It took what seemed hours to turn her head so she could look at herself in the mirror. When she did, what she saw was almost comical. Dressed in her brand new tennis midriff with the bright yellow trim, her hair cut into its new style and frozen into place with sprays and pins, she looked like a twisted gargoyle. Her arms were flung askew over her stomach, her legs drawn up unevenly to her chest. Her skin had taken on a newer and even sallower shade of white and the mascara was smudged all over her eyes.
When the phone began to ring she assumed it was Bruce and tried with the very little strength she had left to get to it. She straightened out her legs and with great effort pushed her upper body off the bed. For a moment she sat dazed. Then she tried to put her full body weight down but her feet buckled under. The phone was still ringing and she made another effort to stand. The strength it required made extra demands on her stomach muscles. The pain increased tremendously but this time she didn’t even care. She just wanted to talk to Bruce, to tell him … Then it happened.
It happened so quickly and came so unexpectedly she panicked. It was as though her entire body had opened up, as if her entire bowel system was flushing out. She had no control. The demonic forces working within had assumed full management of all her physical powers. Her digestive and excretory systems were in total revolt.
And still the phone kept ringing. With the little energy remaining, she screamed her outrage and frustration but it made no difference at all. The backs of her legs, extending down to her sneakers, were soaked with a smelly brown liquid. Her hair, her face, her tennis outfit were totally ruined. Desperately she lunged forward in the direction of the bathroom. At one point she was actually forced to crawl. When she got there she stripped away as much clothing as she could. The pain seemed to have subsided somewhat but she was too frightened to be grateful.
Unable to pull her panties down, she stepped into the shower. For a few minutes she started to feel better and was relieved enough to begin telling herself that everything would ultimately be all right. Somehow she would fix everything up and it would be good again. She told herself she should have paid more attention to the stomach-aches she had all morning. She should have taken an Alka-Seltzer or something. But now the worst was over. Whatever it was, would pass.
“I’m going to be all right,” she mumbled. “I’m going to be all right.” She let the water hit her face. Then she opened her mouth and drew some in as she washed her back and legs. After that she sudsed her stomach and ran the soap under her breasts as she continued the chant. “I’m going to be all right. I’m going to be all right.”
Then the pain started anew, rising from the tips of her toes and centering in just below her waist. This time it came like a hammer, pounding, pounding, crashing against the inside of her stomach. She clutched at herself with both hands. The soap slipped out of her fingers. The pain made her crumple again. She squatted in the shower stall and then, despite her every effort to prevent it from happening, the deluge reoccurred. It was impossible to maintain her balance and she fell backward against the tile. The shower poured down over her limp body and she realized she had no choice. She closed her eyes and surrendered totally in the direction her body insisted on taking her. In the recess of her mind, she vaguely realized the phone had long since stopped ringing.
After Bruce hung up, he stood wondering if perhaps he shouldn’t take a quick walk out to the tennis courts, find her and apologize. It bothered him that he had stood up this girl. He knew that she would take it a lot more seriously than others might, and he didn’t want that to happen. He cared for her too much. Then again, he realized, it was a matter of priorities. Somehow he would find the time later to make amends. He nodded to himself and went back to the blackboard.
Jonathan opened the patio door that led out to the terrace of his penthouse apartment, stepped out and looked over the railing, and glared down at the activity below. He was both angry and terrified. Why were they all so furious with him? He still couldn’t figure it out. He hadn’t hired the Chinaman. It wasn’t his fault the poor bastard died. All he was trying to do was protect the hotel and the Golden family name. Did that make him a son of a bitch?
Turning back to his bedroom he recalled Bruce’s final threat. He, too, could be a victim of the disease. Possibly, but he hardly considered it likely. He hadn’t associated with anyone who had been stricken. No, it wasn’t the thought of cholera that terrorized him. What terrorized him was the thought of Nick Martin. Nick Martin. The hit man who kept asking “are you sure there’s nothing you’re not telling us?” The gangster who didn’t like to lose. He thought about all he had done to bring the hotel and Nick’s people together, the loan he had engineered, the expansion he had committed. They were here now because he, Jonathan, had convinced them this was the place to be. He had promised they would make a fortune and now …
He went into the bathroom to collect his shaving gear. Somehow they’d find a way to put the blame on him. He knew the way those people worked. In their minds you’re just as responsible for the bad luck as you are for making the good. They weren’t going to let him off the hook.
Got to get out of here, he thought. No sense hanging around for the funeral, the hotel’s or mine. He remembered what Sid had said about a quarantine and realized there was no time to pack. He just threw a few things in a suitcase.
Leaving the apartment, he took the service elevator down to the basement. When the door opened, he checked the corridor, found it empty, and took the side exit to the VIP parking lot. There was no one around there either. He threw the suitcase in the Caddy’s trunk and drove out quickly but as he approached the driveway to the exit, he slowed down. He checked the rearview mirror. No one seemed to notice him. He smiled confidently and kept going toward the main gate.
