They all laughed.
Kenneth fixed some drinks, and they perched themselves around the sitting-room on the early-American rockers and upright reproduction Windsors.
‘You’re in unions, aren’t you, Mr. Garunisch?’ asked Victor Blaufoot politely. ‘The Medical Workers, if I recall.’
‘That’s right,’ nodded Garunisch. ‘It’s not the biggest union around, but I guess you could say that after the Teamsters, it has one of the hardest clouts. When we get up to defend our members’ interests, Mr. Bloofer, there aint many people who don’t tremble in their shoes.’
Victor Blaufoot smiled uncomfortably. ‘No, I’m sure. I’ve heard a lot about you. Myself, I’m in diamonds.’
Gay Garunisch looked interested. ‘Diamonds, huh? The girl’s best friend? Can you get me a diamond tiara, at wholesale?’
Mr. Blaufoot stared for a moment, then looked embarrassed. ‘I regret not, Mrs. Garunisch. It’s not exactly a jeweler’s. It’s more of a brokerage.’
Gay’s smile stayed on her face, but she was obviously confused. ‘Brokerage?’ she asked.
‘That’s correct. I buy uncut stones from South Africa, and sell them in New York.’
‘Oh,’ said Gay Garunisch. ‘So you don’t have tiaras?’
Mr. Blaufoot shook his head.
There was another long silence, and they all sipped their drinks and smiled at each other. Then, to Kenneth Garunisch’s relief, the telephone rang. He reached over and picked it up. Everyone else watched him because there was nothing else to do.
‘Garunisch. Oh, hi, Matty. What news? Did you get through?’
There was obviously a long explanation on the other end of the phone.
‘You what?’ said Garunisch. ‘You couldn’t reach him? That’s ridiculous! Didn’t you tell the switchboard who you were? You did? And they still didn’t—? Get back on there and try him again I Yes, now! And call me back when you’ve spoken!’
He slammed the phone down angrily. ‘Would you believe that?’ he grated. ‘That was my chief attorney. He’s been trying to call up the health people down at Miami for twenty minutes, and they can’t find the guy in charge. They can’t find him – can you believe that?’
‘I heard about Miami on the news,’ said Mrs. Blaufoot. She looked like an old, unsteady pigeon. ‘I understand they have an epidemic down there.’
‘They sure do,’ said Garunisch. ‘They have an epidemic, and it’s already knocked off thirty or forty people, and my members are having to deal with it. That’s what I’m trying to sort out now.’
‘Excuse me,’ said Mr. Blaufoot, ‘but what exactly are you trying to sort out?’
Garunisch opened his wooden colonial cigarette box and took out a cigarette. He didn’t offer them around. He lit up, and tossed the spent match into an ashtray.
‘Pay, mainly,’ he said. ‘My members are having to drive and carry people infected with this disease, and I want to make sure they’re properly compensated. I also want to make sure they have a choice of whether they want to do the job or not, without penalties.’
‘Surely it’s an emergency,’ said Mr. Blaufoot, looking concerned. ‘Does pay matter so much, when there are people’s lives at risk?’
‘My members’ lives are at risk,’ replied Garunisch. ‘I believe that every man who willingly risks his life at work should be paid for taking that risk, and that he should also have the choice of whether he wants to take the risk or not.’
Mrs. Blaufoot held her husband’s hand. ‘Supposing none of your members wants to take the risk? What happens then?’
Garunisch shrugged. ‘That’s one of those bridges we’ll have to cross when we come to it.’
Victor Blaufoot spread his hands, appalled. ‘But what if it were your own sick child, and a hospital worker refused to carry him into hospital, because he was not getting paid enough, or because he didn’t choose to? What then?’
Kenneth Garunisch blew out smoke. He had heard all these soft-headed emotional arguments a million times before, and they cut no ice with him.
‘Listen, Mr. Bloofer – everyone is somebody’s child, and my members have parents and families as well. They’re entitled to danger money, and that’s as far as it goes. Before you start shedding tears for the patients, think of the kids whose fathers and mothers have to treat those patients. Everyone has their rights in this kind of situation, and those rights have to be respected.’
Victor Blaufoot frowned. ‘I see. Everyone has rights, except the sick and the needy.’
