'Nick,' whispered Herbert Gaines. 'Nicky.' Nicholas turned his face away. 'Nicky, listen,' said Herbert thickly. Nicholas shook his head. 'Nicky, you still haven't punished me enough.' Nicholas turned, and lifted his head. The handsome, wrinkled face was swollen and red. The bony shoulders were bowed.
'Not enough?' said Nicholas, unbelievingly.
Herbert Gaines, the one-time movie hero, dropped to his knees. 'I have sinned against myself,' he said hoarsely. 'I have grown old, and unappealing. You must punish me.'
Nicholas sat up. He took Herbert's hand in his, and gripped it tight. 'Herbert, you mustn't say things like that. Nobody can help themselves from growing old. And anyway, what's sixty? It's when you get to ninety-five that you've got to start worrying!'
Herbert wiped blood from his chin. 'Sixty is older than twenty. Nick. It's all my fault. I threw my youth away. Two movies, too much money too fast. They offered me $25,000 for my third picture. I was high on my own conceit. I said $100,000 or nothing.'
'And?'
'You know what happened. I got nothing. I was young and headstrong, and I wouldn't give in. Don't you think that's worthy of punishment?'
Nicholas rested his head in his hands. He felt tired and depressed, and he didn't know what possible words of comfort he could give. He was a one-time art student, a one-time merchant seaman, and articulating his sympathies didn't come easy.
'Nicky,' said Herbert Gaines, 'you must hit me.'
Nicholas shook his head. 'No, Herbert, I can't.'
'But you must! It's the only way! The past must punish the future!'
Nicholas stood up, and walked over to a painting of a Chinese mandarin on the other side of the room. He looked ancient, and inscrutable, and deeply wise. The youth gazed at his calmness, and wondered how it was possible to live the kind of life where you could smile as calmly and benignly as that, even once. 'Nicky,' whispered Herbert Gaines again. 'What is it, Herbert?'
'I want you to kill me.'
Nicholas almost smiled — 'No, Herbert, I can't.'
'The police needn't know. You could drown me in the bath. An unfortunate accident. Only — I couldn't do it myself. I'm a Catholic. It isn't easy to want to die, and to be afraid of it.'
Nicholas turned around. He stared at this pathetic, blood-smattered figure, and he shook his head once again. 'I can't kill you, Herbert. You're indestructible. You're in movies, aren't you? Two magnificent movies. It doesn't matter if your body is dead, does it? Every time those movies play, you'll come back to life again.'
'Nicky,' said Herbert wretchedly, 'I need to be punished.'
'You are being punished,' said Nicholas, quietly. 'Every day of your miserable life, you're being punished. You don't need me to do it. Only one thing will ever let you off the hook, Herbert, and that's the end of civilization. When there are no more people to go to the movies, and the last picture-house closes down, that's when you get your freedom.'
Herbert lowered his head. In a scarcely audible voice he said, 'If that's true, Nicky, then I pray God that civilization comes to an end before I do.'
Nicholas walked back and rested his hand on Herbert's shoulder.
'The way things are going these days, God might even grant your wish. Now, let's go and get you cleaned up, hey?'
Across the hallway, in apartment 109, Kenneth Garunisch was the only person in Concorde Tower who was concerned about the plague. He was sitting at his cluttered desk, trying to fix his necktie, watch television, and talk to his union attorneys on the telephone, all at the same time. He spoke with the steady relentlessness that had earned him the nickname of 'Bulldozer', and he was angry.
'This thing broke out last night, Matty. How come they only told me this morning? Because I have a right to know, that's why! What do you mean, emergency? I don't care what they call it.'
Through the open hatch in the sitting-room wall, he could see his wife, Gay, in the kitchen, fixing cocktail snacks with their black maid, Beth. She was warbling Strangers in the Night as she popped little curled-up anchovy fillets on to crackers and cream cheese. Beth, silent and fat, was peeling prawns.
'You'd better believe it, Garunisch said, in his hectoring voice. 'I got a call from two of my guys at the hospital. Plague, that's what they got. The Black Death.'
He put his hand over the receiver and sighed. He was a short, stocky, bullet-headed man with an iron-gray crew-cut. His eyes were pale and uncompromising, and there was a prickly roll of fat at the back of his neck. He spoke with a monotonous harshness, like the retreating sea dragging pebbles down the beach. He was Germanic and hard-bitten, and he was president of the Medical Workers' Union — a union he had started himself in 1934, with four other hospital porters from Bellevue — and which was now a powerful, nut-cracking international with a billion-dollar fund and a two and a half million membership.
'You hear that? Plague. They don't know what kind, and they've got people dying like flies. So how come I only found out this morning?'
Gay stuck her heavily-lacquered blue-rinsed curls through the serving hatch.
'What did you say, Ken? Did you say something?'
Kenneth waved her away. 'I was talking to Matty. They got some kind of plague in Miami. Can you believe that?'
Gay, with her head still stuck through the hatch, blinked her eyes as if she was trying to work out whether she could believe it or not. Finally, she said, 'What's plague?'
Kenneth ignored her. His attorney was asking him what he intended doing about Miami.
'What do you think I'm going to do? I want to protect my members. If my members have to handle people with plague, they're gonna catch it themselves, right?'
His attorney guessed that was right.