As he came around the small turn in the drive, he saw the back end of a state police car. The sight of the two patrolmen made him freeze. George Briggs stepped out of the security booth and put up his hand in stop-traffic fashion. For a quick second Jonathan actually considered surging ahead but the looks on the cops’ faces changed his mind.
“What are you trying to do, Mr. Lawrence?” Briggs asked after he walked over to the driver’s side. “I’d figure you, of all people, would know about this crazy order not to let anyone in or out.”
For a moment Jonathan had trouble gathering his thoughts. The policemen were staring at him from a distance. He never expected the action would be taken so quickly but the reality of it drove home the significance of the situation. He should have left the moment he walked out of Ellen’s office instead of going to his office and gathering up his documents.
“Yeah, I know,” he said, “but I’ve got some hotel business to tend to in town. It can’t be put off. I’ll be back in an hour.”
The state police, noting that he wasn’t backing up and turning around, started for the car. Briggs shrugged and turned to them.
“This is the hotel’s general manager, Jonathan Lawrence. He says he has some important business for the hotel in town and has to leave for a while.”
“Out of the question, Mr. Lawrence. No one’s notified us you can go. You’ll have to conduct the business by phone.”
“But I have important documents to deliver.”
“Sorry sir, but until we’re given orders to the contrary, we can’t permit it.”
“We’re not even sure ourselves what’s going on,” the other patrolman said.
Jonathan stared at them for a moment. The first trooper had his right hand resting softly on the handle of his pistol. It was most probably an unconscious act but it had an intimidating effect on Jonathan. He nodded without a further word and put the car into reverse. They all watched as he backed up and turned the car in the direction of the hotel. As he headed back, he looked in the rearview mirror. The three of them remained where they were, looking in his direction, silent.
He had to get out of there, he said to himself. He had to find a way. It takes more than a couple of cop
s to hold Jonathan Lawrence back. He’d think of something in a minute or two. Only thing was, when he lifted his hand off the steering wheel, he couldn’t prevent it from shaking.
thirteen
An ominous stillness came over the group as Ellen stepped through the doorway of the conference room. Magda was close behind and they were flanked by Sid Bronstein, Bruce and Gerson Kaplow. Behind them came the Sheriff, Rafferty and Lieutenant Fielding of the State Police. They walked behind the conference table and remained standing. Ellen looked out at her fifteen department heads. The director of engineering coughed. A chair scraped against the floor. The auditor dropped his pen on the carpet. Bruce put his clipboard on the table. Everyone appeared to be uncomfortable.
“I don’t know if there’s any right way to begin all this,” she finally said. She held herself erect and spoke without notes. “So I’m just going to state the facts as I understand them and then let the experts tell you what has been done and what remains to be done.” She paused for a second to look at Magda. “Some of you already know that a staff member, a very new one, Tony Wong, was taken to the hospital Thursday evening. He died there yesterday morning from what has been positively diagnosed as cholera.”
For a moment the silence was overwhelming. Then everyone started talking at once. “I don’t believe it.” “Jesus Christ,” “Holy shit,” … and much indistinguishable mumbling.
“Unfortunately all of this occurred without my knowledge. Mr. Lawrence took too much on himself and made certain promises to Dr. Bronstein. The promises were never kept, and as a result, Jonathan no longer serves as the general manager of this hotel. But that is a side issue, and I don’t have the time or inclination to get into it now.
“The initial hope was that Wong was an isolated case, a freak thing, but it turns out, unfortunately, we’re not that lucky. This morning a male guest became seriously ill and died in the health club. Not long after that an elderly woman, apparently a cholera victim, died in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. One woman has had a miscarriage, and a few other guests, including two children, have complained about minor intestinal problems. Fortunately, none of them seem very serious.”
“I’ve got a gardener who’s taken pretty sick,” Bob Halloran said.
“Where is he?” Bronstein asked.
“Dungeon. First room on the right.”
“Anybody else know of someone sick?” Bruce asked.
“Suddenly I don’t feel so great myself,” Mr. Pat said. There was an outbreak of nervous laughter.
“Anyway,” Ellen went on, “the end result of all this is that by order of the public health department, the hotel is in a state of quarantine.”
“Quarantine!” The word echoed through the group.
“What exactly does that mean?” Stan Leshner asked.
“It means that no one can leave the hotel and only certain people, mainly those associated with the health profession, will be allowed in,” the Sheriff said.
“No one can leave? For how long?” Moe Sandman wiped his hands on his apron. “I mean most of us don’t live at the hotel.” There were a number of seconds from the floor.
“I guess I can help answer that,” Bruce said.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Ellen said. “I should have introduced everyone before I started. My head’s still spinning. This is Bruce Solomon. He’s Sid—Dr. Bronstein’s cousin and he’s had experience with tropical diseases. He works at Mt. Sinai in New York. I’m sure most of you know the Sheriff and Dr. Kaplow, the town’s public health officer. And the man on the far left is Lieutenant Fielding of the State Police. Go on, Bruce.”