‘I didn’t say that,’ snapped Garunisch. ‘I said everyone has rights, and I mean everyone.’
‘But what if it was your own child? Answer me that.’
Garunisch was about to say something, then bit his tongue and stopped himself. He said quietly, ‘I don’t have any children.’
Victor Blaufoot nodded. ‘I thought not. You talk and behave like a man with no children. Men with no children have nothing to lose, Mr. Garunisch, and with respect, that makes their bravery very hollow. I know you think that I’m an emotional old fool. I can see it on your face. But I have a daughter in Florida, and I’m worried about her.’
Kenneth Garunisch crushed out his cigarette and stood up. ‘Okay, Mr. Bloofer, Mrs. Bloofer, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I didn’t realize you were personally involved.’
Mrs. Blaufoot looked up at him. A frail old lady staring pointedly at the heavyweight union boss. ‘Would it have mattered if you had realized?’ she asked. ‘Would it have changed, one iota, what you have asked your people to do?’
Garunisch shook his head. ‘No, Mrs. Bloofer, it wouldn’t.’
Gay Garunisch, sensing unpleasantness, said brightly, ‘Would anyone like something to eat? We have some hot spiced sausage, and some Southern fried chicken.’ Nobody answered. ‘Hold the food,’ Garunisch said. Wait till some more people arrive. I don’t think Mr. and Mrs. Bloofer are very hungry.’
‘I could use another drink,’ said Mr. Blaufoot, holding up his empty glass. ‘Please.’
The doorbell chimed. Kenneth Garunisch collected Mr. Blaufoot’s glass, and then went over to answer it. It was Dick Bortolotti, one of his union officials – a young blue-chinned Italian with suits that always reminded Kenneth of the Mafia.
‘Dick?’ he said. ‘What’s wrong?’
Bortolotti stepped in, and closed the door.
‘I know you’re having your party, Ken, and I don’t want to spoil your fun. But there’s big trouble down in Miami, and we can’t get through.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s this epidemic. It says on TV that it’s getting worse – spreading. They won’t even say how many people are dead, because they can’t keep count.’
A muscle in Garunisch’s cheek began to twitch. ‘Go on,’ he said in a whisper. ‘What else?’
‘The hospital phones are jammed solid. I can’t get through to any of our organizers for love nor money.’
The telephone began to ring, and Garunisch knew it would be Matty, with the same story.
He held himself in close control. ‘Who do we have at Fort Lauderdale? Maybe they could drive down and take a look-see.’
‘I had a call from Copes, out at Tampa. He said the Miami health people were being really cagey and uptight. They keep insisting it’s nothing too serious, and that they’ve gotten it under control, but the evidence sure doesn’t point that way. I think it’s a bad one, Ken. I mean, it sounds like a real bad one.’
Garunisch bowed his head. He was thinking, fast and hard. If there was an epidemic in Florida, his members were going to be right in the front line, and he was responsible for them.
Eventually, he looked up. ‘Okay, Dick. You’d better come in. Grab yourself a drink and something to eat, while I try to talk to those health department dummies down at Miami. Maybe I can get some sense out of this situation.’
Garunisch turned back to his guests. ‘Sorry about the interruption, folks, but it seems like some urgent union
business has just come between me and my fun again. Just enjoy yourselves, and I’ll join you in a moment.’
Victor Blaufoot looked round. ‘Is it the plague? Have you heard any news?’
Kenneth Garunisch smiled. ‘Don’t concern yourself about that plague, Mr. Bloofer. Everything about the plague is well under control.’
*
Edgar Paston first heard about the plague on the radio of his seven-year-old Mercury station wagon. He was driving back to Elizabeth, New Jersey, after picking up fifteen boxes of canned peaches from his wholesaler. It was growing dark, and he had just switched on his headlights.
The radio newscaster was saying, ‘Unconfirmed reports from Miami say that nearly forty people have fallen victim to an inexplicable epidemic disease. Health authorities say that the epidemic is well under control, and have warned Miami residents not to panic or react prematurely to what health chief Donald Firenza called “an unfortunate but containable outbreak.”
