There was something about the way Sid said it that made Bruce feel uncomfortable.
“We’ll go through that door there,” Bronstein said. “It bypasses the front lobby which is a madhouse right now.”
“Who knows about this thing … and my role in it?”
“Jonathan, me and by now the owner, Ellen Golden. She’s a good lady, recently widowed, with a hell of a load on her shoulders right now. I just hope she can stand up to the pressure.”
“I can’t say I envy her.”
They walked through the side entrance. Even though it was thirty yards from the lobby, they could still hear the din of the crowd. Bruce was curious so he peered around a corner. The scene of bedlam amazed and amused him at the same time. How in the hell could they get anything done in all that confusion? Everybody seemed to be screaming at everybody else but nobody seemed to be moving. The crowd had bunched up in front of the main desk and despite the pleas of bellhops, desk attendants and security people, they refused to form any sensible lines. Suitcases were everywhere—piled on carts, stacked near couches and chairs, in the hands of guests. Bellhops weaved in and out of people, pushing whatever luggage they could.
The main check-in area was surprisingly small for a hotel of such repute and the abundance of furniture only added to the closeness. Many of the guests were collapsed on the cheap vinyl love seats and easy chairs, their clothing bags dragging on the floor beside them. A few young women seated themselves on the worn nylon rug near the newspaper counter, content to bury themselves in the
Daily News
until the pandemonium diminished.
“What are you doing?” Sid asked, peering over his shoulder.
“I don’t believe this. How does anyone keep track of what’s going on?”
Despite the efforts at the security gate to slow things down, it appeared as though the crowd was increasing geometrically. The receptionists at the check-in counter were swamped and Bruce felt they would all throw up their hands at any moment and desert, leaving the guests in a state of uncontrollable frenzy. Through the picture windows he could see the cars lined up in rows outside the front entrance. Carhops were literally jumping into the driver’s seats and pulling away with doors swung open and passengers half out. Bellhops stacked what they could on luggage carriers and fought their way into the backup in the lobby. Bruce shook his head incredulously.
He could hear the refrains being barked out in the lobby by the reservations people: “Just a minute sir. I’ll be right with you, miss. He’s first, ma’am.” Intermingled were the sounds of people recognizing one another, people laughing, children crying, bellhops begging guests to move out of their way.
And there, in the middle of it all, stood Magda, greeting old-timers with the love and affection they had come to expect and newcomers with the sense of warmth and friendliness that personified the Congress.
“Quite a place,” Bruce said as the two of them walked down the corridor to the executive offices. The secretary looked up quickly and smiled when she saw the doctor.
“He’s expecting you, Dr. Bronstein. Go right in.”
“Thanks, Suzy. This is my cousin, Bruce Solomon. You’ll probably be seeing a lot of him. In addition to being our guest, he’s going to be doing a little work for us on the side.”
“How nice.” The twenty-year-old redhead smiled and crossed her legs to advantage. Bruce merely nodded, digesting, at the same time, the way she looked at him. Hopefully, he thought, he’d be able to find a few moments to mix business with pleasure.
Jonathan’s office was done in a most tasteful manner. There was an antique desk, a long table covered with file folders and memo pads, a couch, and three Louis XIV chairs to its left. The walls were ascetically bare. Nor were there any personal mementoes on his desk. All in all, the office was perfectly organized, its personality characterized by its absence. Jonathan stood when they entered.
“Our medical detective,” he said without further ado, extending his hand in automatic greeting. Bruce took a dislike to him instantly.
“Bruce Solomon,” Sid Bronstein said.
“Sit down please.” Jonathan pointed to the chairs furthest from the desk. “I suppose the good doctor’s already filled you in.”
“I think I have a pretty good idea of what we might be up against, yes.”
“I don’t want to get into the medical situation with you guys,” Jonathan continued. “God knows, I know very little about cholera. But it’s imperative I talk about the Congress’s situation for a moment.”
“Sure, I—”
“We’re walking a tightrope here and I’m not just talking about a potential epidemic or whatever you want to call it. Though it may seem difficult for outsiders to understand, this place is almost tottering on bankruptcy and has been for the last couple of years. Sid knows all about this, as do others in the community, so I’m not revealing anything terribly secret. We need a good season to keep our heads above water. If it gets around that we have a medical researcher checking out a potential cholera outbreak, it could cause problems from which we may never recover.”
“Bruce is fully aware of that,” Sid interrupted, “and he’s a professional. He knows how to go about his work. I don’t think you have to worry on that count.”
“Fine. For a cover, I suggest you pretend to be an insurance investigator. We continually have them around here reevaluating our policies. That is, if you know anything about insurance.”
“About as much as you know about cholera,” Bruce countered.
“Well, there shouldn’t be a problem. If anyone bothers you, just tell them you’re under direct orders from me. That should take care of anything.”
“Sounds like you have them terrified.”
“I try to. If you give people the proverbial inch … especially now with the boss gone—”
“Incidentally,” Sid interrupted, “speaking of the boss, how’s Ellen taking all this?”
