The sound that went up from the press when Herbert said that was extraordinary. It was a kind of surprised moan, like a dog crushed under a car. A black reporter from The New York Times walked out and slammed both double doors of the conference room, and a young girl from the Village Voice shrieked out, ‘You’re not a hero, you’re a fascist!’
Herbert Gaines, his eyes hard, his hands white, turned in the direction of the girl’s voice.
‘A fascist?’ he said softly. ‘Is it the mark of a fascist, to speak the truth? It’s true, isn’t it, that diseases communicated from the bowels are rife among black and Spanish peoples in America? It’s true, isn’t it, that the sewage dumped off Long Island contains the infections of diseased negroes? Because it’s no longer inside them, this sewage, does that mean negroes no longer bear the responsibility for the disgusting plague it has caused?’
A television reporter said in a quiet but penetrating voice, ‘Mr. Gaines, if you’re blaming the colored elements in our society for this plague, what do you suggest we do about it?’
Herbert Gaines turned on him fiercely. ‘I suggest this. I suggest we cast out our ineffectual political leaders at the first opportunity, and re-elect men who will keep the black man in his place, and the immigrants where they belong. Out of America.’
Another reporter said, ‘Mr. Gaines, this is kind of extreme, all this stuff.’
Herbert Gaines turned his best profile to the cameras. ‘Of course it’s extreme. This is an extreme situation. It requires quick, decisive and urgent treatment. Face The Truth is the only political group that has faced up to that fact so far, and the only political group who could possibly save this nation from ruination and downfall at the hands of the black man.’
The same reporter said, ‘What do you suggest we do? Ship ’em all back to the Gold Coast?’
Herbert Gaines smiled patiently and shook his head. ‘Of course not. That would be ridiculous. But I have several suggestions that would finally overcome America’s race problem once and for all. First – only black medics and doctors should be assigned to plague hospitals. They started it – they can take the risk of treating it. Second – when the plague has finally been contained, arrangements should be made over a ten-year period for the gradual rehousing of blacks in areas where their unsanitary personal habits do not threaten decent Americans.
‘Every American citizen, under the Constitution, has the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. How can we truly say that we are upholding these rights if we jeopardize the first of them from the word go. An American is entitled to life, ladies and gentlemen, and if the diseased black man is allowed to walk beside him, work beside him, eat from the same plates, sit on the same seats and defecate in the same public toilets, then we have failed to protect his Constitutional rights. We have abdicated our responsibilities as leaders of this great nation.’
A reporter from the Christian Science Monitor said, ‘Mr. Gaines, you’re not a leader of this great nation. You’re an out-of-work actor.’
Herbert Gaines, lit by a flurry of photographers’ flashguns, said, ‘I am a leader because I speak the truth. You, because you question the truth, are less than a patriot.’
In normal times, Herbert Gaines would have won fifteen seconds’ attention on the early evening news. But these were not normal times, and the fact that press and television crews even stayed to listen showed that. As the conference continued, a strange disturbed buzzing filled the room, as if the newspapermen had just discovered some unsettling secret that had been deliberately hidden away from them.
By half-past five, the New York Post was on the street with a headline that ran: BLACKS TO BLAME FOR PLAGUE, claims ‘Captain Dashfoot’, and that was only the beginning. Herbert Gaines was interviewed seven times that evening on New York and network television, and an almost tangible wave of resentment against the black population made itself felt across the breadth of the American continent. What Jack Gross had calculated exactly right, of course, was that everyone in America, including the President, was looking for someone to blame. Just as Adolf Hitler had successfully blamed the Jews for the financial depression of the 1930s, Herbert Gaines had laid the blame for the plague on the shoulders of the American blacks.
As night fell on New York City, fires broke out in Harlem, and the windows of black stores and restaurants were smashed by marauding gangs of white youths. Friday ended in Manhattan to the wow-wow-wow of fire trucks and the bitter smell of smoke. By midnight, thirty-six cases of arson had been reported, fifty-two cases of wilful damage, and more than a hundred injuries, varying from fractured skulls to knife wounds. Other crimes noticeably decreased, as black whores and muggers played it safe and made a point of staying home.