‘Hospitals and police are working overtime to cope with suspected sufferers, and Miami Police Department have reported that nine of the epidemic victims are police officers who were called out to assist with casualties. Specialists have been unable so far to identify the disease, but Mr. Firenza has likened it to Spanish influenza.
‘The mayor of Miami, John Becker, has sent personal messages of condolence to the families of the dead, and has called for a speedy containment of what he described as “this tragic mishap”.
‘We’ll have more reports about the epidemic later, but meanwhile here’s the weather report for New York and Jersey City…’
Paston switched the radio off. He reached across to the glove box, and found a peanut bar. Tearing the wrapper off with his teeth, he began to chew. He hadn’t eaten since early this morning, when he had stopped for a cheese Woppa just outside Elizabeth.
Edgar Paston was the owner and manager of Elizabeth’s Save-U Supermart. He had bought the premises ten years ago, at an auction, when they were nothing more than a dilapidated tire-fitting works on the outskirts of town. He had taken a risk, because in those days, zoning laws still prevented any residential development in that part of Elizabeth. Business, at first, had been hard, and the family ate cheap vegetable soup and corn biscuits at night, even though they served hams and chickens by day.
A new housing policy changed all that, and overnight the area was designated suitable for a new suburb. The Save-U Supermart attracted more and more customers as houses and streets went up all around it. What had once been a wilderness of truck stops and rough fields became a thriving cluster of chalet-style suburban houses, with neat gardens and kids on scooters. Now Edgar Paston had a healthy yearly profit, a four-bedroomed chalet, and two cars.
To look at, he was a supermarket manager and nothing else. Thirty-nine years old, with thinning hair, thick-lensed spectacles, a five o’clock shadow and a taste for plaid short-sleeved shirts.
He finished the peanut bar and tucked the wrapper in his shirt pocket. He never littered. It was eight-fifteen. He would be back at the store in twenty minutes. That would just give him time to unload the peaches, lock everything up, and go home for his dinner. Today was his wife, Tammy’s, half-day at the telephone company, and that meant a good hot supper with fresh-baked bread.
Soon the wide lighted window of Save-U Supermart appeared at the end of the block, and Edgar swung the station wagon off the road, over the car park, and pulled up outside. He switched off the engine, and wearily climbed out.
He opened the Mercury’s tailgate, dragged out one of the boxes of peaches, and walked quickly across to the supermarket entrance, and inside. The lights were bright in there, and he blinked. His assistant, Gerry, was standing by the cash-desk chewing a pencil.
Edgar put down the box. ‘What’s the matter?’ he said, half-stem and half-joking. ‘Your mother not feeding you enough?’
Gerry, a thin and serious boy of sixteen with a beaky nose and short blond hair, looked worried.
‘Hi, Mr. Paston. It’s those kids again. They came in about ten minutes ago, and they’re up to something, but I don’t know what. I daren’t leave the cash desk, and they’ve been down by the freezers for quite a while.’
Paston peered down the length of the store, past the shelves filled with cereals and cookies and baby-foods. There were only a few late shoppers left now, trundling their carts around and picking up TV dinners and canned drinks. The freezers, where he kept the meat and the beer, were down at the far end.
‘Hold on, Gerry. I’ll go and take a look.’
When he reached the end of the supermarket, he saw exactly what was going on. Four or five teenage boys in denims and black leather jackets were sitting around on the floor, drinking beer from a six-pack they had taken from the fridge.
‘Okay,’ said Edgar sharply. ‘What the hell’s happening here?’
The kids looked at him, and then looked at each other. A couple of them giggled.
‘Come on, get your butts out of her, or I’ll call the cops.’
None of the kids moved. One of them took a mouthful of beer and sprayed it in the air, and the rest of them laughed.
‘All right,’ said Edgar. ‘I’ve warned you before. If that’s the way you want it.’
He turned away, and walked towards the telephone on the wall. He was just about to pick it up, when one of the boys called out, ‘Paston!’
He looked round. He had seen this kid before. He was tall for his age, with a tight black jacket decorated with zippers. He had a thin, foxy face, and greased-back hair.
‘Are you talking to me?’ said Edgar, putting the phone back on the hook.
‘That’s right, Paston,’ said the kid. He came up closer and stood only a couple of feet away, his thumbs in his belt, chewing a large wad of gum with quick, noisy chews.
