Weekend (32 page)

She wasn’t in the room when he returned. He found his little carryall and filled it with what he considered his essentials. He wasn’t going to be able to carry a whole suitcase if he was going to sneak under barbed wire. Thoughts about the escape began to excite him. He saw it as an adventure. He would prove he knew how to beat the odds. He picked out his darkest pants and shirt, aware of the importance of not being seen. He looked at his watch. It would be a good two and a half hours until enough darkness would fall.

He heard the door opening and looked up at Flo. Her face was still red and her eyes puffed up. When she saw him, she slammed the door behind her.

“I called Mike,” she said. “He thought I knew everything all along. He’s pretty pissed off at you, Manny.”

“Big deal. So your idiot brother’s pissed off.”

“You call him an idiot? Look who’s talking.”

“Now don’t go getting all worked up again. I’ve got it all figured out.” He waited for her to ask how but when she didn’t, he continued anyway. “I’m going to sneak out of here tonight, before they tighten things up even more.” She didn’t reply. “Honest, I’ve got a plan.”

“Knowing you,” she said, “it’s bound to fuck up. From what I hear, they’ll enforce this quarantine any way they have to and that might even include shooting someone.”

“You’re crazy. They’d never …”

She walked into the bathroom. He stood there for a moment, thinking. They’d never. … He imagined himself getting hit with a bullet in the back of the head. Ridiculous, he thought. Nevertheless it made him tremble.

Screw it. He was ready to take his chances. He’d get out tonight, hell or high water. He went back to his preparations.

Jonathan sat in an oversized white velveteen easy chair and felt close to tears. After his aborted escape from the hotel he returned via the same clandestine route he had taken to leave. No one but the security guard at the gate and the state police knew of his attempt, but by now he was sure that the story had spread and many people rejoiced that he hadn’t made it. He sat with his right cheek braced against his closed fist and stared down at the antique white shag carpet. White had always been his favorite color, projecting as it did a sense of simplicity and order.

His apartment had been decorated, at his own expense, with these thoughts in mind. The long, white couch, was placed at a right angle to the easy chair and the small, matching love seat. The end tables and center round marble table were all evenly spaced from each other and every other piece of furniture. Only the table had anything on it, a small, heavy Steuben glass ashtray, spotlessly clean. What bright color there was in the room came from the large Mondrian on the wall above the couch. It was a print of
Composition with Red, Yellow and Blue
, chosen, not for its hues, but because its perfect rectangles and large and small squares reinforced the mathematical logic of Jonathan’s mind.

Sitting there in utter dejection, he thought about his life—all the business opportunities he had passed up, including one as a top level executive with the Holiday Inn chain, in order to get involved with the Congress. God, he’d never forget the first time he had met with Phil Golden over coffee and heard an elderly guest order prune juice and hot water. What was it the waiters called it?—Ex-Lax in a glass. And all that bastardized lingo, those idioms, those Yiddish expressions. He had never even heard the word
shmuck
until he had come to the Catskills. Sometimes he felt that he needed a translator at his side twenty-four hours a day. But he stayed with it, and he tolerated it, and he smiled and nodded at the appropriate times because he believed that at the end of the rainbow, even if it was a Jewish rainbow, there was the proverbial pot of gold. And now? Now he felt like an American who had learned Swahili to work in Africa, only to be banished from the country. What good was all of his knowledge about the Catskill resort world now?

He took a deep breath and was stricken by a pain in his side. What was that? Was it just gas or … ? Once again he recalled Bruce Solomon’s warning. “Even you …” He remembered that cholera could pop up any time in the next few days and started to think back about the food he had eaten over the last day and a half. He felt another jab of pain. What if he did get cholera? Would Sid Bronstein even treat him?

He felt the beads of sweat along the top of his forehead and around the back of his neck. Whenever he perspired, memories of childhood returned. His father, always working late, never home to take him to ball games … his stepmother seeing to it that, no matter what the weather, he carried a warm sweater so he wouldn’t get a chill, telling him he couldn’t play football, he might get hurt, and making him drink warm milk before he went to bed. His stomach churned. Was it nerves? He pressed down on his abdomen. Was he nauseated? Yes, a little. But maybe something else.

