phil gave him. You’re going to have to establish your own relationship with Jonathan now and decide how much leeway you want to give him.” Ellen nodded, but not convincingly. “Whatever made Phil hire a man like that anyway?”
“He believed the hotel industry was going to go through major changes after the next two years when the sixties roll around and he wanted to be prepared. He felt the Congress would benefit from someone trained at the Cornell School of Hotel Administration, someone who understood things like computerized reservations, convention sales, open bid purchasing.”
“But to choose such a cold fish.”
“He didn’t worry about that. He figured there’d always be someone from the family to supply the warmth. Besides,” she added, “deep down I think he really believed he’d live to be the proverbial hundred and twenty. But let’s put that aside. Tell me the problems you see coming up this weekend. I don’t want to sound like a total idiot when I talk to people around here.”
“For starters,” the hostess began, “we have almost three single women for every single man. You know what that means?”
“Phil would say the guys are going to get screwed to death,” she said with a laugh, “and there’ll be a lot of bitchy broads at checkout time.” Then she turned serious. “I wonder why the ratio is so off-balance.”
“To be honest, darling, I think it’s because other hotels offer more facilities that appeal to the male sex.”
“Phil used to say there’s only one facility that interests the male sex.” She caught herself. “Oh, God, I’ve done it again.”
“Done what?”
“Said ‘Phil used to say.’ I’ve got to stop thinking only in terms of what Phil would say.”
“You will,” Magda said gently. “In time.”
Ellen shrugged. “Under the circumstances, how is Mr. Pat going to handle the seating in the dining room?”
“With great care. And he’ll probably suggest that his single busboys and maybe even his not-so-single ones go down to the Flamingo Room after work and use whatever strength they have left to push some of the lonely ladies around the dance floor.”
“I never liked that suggestion coming from management,” Ellen mused, “but I guess it’s just one of those necessary evils. As Phil would say, it goes with the territory.”
They both ignored the repeated reference to her late husband, and Magda continued to give Ellen the rundown on the number of families, new guests, out-of-towners coming up, when she suddenly remembered. “Incidentally, Bob Halloran tells me one of the custodial people was checked into the hospital last night. I didn’t get any of the details.”
“One of our regulars?”
“No. Someone new.”
“I’ll check with him when I get back to the office,” she said. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”
She was so grateful that, knock wood, she, Sandi, Magda, the people she loved and trusted, were in good health. Severe illness, especially so close to Phil’s death, was the last thing in the world she’d want to cope with now.
“They must be doing something right,” Bruce Solomon said, looking at the long line of cars backed up waiting to get through the main gate. Sid Bronstein just grunted. He had seen it all before.
“What the hell are they doing anyway?”
“Checking names. Making sure no one gets on the grounds without a reservation. It serves two purposes, actually. It eases the mob scene in the lobby when so many people arrive at the same time, and it caters to a certain sense of snobbishness, a confirmation that no outsider can get for free what they are paying for so dearly.”
“Good thinking.” Bruce ran his stubby fingers along the sides of his face, checking the closeness of his shave. He hadn’t had much time to pull himself together once he got Dr. Bronstein’s call early that morning. Twenty-eight and single, he had what many women tended to describe as a disarming sweetness, a camouflage if ever there was one for in action, he was neither sweet nor disarming. His eyes moved constantly with a penetrating gaze, scrutinizing, observing, analyzing, always questioning.
“Actually,” Sid said, staring at the fins of the Cadillac in front, “scenes like this are rare up here these days. Business has been dropping off radically. In fact, many of the smaller resorts have been forced to close down.”
“It’s hard to believe,” Bruce said, remembering all he had heard and read about the fabulous Congress.
“You can’t imagine the overhead in running a place like this. The Goldens are reputation rich and dollar poor.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning they’re mortgaged to the hilt. Unions have thrown payroll expenses sky high. The property taxes are unbelievable. And to keep up with competition like Grossinger’s and the Concord, they’ve had to expand, refurbish, redecorate and make plans to do even more. The joke around here is that some day they’ll have to build an indoor mountain if they want to meet the competition. The problem is that every capital expenditure results in another mortgage. Some of the notes are owned by the banks, some by the builders themselves, and others by creditors. My father-in-law’s even involved. When they say everyone in the county’s wrapped up in the hotel industry in some way, they’re not kidding.”
“I don’t know much about it, I suppose,” Bruce answered, trying to suppress the wry smile on his face. “I’m probably the only Jewish boy from the Bronx who has never been to the Catskills, not even as a busboy. And just think, the first time I arrive, I’m a guest of the house!”
“Don’t kid yourself, buddy. You’re going to earn this stay, I promise.”