In the early hours of Saturday, Herbert Gaines was driven back to Concorde Tower in the back of Jack Gross’ Cadillac. He was exhausted, and he was looking forward to a large brandy and a long sleep.
‘You did beautiful,’ said Jack Gross. ‘In one day, you made more of a hit than Gerry Ford made in three years.’
Herbert rubbed his eyes. ‘It seems to me that I’ve caused nothing but distress and confusion. Even if this whole thing about the blacks were found to be true, there are times when it’s kinder not to tell the truth at all.’
Jack Gross grinned. ‘Herbert, you’re a man of conscience and no mistake. Can I pick you up at three?’
‘You mean there’s more?’
‘Of course there’s more. This is just the beginning.’
‘Mr. Gross, I tell you quite plainly, I don’t want to do any more.’
Jack Gross waved his hand deprecatingly. ‘Don’t even think that, Herbert. You’re just tired. Have a nice rest, freshen yourself up, and then we’re off to make a speech to the New York Republicans.’
Herbert Gaines stared at him gloomily. ‘And if I refuse?’
Jack Gross smirked. ‘You know very well. If you refuse, young Nicky starts singing in the girls’ choir.’
Herbert looked out of the car window at the deserted wastes of 43rd Street. He felt desolated and old.
‘Very well,’ he said, after a while. ‘If I have to do it, I suppose I might as well enjoy it. I’ll see you at three.’
*
Kenneth Garunisch, as Friday dwindled into Saturday, was still talking with the officials of Bellevue Hospital. He had chosen Bellevue as his last discussion of the day, because he could walk home up First Avenue afterwards, and he usually felt like a short stroll at the end of a day’s work to clear his head.
The cream-painted conference room was thick with cigarette smoke, and the table was strewn with overflowing ashtrays, newspapers, files, gnawed pencils and unbent paperclips. Talks had started at six o’clock on Friday evening, and they were still chasing the same points of principle around and around at midnight, like dogs chasing their own tails.
Garunisch, his tie loosened and his nylon shirt stained with sweat, was lighting one cigarette from the butt of the last, and he had dark circles under his eyes. Dick Bortolotti sat beside him looking waxy and strained. They had both been under tremendous pressure since they had called the strike, and every available hour of every day had been spent in talks and negotiations and organization. But the Medical Workers were still out, and intended to stay out until they were given a substantial package of pay guarantees and fringe benefits.
Ernest Seidelberger, the thin bespectacled Bellevue spokesman, was sitting mournfully at the other end of the table, struggling to light his pipe. He looked more suited for lectures on medieval manuscripts to bored housewives than union negotiations with hard nuts like Kenneth Garunisch, but he had a tedious pedantic way of refusing to give in, ever.
‘Mr. Garunisch,’ he said wanly, ‘I can’t repeat often enough that this hospital administration has nothing more to offer your members in the way of pay, bonuses or incentives, unless you can guarantee something special in return. At the moment, all you’re offering us is work that they should be doing anyway under our las
t agreement with you.’
Kenneth Garunisch blew smoke. ‘The plague was not mentioned in the last agreement,’ he said hoarsely.
Seidelberger nodded his head patiently. ‘My dear Mr. Garunisch, no disease is specified in the agreement, and so one can hardly make out a special case for this plague. I urge you to think again. Your members’ action has already accelerated the spread of the plague by two days at least, according to my expert informants, and if you hold out any longer, and the plague reaches Manhattan, we here at Bellevue will be totally unable to cope with it.’
Garunisch was about to answer when there was a rapping at the conference door. A pale-faced young hospital executive walked in, smiled nervously at everyone, and leaned over to whisper something in Ernest Seidelberger’s ear. Seidelberger listened for a few moments, his face expressionless, and then waved the young executive away.
Garunisch ground out his latest cigarette. ‘Is it something we should hear?’ he asked bluntly. ‘Or is it privileged information for hospital big-wigs only?’
Seidelberger shook his head. ‘It’s not privileged, Mr. Garunisch. It’s just been on the news. The plague has infected so many people in New Jersey that the state has been declared a quarantine area. Nobody is allowed to enter or leave, and anyone attempting to do so will be forcibly detained by the National Guard.’