'In which case,' went on Garunisch, 'I suggest you call the health department down at Miami and tell them it's double time or nothing, and all hospital workers got the right to refuse to handle plague cases, without penalization, recrimination, or loss of benefits.'
His attorney was silent for a while. Then the lawyer suggested that under the circumstances, union action might be construed as taking immoral and unfair advantage of a medical emergency.
'Listen,' grated Garunisch, 'you just get on to that telephone to Florida, and you tell those health folk that if they want my members to risk their lives, they're gonna have to pay for it. I don't want no arguments, and I don't want no fuss. Now do it.'
He clamped the receiver back on the phone, and shook his head. 'Immoral and unfair advantage,' he repeated, sarcastically. 'You get some underpaid Cuban hospital porter to risk his life, and you don't expect to pay him no more? Immoral and unfair advantage, my ass.'
Gay popped her head through the hatch again. 'Did you say something, Ken?'
Garunisch stood up and walked over to the kitchen, tying up his necktie as he went. It was a very lurid necktie, with purple flowers and greenish spots. It had been an expensive gift from Gay.
'Was that something serious, dear?' said Gay, rinsing her hands. 'You look awful sore.'
Garunisch reached over to pilfer a smoked-salmon canape. 'It's just the usual,' he said, with his mouth full. 'They got some kind of epidemic down in Florida, just like the Spanish influenza, and they're expecting the porters and the drivers to handle the patients without any compensation for extra health risk.'
'That's awful,' said Gay. She was a small, busty woman with wide-apart eyes. 'Supposing they caught it? Supposing their children caught it?'
Garunisch looked around the expensive, glossy, Colonial kitchen, with its antique-style tables and chairs. It still gave him a sense of justice and satisfaction, this condominium. For the first time in his life, he owned a luxurious home, decorated just the way that he and Gay had wanted, and he could turn around to all those capitalist palookas who had tried to crush him, and grind him and his union out of existence, and he could raise two rigid fingers.
'That's right,' he said absent-mindedly. 'Supposing their children caught it.'
Gay said, 'Beth, hav
en't you finished those prawns yet? We still have the fondant frosting to make.'
Beth peeled as quickly as her fat fingers would allow. 'I don't have too many more now, Mrs. Garunisch. Just as soon as I'm through, I'll make that frosting.'
'Well!' said Gay Garunisch, turning back to her husband. There was a pleased little smile on her face. 'Our first social event at Concorde Tower! Isn't it exciting?'
Kenneth looked up. He was miles away. 'It's terrific, Gay. I just wish we didn't have this plague business hanging over our heads. It really kind of worries me.'
'It's not hanging over my, head,' said Gay. 'I don't even know what it is.'
Garunisch took another canape and pushed it into his mouth whole. 'Plague is a deadly epidemic disease,' he mumbled, spitting out crumbs. 'They used to have it back in the Middle Ages. These days, it's pretty much under control. But, you know, people can die when they get it, and that's serious. The news said that thirty or forty people were already dead.'
Gay Garunisch was taking off her apron. 'Thirty or forty's not many,' she said, looking for the pepper. 'Why, more people die in a single plane crash.'
Garunisch looked at her patiently for a moment. He loved her, but he sometimes wondered how she could be so totally impervious to everything that went on around her. She lived in her own self-contained world of cocktail parties and celebrity luncheons, and the real events of America escaped her attention.
'Plane crashes,' he said, very gently, so that he didn't sound sarcastic, 'are not catching.'
The doorbell rang. The chimes were a copy of the bells of Amory Baptist Church, which used to ring outside Mrs. Garunisch's home when she was a little girl. Beth looked up from her prawn-peeling, but Kenneth moved to get it.
He opened the door with a fixed grin on his face, and welcomed his first visitors. It was Mr. and Mrs. Victor Blaufoot, from the apartment above theirs. They had met in the elevator just the other day, and Kenneth, in an expansive mood after successful overtime talks, had invited the Blaufoots along to their condo-warming.
'Mr. Bloofer, isn't it?' said Garunisch, showing them in. 'Would you like something to drink?'
'Blaufoot,' corrected the guest. He was neat and small, in a shiny blue mohair suit, with gold-rim spectacles, and a large nose. Mrs. Blaufoot was even smaller, in a dark green dress and a fur stole.
Kenneth Garunisch laughed. 'I'm sorry. I'm usually terrific with names. This is my wife, Gay.'
There was a lot of hand-shaking and uncomfortable laughter. Then they all stood there and looked at each other.
'I hope we're not early,' said Mrs. Blaufoot. 'The truth is, we don't have very far to come.'
They all laughed some more.
'You've certainly made your place look different,' said Mr. Blaufoot, looking around. 'I don't think that any of the other apartments have been done like this. It's — it's — well, it's very different.'
'It's a genuine replica,' smiled Gay Garunisch, pleased. 'It's just like the old colonial farmhouse at Trenter's Bend, Massachusetts. Right down to the patterns on the drapes.'
Mrs. Blaufoot laughed nervously. 'You must be the only people on First Avenue with an authentic early-American farmhouse.'
Kenneth Garunisch, grinning, put his arm around his wife. 'We were thinking of having ourselves a farm, too, but they don't allow cows in the lobby.'
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 ain't 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 jeweller’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! 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 put 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 Garnish 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.'
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