Bruce could see his cousin was anxious to get down to business. “Okay, Sid, tell me specifically what it is we’re up against.”
“As of now, I’ve got one man in the hospital who I’m almost positive has cholera. And I’m not sure, if that’s what he has, that it hasn’t spread.”
“Shit. How long do you think he might have had it before he came to you?”
“It’s hard to tell. First his boss thought he was drunk and that’s why he had the stomach pains. The guy himself speaks very little English and by the time someone felt it was serious enough to get him to me, the poor bastard was about to collapse. I’m going to park in the VIP lot around the corner,” he added, turning off the main drive.
“Considering that the incubation period for cholera is anywhere between a few hours and six days,” Bruce interrupted, “we should be able to zero in on this thing rather quickly, don’t you think? How much do you know about the guy?”
“Not much, though I suspect he snuck into the States on a cargo ship from the Far East. It could very well be a freak thing, an isolated case, but that’s one of the reasons I want you here.”
“Let’s keep our fingers crossed.”
Sid agreed, concentrating on getting his car into the reserved space.
“Can you carry your bags in?”
“No problem.”
“We’ll meet with Jonathan Lawrence right away. He’s the general manager.”
“What’s he like?”
“Fiercely ambitious, more interested in the hotel as a financial institution and his position in it than how his decisions affect its people.”
There was something about the way Sid said it that made Bruce feel uncomfortable.
“We’ll go through that door there,” Bronstein said. “It bypasses the front lobby which is a madhouse right now.”
“Who knows about this thing … and my role in it?”
“Jonathan, me and by now the owner, Ellen Golden. She’s a good lady, recently widowed, with a hell of a load on her shoulders right now. I just hope she can stand up to the pressure.”
“I can’t say I envy her.”
They walked through the side entrance. Even though it was thirty yards from the lobby, they could still hear the din of the crowd. Bruce was curious so he peered around a corner. The scene of bedlam amazed and amused him at the same time. How in the hell could they get anything done in all that confusion? Everybody seemed to be screaming at everybody else but nobody seemed to be moving. The crowd had bunched up in front of the main desk and despite the pleas of bellhops, desk attendants and security people, they refused to form any sensible lines. Suitcases were everywhere—piled on carts, stacked near couches and chairs, in the hands of guests. Bellhops weaved in and out of people, pushing whatever luggage they could.
The main check-in area was surprisingly small for a hotel of such repute and the abundance of furniture only added to the closeness. Many of the guests were collapsed on the cheap vinyl love seats and easy chairs, their clothing bags dragging on the floor beside them. A few young women seated themselves on the worn nylon rug near the newspaper counter, content to bury themselves in the Daily News until the pandemonium diminished.
“What are you doing?” Sid asked, peering over his shoulder.
“I don’t believe this. How does anyone keep track of what’s going on?”
Despite the efforts at the security gate to slow things down, it appeared as though the crowd was increasing geometrically. The receptionists at the check-in counter were swamped and Bruce felt they would all throw up their hands at any moment and desert, leaving the guests in a state of uncontrollable frenzy. Through the picture windows he could see the cars lined up in rows outside the front entrance. Carhops were literally jumping into the driver’s seats and pulling away with doors swung open and passengers half out. Bellhops stacked what they could on luggage carriers and fought their way into the backup in the lobby. Bruce shook his head incredulously.
He could hear the refrains being barked out in the lobby by the reservations people: “Just a minute sir. I’ll be right with you, miss. He’s first, ma’am.” Intermingled were the sounds of people recognizing one another, people laughing, children crying, bellhops begging guests to move out of their way.
And there, in the middle of it all, stood Magda, greeting old-timers with the love and affection they had come to expect and newcomers with the sense of warmth and friendliness that personified the Congress.
“Quite a place,” Bruce said as the two of them walked down the corridor to the executive offices. The secretary looked up quickly and smiled when she saw the doctor.
“He’s expecting you, Dr. Bronstein. Go right in.”
“Thanks, Suzy. This is my cousin, Bruce Solomon. You’ll probably be seeing a lot of him. In addition to being our guest, he’s going to be doing a little work for us on the side.”
“How nice.” The twenty-year-old redhead smiled and crossed her legs to advantage. Bruce merely nodded, digesting, at the same time, the way she looked at him. Hopefully, he thought, he’d be able to find a few moments to mix business with pleasure.
Jonathan’s office was done in a most tasteful manner. There was an antique desk, a long table covered with file folders and memo pads, a couch, and three Louis XIV chairs to its left. The walls were ascetically bare. Nor were there any personal mementoes on his desk. All in all, the office was perfectly organized, its personality characterized by its absence. Jonathan stood when they entered.