One of the hospital negotiators, shocked, said, ‘My wife’s in Trenton today, visiting her mother! And my children! They’re all there! What am I going to do?’
Ernest Seidelberger said, ‘I suggest you go home, Rootes. See if you can call your family from there. Meanwhile, I have a last word to say to Mr. Garunisch before we close this meeting.’
Rootes, shaking, gathered up his papers, crammed them into his briefcase, and left. When he had gone, Seidelberger looked steadily at Kenneth Garunisch, and said, ‘You know what I’m going to say, don’t you, Mr. Garunisch?’
Kenneth Garunisch shrugged. ‘I haven’t a notion, Mr. Seidelberger.’
‘I’m going to demand that you send your members back to work. New Jersey is in quarantine, and that means the plague could be with us in Manhattan by tomorrow morning. This city is going to catch it, Mr. Garunisch, and thousands will die, and it will all be your fault.’
Garunisch’s mouth went taut and hard.
‘Mr. Seidelberger,’ he grated, ‘just because you work for a hospital and you wear a white coat, that doesn’t mean that you are automatically on the side of the angels. My members, if they deal with plague victims, are going to be doing the next best thing to committing suicide. They will do it, just as they have always done it, but I’m damned if I’m going to allow them to do it without some recognition from the federal government and the hospital authorities. In Japan they paid kamikaze pilots a little bit extra, and gave them a few more privileges, and they did it because they recognized courage and they recognized human sacrifice. My members will give you their courage, Mr. Seidelberger, and they will give you their sacrifice, but they won’t give it for nothing.’
Ernest Seidelberger sniffed. ‘Fine words, Mr. Garunisch. But not quite accurate. Your members are not prepared to give courage; they’re not prepared to give their lives. They’re only prepared to sell them, at a price. I suggest to you, Mr. Garunisch, that your medical workers are whores, and that you are their whoremaster.’
Kenneth Garunisch stared at Seidelberger with bulging eyes for a moment, and then laughed loudly.
‘In that case, Mr. Seidelberger, we’re all whores. We’re all getting paid for sitting here. All I can say is, when you get out on the street and strut your stuff, I hope you get picked up by some sex-starved matelot who fucks some sense into that impervious skull of yours. Come on, Dick, let’s call it a night.’
Seidelberger sat silent while Garunisch and Bortolotti packed up their cases and made ready to leave. But as they opened the door of the conference room, he turned his clerical profile in their direction and said, ‘Mr. Garunisch!’
Kenneth Garunisch paused. ‘What is it? Did you finally see sense?’
Seidelberger shook his head. ‘No, I have not seen what you so inaccurately call “sense”. I just wanted to wish you a happy Saturday, and a long life, because the longer your members stay out on strike, the more urgently you will need it.’
Kenneth Garunisch bit his lip, saying nothing. Then he turned on his heel and slammed the door behind him.
Outside the hospital, on First Avenue, a warm and grimy summer breeze was blowing from the south-west. The glittering spires of Manhattan were reflected in the oily depths of the East River, and a lone barge chugged upriver towards Roosevelt Island. From the north, they heard the sound of sirens, and there was a strange amber glow in the sky.
A Medical Workers’ picket was standing by the hospital entrance, smoking a cigarette. Kenneth Garunisch recognized him – a tough onetime stevedore called Tipanski. He had shoulders as wide as a taxi-cab, and a blue baseball cap.
He slapped Tipanski on the back. ‘How you doing?’
Tipanski nodded. ‘Okay, thanks, Mr. Garunisch.’
‘What time are they relieving you?’
‘Two-thirty. Then Foster comes on.’
‘Any trouble?’
‘Naw. But look at them fires uptown.’
‘Fires? Is that what they are?’
‘Sure. This Gaines guy says on the tube that the niggers is all to blame for the plague, so the white gangs have been cruisin’ up to Harlem and puttin’ a torch to everythin’ that burns, and a few things that don’t.’
Even as they spoke, a fire chief’s car came howling past them.