“Thank you. First let me explain, ladies and gentlemen, that we’re not quite sure how the cholera was transmitted to the guests although we’re quite certain it was brought in by Tony Wong. Just to be sure, we’re doing analyses on the water and examining milk supplies. The odds are that somehow it was spread through the food, though at the moment we have no idea how. To prevent it from happening again we’ve ordered an entirely new supply. What’s puzzling,” he continued, “is that apparently Wong had no contact with the food that’s been served the past few days, so in a sense we’re back to square one.”
“But,” Halloran interrupted, speaking quickly with the excitement of someone who thinks he’s found an answer, “his roommates were dishwashers.”
“That’s true,” Bruce said.
“Then that’s why they were shipped outta here last night,” he continued excitedly, suddenly seeing the pieces fit together. “You guys knew some thing was up as far back as yesterday!” There was a loud murmur through the group. “What’s he talking about?” “What the hell’s going on?”
“We had suspicions,” Bronstein said, “but they were far from conclusive. Your men were supposed to have been sent to a hospital in the city for tests, for their protection as well as our own, but …” He didn’t want to go any further.
“Regardless,” Bruce broke in, “I’ve pieced together things chronologically and it doesn’t seem likely that Tony’s roommates could have contracted the disease or passed it on. They were away from him and their room during the time he was sick and they weren’t there during the incubation period. I don’t think they had anything to do with spreading it.”
“What you’re saying then is that the source is still right here in the hotel,” the publicity director said.
“Possibly, but we very honestly don’t know. I realize this isn’t a very satisfactory answer but I’m asking you to bear with us. We just found out about the latest cases an hour or so ago and haven’t had time to track anything down. We’re going to start just as soon as we’re through meeting with you and the guests.”
“You still haven’t answered the question Moe asked,” Artie Ross said. “How long is the quarantine?”
“The incubation period can last as long as six days. Since it’s possible that some people contacted the disease today, we’d have to say … six days from today at the least.”
“Six days!”
There was an explosion of raised arms, loud voices and cries of dissent. Ellen sat herself down and Magda followed suit. The men remained standing. Bruce cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted for order. He was finding himself more and more thrust into the leadership role, and although there wasn’t any formal decision about it, he accepted it without argument. No one seemed to mind, least of all Sid. Gradually a semblance of order returned to the meeting.
“I’m sure Mrs. Golden is going to make a similar request,” he began again, “but the point is we’re meeting with all of you because we need your help. There’s going to be enough chaos as it is when the guests find out what’s going on.”
“You can say that again,” Kaplow said. Everyone looked at him as though they had just realized he was there. The stout doctor took a seat and maintained a look of total disgust.
“Wouldn’t it be better just to get everyone outta here?” Halloran asked. “At least until we’re sure it’s all clear?”
“No,” Bruce said. He continued as spokesman. “We’d be unleashing the contagion into all the communities these people went back to. Besides, the quarantine is a public health decision, not the hotel’s.”
“How are you going to keep them on the grounds if they want to leave?” the superintendent of service asked.
“That’s our job,” the Sheriff said. “Mine, Rafferty’s and Lieutenant Fielding’s. We’ll explain our security measures when we meet with the guests and I’m hoping to have everyone’s cooperation. Especially yours,” he added, throwing them a no-nonsense look.
“I don’t know who else I speak for,” Netta, the reservations manager piped up, “but the truth is I don’t know a damn thing about cholera, so I don’t know what kind of help I’d be.” There were many voices of agreement. “All I know is my grandmother used the word to represent any and all tragedies. Sometimes it was even a curse.”
“All right,” Bruce said. “You’ve got a point.” He picked up
his clipboard, looked at his notes and put it back down. “Let me simplify it as best I can, and Sid or Dr. Kaplow can add what they think is important. The symptoms include diarrhea and vomiting along with severe muscle cramps. The danger lies in dehydration and uremia. When we treat a case early on, the percentage of complete recuperation is over ninety-five percent.”
“And the treatment is not terribly involved,” Sid said.
“Cholera is not contagious in the sense people usually think of when they think of a contagious disease. The organism is generally transmitted only in food or water and not from person to person.” There were many audible sighs of relief.
“Chances are,” Sid broke in, “that since all-new food will be used from now on, those of you who are not feeling any symptoms by now are probably not in danger.”
“Unless we picked it up last night or this morning, and it hasn’t had time to show up,” the maitre d’ of the Flamingo Room said.
“Yes,” Bruce said quietly. “There is still that possibility. If you’ll permit me to change the subject … Dr. Kaplow has brought with him pamphlets about the danger signs of cholera and what to do about them to be passed out by you to the guests and your staff. Please read them carefully so you can serve as buffers and help maintain a certain degree of calm over the next few days.
“There’s no sense in our getting any more technical here,” he went on. “Mrs. Golden’s office will serve as headquarters. We’ll call some of you in from time to time to ask questions if we think the answers will help us in any way. I don’t know if there’s anything else I can say.” He looked toward Sid and the Sheriff.
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