“Our medical detective,” he said without further ado, extending his hand in automatic greeting. Bruce took a dislike to him instantly.
“Bruce Solomon,” Sid Bronstein said.
“Sit down please.” Jonathan pointed to the chairs furthest from the desk. “I suppose the good doctor’s already filled you in.”
“I think I have a pretty good idea of what we might be up against, yes.”
“I don’t want to get into the medical situation with you guys,” Jonathan continued. “God knows, I know very little about cholera. But it’s imperative I talk about the Congress’s situation for a moment.”
“Sure, I—”
“We’re walking a tightrope here and I’m not just talking about a potential epidemic or whatever you want to call it. Though it may seem difficult for outsiders to understand, this place is almost tottering on bankruptcy and has been for the last couple of years. Sid knows all about this, as do others in the community, so I’m not revealing anything terribly secret. We need a good season to keep our heads above water. If it gets around that we have a medical researcher checking out a potential cholera outbreak, it could cause problems from which we may never recover.”
“Bruce is fully aware of that,” Sid interrupted, “and he’s a professional. He knows how to go about his work. I don’t think you have to worry on that count.”
“Fine. For a cover, I suggest you pretend to be an insurance investigator. We continually have them around here reevaluating our policies. That is, if you know anything about insurance.”
“About as much as you know about cholera,” Bruce countered.
“Well, there shouldn’t be a problem. If anyone bothers you, just tell them you’re under direct orders from me. That should take care of anything.”
“Sounds like you have them terrified.”
“I try to. If you give people the proverbial inch … especially now with the boss gone—”
“Incidentally,” Sid interrupted, “speaking of the boss, how’s Ellen taking all this?”
Jonathan winced at the reference to Ellen as his superior. “Better than you’d expect,” he lied. “She feels she can stand up to anything as long as I’m in control. She’s agreed to let me handle the entire matter anyway I choose, so I suggest rather emphatically that you make sure not to bother her with any of the details and work directly through me.”
They agreed.
“What exactly do you do, Mr. Solomon?”
“I do diagnostic lab work at Mt. Sinai, concentrating on rare diseases.”
“He’s modest,” Sid said. “He just published an outstanding paper on diseases indigenous to the Far East.”
“Anyway,” Bruce continued, “when Sid called, I had some vacation time coming so I thought it might be a good time to—”
“So you’re not overly concerned then with the situation here?”
“Concerned? Of course I’m concerned. From a medical stand-point, it’s obviously dangerous. Frankly, I’m terrified of the possibilities. What is your population now, guests and all?”
“With staff, almost 1200.”
Bruce glanced at Sid who looked down.
“Are you sure you really understand what this could mean?”
“He told me enough,” Jonathan said, nodding toward Sid. “He told me the symptoms can be confused with severe food poisoning or bacillic dysentery.”
“One of the ways in which the disease is spread is through food that could be infected, so if someone who works in the kitchen is a carrier…” Sid interjected softly.
“I understand. Everyone here would become a potential victim. If—”
“The danger now, as I see it,” Bruce said, pulling his chair closer to the desk, “is that the incubation period ends in six days and if we find evidence of a potential epidemic condition, you’re going to have to quarantine the entire place for that whole time. That means nobody in or out.” Jonathan glared at him in semi-shock, the reality hitting him for the first time.
“At our expense? Do you realize what that would do to us financially, not to mention to our reputation?”
“Running the hotel is your problem, Mr. Lawrence. Mine is finding out whether we might have an epidemic situation on our hands.”
“What do you plan to do first?” Jonathan asked. It made more sense to him to pretend to cooperate than to argue at the moment.
“I’ll get as much information as I can on the infected custodian. Has he been off the grounds the last few days as far as you know?”
“I have no idea. You’ll have to ask Bob Halloran, my personnel director.”
“Okay, I’ll do that first. I also would like to have the water and milk supplies analyzed,” Bruce said. Sid agreed and they made a note to do that.
“Again,” Jonathan emphasized, reverting to his old self, “please be careful when you talk to people. Rumors start flying at a hotel like this even when there is no foundation. I’ll call Halloran and let him know you’re coming. He’ll cooperate, but it’s only to be expected that he’ll be curious about what you’re up to.”
Bruce agreed to be tactful and he and Sid Bronstein stood up. Before they could leave, Jonathan’s intercom buzzed.
“It’s for you, doc,” he said, handing Bronstein the receiver.
“Dr. Bronstein here. Yes, when? Dammit! I’ll be right over. Don’t call the coroner until I get there.” He stared as he handed the phone back to Jonathan.
“Tony Wong just died.”
“Well,” Bruce muttered, “as of now, if it’s cholera, you have a one hundred percent mortality rate.”