‘It’s Mr. Paston to you,’ said Edgar calmly.
The kid nodded. ‘That’s okay, Mr. Paston. And it’s Mr. McManus to you.’
Edgar adjusted his glasses. ‘Are you going to leave the store now, or do I have to call the cops and get you thrown out?’
McManus chewed, and looked Edgar up and down. ‘Is that the way you talk to all your customers, Mr. Paston? It seems to me that me and my friends, we’re just ordinary, law-abiding customers, and there aint nothing you can do to get us out of here.’
Edgar swallowed. The rest of the gang had now picked themselves up off the floor, and were lounging behind McManus in what they obviously considered were cool and threatening poses. One of them started cleaning his fingernails with a long-bladed knife.
‘You took beer,’ said Edgar quietly. ‘You took beer and you drank it.’
McManus raised his eyebrows. ‘Is there any law says you can’t consume food and drink on the premises, provided you pay for it when you leave?’
‘Yes, there is. Until you’ve paid for it, the stuff belongs to me, and if you drink it, that’s theft. Now, you’ve got ten seconds to get the hell out.’
McManus didn’t move. ‘If you’re saying I’m a thief, Mr. Paston, you’d better call yourself a cop and prove it.’
Edgar looked around the loutish faces of McManus and his gang, and then nodded.
‘Okay,’ he said tightly, and picked up the phone. The gang watched him with remote curiosity.
He spoke to the police, and then laid the phone down again.
‘They said a couple of minutes,’ he announced.
McManus shrugged. ‘Seems to me they take longer every time,’ he said, and his cronies all giggled.
It wasn’t long before they heard the sound of a siren outside, and the crunch of car doors being slammed. Edgar looked towards the front of the store, and saw two police hats bobbing towards him behind one of the rows of shelves. Round the corner by the dog-food came Officer Marowitz, and his partner Officer Trent. They were big, weatherbeaten local patrolmen, and Edgar knew them well.
‘Hi, Mr. Paston,’ said Marowitz. He had a broad, swarthy face and a drooping mustache. �
��Looks like you got Shark trouble.’
‘Wit-ty,’ sneered one of the kids.
Marowitz ignored him. ‘McManus,’ he snapped. ‘Have you been bothering my friend Mr. Paston?’
McManus grinned a foxy grin. ‘Mr. Paston here says I’m a thief. I drank some beer in the store, and he says I stole it. Look, I got my money all ready to pay, and he says I stole it.’
Marowitz sniffed. ‘Do you want to bring a charge, Mr. Paston?’
McManus said, ‘I didn’t steal it, man. The money’s here. I was thirsty, and I opened a couple of cans, that’s all.’
‘You shut your mouth, McManus. Do you want to bring a charge, Mr. Paston?’ Marowitz repeated.
Edgar Paston bit his lip, and then sighed. ‘I guess not. Just get them out of here.’
Marowitz shrugged. ‘It’s up to you, Mr. Paston. If you want to bring a charge, you can do so.’
Edgar shook his head. ‘For a few mouthfuls of beer, it isn’t worth it. But if there’s any more trouble, McManus, I know your face and I’m going to have the law on your tail so fast you won’t know what’s hit you.’
McManus grinned, and saluted. ‘Jawohl, mein Führer,’ he mocked.
Marowitz closed his notebook. ‘All right, you guys – scram. Next time you won’t be so lucky.’
Giggling and larking about, McManus and his gang shuffled out of the store, and then amused themselves for a few minutes by pressing their faces against the glass of the window, pulling grotesque faces.
‘They’re only kids,’ said Marowitz. ‘Weren’t you the same when you were a kid, Mr. Paston?’
Edgar looked up at him. ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘I wasn’t.’
Marowitz grinned. ‘Well, don’t you worry. Different strokes for different folks. You have to remember these kids have got nothing to do in the evening around here. There’s no dance halls, no movies, and most of them are banned from the hamburger joints. It’s natural they’re going to raise a little hell.’
Edgar picked up the beer-cans that were strewn on the floor, and went to fetch a damp cloth to wipe up the mess.
Plague: A gripping suspense thriller about an incurable outbreak in Miami Page 8