He jumped up in panic. My face, he thought, got to check my face. His reflection in the bathroom mirror was as white as his rug. What was happening? Should he take something? What? Would aspirin antagonize it? Maybe a glass of warm milk? The thought of warm milk make him think of his stepmother once again, and once again sweat started pouring from his body.

He considered going down to the coffee shop for some tea but then thought about all the questions, the snickers, the looks. Everyone would want to know why he was no longer the general manager. Well, he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

His mind began to race. What would he do about dinner? Actually, it was a moot point, because he had absolutely no appetite. He worried about that too. Wasn’t loss of appetite a symptom? He should have paid more attention to what Bronstein was saying, but. …

These and other thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a knocking at the door. Because it was such a rare occurrence, he sat frozen for a moment. Then he shook his head. Why hadn’t whoever it was phoned up in advance the way he was supposed to? Damn them all!

“Who is it?” He straightened his tie and walked toward the door. There was no answer. After a moment, the knocking continued. He opened the door. “Oh.”

“Hello, Jonathan. You weren’t in your office.” Nick’s smile was inscrutable.

“I’m not feeling too well.”

“No, no, I don’t imagine you are.” Nick entered the apartment and closed the door behind him. “Nice place you have here. Or should I say ‘had.’”

“Then you know all about it,” Jonathan said.

“Yes. Everything I need to know. Mrs. Golden’s speech was most enlightening.”

“She’s handled the situation like an asshole. If it had been up to me, I could have worked it all out so that no real harm was done to the hotel’s image …”

“But you’re leaving out one small point. It wasn’t up to you.” Nick moved further into the suite. He ran his hand over the soft material of the settee. “I’ll tell you what my problem is now, Jonathan. My people want to know why I wasn’t informed about this from the start. They want to know what’s going to become of the money they’ve already invested.” His face became hard. “And they want to know how they can trust my judgments in the future, seeing as I gave you such a buildup and all.”

“This has nothing to do with my capability and you know that. It was a freak thing. An accident. It could have happened anyplace.”

“Except that it didn’t. It happened here. And you knew about the Chinaman and the possibility of an outbreak before we met yesterday afternoon and I made an offer to buy the hotel. Before I reported back to my superiors that it looked like we probably had a deal.”

Jonathan shook his head. “The reason I didn’t tell you was because the chances were so remote. The doc gets nervous easily, and I thought …”

“We like to think that the people we’re dealing with are totally up front with us. When you brought Phil Golden to us for that loan, we were open, receptive and gave you every cent you asked for. There were no mysteries, no secrets.”

Jonathan felt a chill run down his spine. “Wait a minute. I think I know what you’re getting at, but I’m not a Golden, remember that. I don’t have any legal responsibility for that loan.”

“There are responsibilities and there are responsibilities,” Nick said. “As far as we’re concerned, the loan was extended because of you. We didn’t know Phil Golden from a hole in the wall. And if you aren’t going to be good for it, it looks like we’re going to have to write most of it off, something we don’t particularly enjoy doing.” He moved a few steps closer and though his face remained calm, Jonathan sensed a threat; he backed up instinctively.

“So what do you want from me?” He abhorred the whine in his own voice. It made him indignant. “You’re not the only ones suffering some loss, damn it.”

“We don’t care about your losses. We only care about our own.”

Their eyes locked and Jonathan had less than a second’s warning, barely enough time to bring up his arms. Nick’s left hand sprang to his neck. His long forefinger and thumb caught him just under the jaw. He closed his fingers tightly. Lashing out, Jonathan seized Nick’s wrist, but because he was concentrating on pulling him down with the little strength he had left, he didn’t hear the small click.

In his right hand, Nick held what looked like an ordinary fountain pen, but when he pressed its clip, a six-inch steel stiletto, the thickness of a knitting needle, popped from its top.

With a quick movement, he drove it into Jonathan’s heart. Once it penetrated, he turned and twisted it, tearing across the aorta. Jonathan’s eyes widened with surprise and pain. He let go of Nick’s wrists, moved his mouth open and closed and then slid down the wall, landing in a sitting position on the floor. He died with his eyes wide open.