‘Mr. Garunisch,’ said Tipanski. ‘Is it true what they say about the plague? That it’s comin’ here? It says on the news there aint no way they can stop it.’
Kenneth Garunisch looked at the man for a long while, saying nothing. For the first time in his life, he was beginning to feel unable to protect his members. His instincts had always been those of a tough mother hen, scooping her brood into her wings at the first sign of trouble. But now, just across the Hudson, a different type of peril was growing, a peril that could be carried invisibly in the warm night wind, and could infect them all without any chance of saving themselves.
Kenneth Garunisch felt frightened.
‘I guess they’ll find some way of stopping it okay,’ he said, unconvincingly. ‘After all, they can seal Manhattan off like a lifeboat, right? Just close all the tunnels and all the bridges, and presto, we’re all safe.’
Tipanski frowned. ‘They seem pretty worried on the news, Mr. Garunisch. They even said what to do if you thought you had it.’
‘Don’t you worry, brother. When the time comes, we can deal with it.’
‘Okay, Mr. Garunisch.’
Kenneth Garunisch was about to say goodnight, when he heard footsteps clattering up the sidewalk behind him. Dick Bortolotti said, ‘Ken,’ in a nervous kind of way, and tugged his sleeve. Kenneth Garunisch turned around.
There were five of them. They were hard-faced and big, and they could only have been off-duty cops. No mugger cuts his hair so neat, nor wears such a well-trimmed mustache. They wore black leather jackets, and they stood around Kenneth Garunisch and Dick Bortolotti so that there was no possible way to escape.
‘Are you Garunisch?’ said one of them gruffly.
Kenneth Garunisch looked from one cop to the other. He was trying to memorize their faces. He kept his arms down beside him, and said, ‘What of it?’
‘Kenneth Garunisch, the Medical Workers’ boss?’
‘What of it?’
‘Yes or no?’
‘Yes. What of it?’
Garunisch had once been a physically hard man but he was too old and slow these days. The leading cop slopped up to him, pulled back his arm, and punched him straight in the face. Garunisch felt his bridge-work break, and he was banged back against the hospital wall behind him. Another punch caught him across the side of the face and fractured his jaw, and then he was ki
cked in the wrist and the hip.
Tipanski, shouting with rage, tried to attack the cops, but they were too quick and too well-trained. One of them twisted his arm around behind his back, and another one thumped him in the stomach. Tipanski dropped to his knees on the sidewalk, gasping.
Dick Bortolotti got away. He ran down the length of the hospital as fast as he could, crossed 34th Street, and didn’t stop running until he reached Second Avenue. He leaned against a building panting for breath, and then slowly and cautiously made his way back to Bellevue. As he crossed back towards the hospital, he had the strangest sensation that everything had changed now, and that life was never going to be the same again. The laws of the jungle had returned, and he was going to have to learn them.
*
Edgar Paston was lying on his uncomfortable bunk in the jailhouse, reading the weekly Supermarket Report which Tammy had brought him that lunchtime. It appeared that the spread of the plague was hiking up the price of oranges and other citrus fruits, although California growers – in the light of the plague’s disastrous effects on the Florida crop – were predicting their most profitable year ever.
Edgar laid down his paper and checked the time from the clock on the flaking wall outside his cell. It was a few minutes past midnight, Saturday morning. He shifted uncomfortably, and yawned. He was exhausted, but he had never been able to get to sleep with the light on, and the cop in charge had refused to switch it off.
He wondered briefly what Tammy was thinking about. She was probably awake, too, lying alone in their quilted double bed under the painting of Yellowstone River in spring, listening to the children breathing in their separate bedrooms and feeling lonesome. The thought of it almost choked him up, and he had to think about something else to stop himself from crying.
He thought, too, about the dead Boy Scout. The cops had questioned him for four hours solid, and they still didn’t believe him. The shooting happened again and again in his mind, like a loop of film. He saw himself stepping out of the supermarket door. He saw himself raising the gun. They were laughing – that was the trouble. If they hadn’t been laughing, he wouldn’t have fired. He saw the dead boy lying on the concrete car park, and someone said, ‘Is he dead?’
Plague: A gripping suspense thriller about an incurable outbreak in Miami Page 23