Nick went into the bathroom, washed the stains of blood off his needle-knife, reinserted the blade in the pen case, and clipped it back on his suit jacket. A large round blood stain had formed on Jonathan’s white shirt. Nick looked around the suite. He took out his handerchief and wiped off the faucet handle in the bathroom. Then, wrapping the handkerchief around his hand, he opened the door and walked out into the empty corridor.

He moved with the calmness and precision of a man who had been in this situation many times before. The only disgust or emotion he felt came from the fact that he had had to do his own dirty work. He had grown to think of himself as above that, but in this situation, he accepted the unwritten assumption of his associates that everyone was responsible for correcting his own mistakes.

At the very least, he was satisfied that retribution was made and some face saved. There would still be disapproval and unhappiness with his judgment but he would have shown himself capable of evening things up. With patience, he would be given other opportunities.

He stepped out of the elevator. The sight of blood, the power he had evoked, the Godlike decision of life and death he had made all conspired to stimulate his carnal lusts. He went back to his room to change. He longed to find Melinda and make love to her again and again, make love to her like she had never been loved before, until she begged him to have mercy and stop. His body strained with desire and he hurried to seek her out.

When Ellen left her office to inspect the preparations for dinner, she spotted Bruce coming back from his talk with Charlotte. Although the events of the day had precluded their having any lengthy discussions, she had developed an instinctive liking for this young man. In fact, when she compared him to Sid or any of the other medical people now involved in the situation, she found herself automatically looking to him for guidance. She had particularly liked his indignation in the scene with Jonathan when all his deceptions were exposed. He had a moral sense, a clear view of responsibilities, and his suggestions seemed devoid of the usual compromises. She was glad he was there.

“Where’s Sid?”

“He had to go calm an elderly woman who refuses to eat. I was just on my way to check out the new food situation. Care to come along?”

“Sure. I’m on my way to see Halloran. He was looking for me before but I guess I can reach his office just as easily through the kitchen. Besides, it will give me a chance to have a look at the cooking facilities. Might help me trace this thing faster.”

“All right, then, I’ll make it a guided tour.”

They entered the dining room through the front door. She stopped at Mr. Pat’s desk and picked up a new menu. Despite the fact that so much had had to be reordered, it was basically as previously planned; a choice of fruits or juice, matzo ball soup, garden vegetable soup or clear broth
en tasse
, an appetizer of grilled sweet-breads on toast and a choice of several main dishes including prime ribs of beef, goulash Hungarienne, stuffed breast of veal, and the perennial favorite, chicken in the pot. Served with it, of course, were relishes, breads, salads and an assortment of vegetables topped off with six mouthwatering and highly caloric desserts.

“Nice menu. Even your most cautious guests will be tempted,” Bruce said.

They continued on through the dining room toward the kitchen. Busboys and waiters were making last minute preparations. Every station was spotless. Not a crumb, not a speck, not a piece of dull silverware or china would be tolerated. The water goblets glistened. The linen was starched and crisp. The carpets had been revacuumed and the wooden floors rewaxed. The captains and Mr. Pat were going from table to table checking things. It reminded Bruce of the barracks inspection at boot camp. The busboys and waiters waited eagerly for approval as they approached.

“We’re making that extra effort tonight,” Ellen said. They walked through the swinging doors and entered the kitchen. For a moment all the clatter and rushing around stopped. Everyone looked Ellen’s way. Then it all started again.

“You know,” Bruce said, “my problem here is I’ve never been what one might call a ‘practicing Jew.’ Exactly what does it mean when a Catskill hotel advertises that it’s ‘kosher?’”

“The term we use is
glatt kosher.
Twice in Exodus and once in Deuteronomy it says that Jews are forbidden to boil a kid in its mother’s milk. This evolved into a prohibition against eating any milk product where meat is served. Since meat and dairy food can’t be prepared together, our kitchen, as you can see, is actually two kitchens, thirteen thousand square feet, each with its own dishwashing and silver-cleaning machines, steam tables, soup kettles, walk-in freezers and refrigerated storerooms. Two completely different china and silver services are used; one for the dairy breakfast and lunch meals, and the other for the evening meat meal.”