Jonathan winced at the reference to Ellen as his superior. “Better than you’d expect,” he lied. “She feels she can stand up to anything as long as I’m in control. She’s agreed to let me handle the entire matter anyway I choose, so I suggest rather emphatically that you make sure not to bother her with any of the details and work directly through me.”
They agreed.
“What exactly do you do, Mr. Solomon?”
“I do diagnostic lab work at Mt. Sinai, concentrating on rare diseases.”
“He’s modest,” Sid said. “He just published an outstanding paper on diseases indigenous to the Far East.”
“Anyway,” Bruce continued, “when Sid called, I had some vacation time coming so I thought it might be a good time to—”
“So you’re not overly concerned then with the situation here?”
“Concerned? Of course I’m concerned. From a medical stand-point, it’s obviously dangerous. Frankly, I’m terrified of the possibilities. What is your population now, guests and all?”
“With staff, almost 1200.”
Bruce glanced at Sid who looked down.
“Are you sure you really understand what this could mean?”
“He told me enough,” Jonathan said, nodding toward Sid. “He told me the symptoms can be confused with severe food poisoning or bacillic dysentery.”
“One of the ways in which the disease is spread is through food that could be infected, so if someone who works in the kitchen is a carrier…” Sid interjected softly.
“I understand. Everyone here would become a potential victim.
If
—”
“The danger now, as I see it,” Bruce said, pulling his chair closer to the desk, “is that the incubation period ends in six days and if we find evidence of a potential epidemic condition, you’re going to have to quarantine the entire place for that whole time. That means nobody in or out.” Jonathan glared at him in semi-shock, the reality hitting him for the first time.
“At our expense? Do you realize what that would do to us financially, not to mention to our reputation?”
“Running the hotel is your problem, Mr. Lawrence. Mine is finding out whether we might have an epidemic situation on our hands.”
“What do you plan to do first?” Jonathan asked. It made more sense to him to pretend to cooperate than to argue at the moment.
“I’ll get as much information as I can on the infected custodian. Has he been off the grounds the last few days as far as you know?”
“I have no idea. You’ll have to ask Bob Halloran, my personnel director.”
“Okay, I’ll do that first. I also would like to have the water and milk supplies analyzed,” Bruce said. Sid agreed and they made a note to do that.
“Again,” Jonathan emphasized, reverting to his old self, “please be careful when you talk to people. Rumors start flying at a hotel like this even when there is no foundation. I’ll call Halloran and let him know you’re coming. He’ll cooperate, but it’s only to be expected that he’ll be curious about what you’re up to.”
Bruce agreed to be tactful and he and Sid Bronstein stood up. Before they could leave, Jonathan’s intercom buzzed.
“It’s for you, doc,” he said, handing Bronstein the receiver.
“Dr. Bronstein here. Yes, when? Dammit! I’ll be right over. Don’t call the coroner until I get there.” He stared as he handed the phone back to Jonathan.
“Tony Wong just died.”
“Well,” Bruce muttered, “as of now, if it’s cholera, you have a one hundred percent mortality rate.”
Jonathan Lawrence sat back in his chair dejectedly. Why now? Why, just as he was on the verge at age thirty-four of achieving the two things he wanted most in his life, money and power, did things have to get so screwed up?
Ever since legalized gambling had been introduced in Las Vegas, there was speculation it would some day also be approved in New York State. As early as January of ’58, rumors were rampant that the proposition would be passed by the legislature and put to the voters in the form of a referendum in the next election.
From Jonathan’s point of view, if the referendum were approved it would be the best thing that could ever happen to the Catskills. It would perform miracles for the economy, creating the much needed excitement they required to compete with resort areas all over the world. It was important to him that the Congress be the first to get into the action; the first resort to open a casino, the first to cater to an international crowd, and the first to invest in building convention centers that would attract large groups of businessmen and organizations with money to spend.
Jonathan was not the only one interested in gambling coming to the mountains. Five years ago, unbeknownst to Ellen, when money was especially tight, he had met with some syndicate people at Phil’s behest and negotiated a loan at outrageous interest for $250,000. The interest had been repaid, but not the principal itself.
Not uncoincidentally, the week Phil died the man he had dealt with contacted him by phone. He wanted to know if Jonathan thought that under the circumstances Ellen might be interested in selling or, at the very least, see her way clear to having a silent 51 percent partner, a partner who would erase the loan and make extra money available for whatever expansion was necessary to make the Congress the showcase of the Catskills. It was also made clear that if the answer was no, the loan would have to be repaid immediately, even if it mean bankruptcy for the Congress.
These people wanted to get in—fast—before other organizations did. And they held a carrot out to Jonathan. If he could make the arrangements, he would be given a substantial raise and the position of president of the new corporation.
At the time, with Ellen so deep in grief, he didn’t think there would be a problem but now, with her getting more active in the day to day affairs of management, he had a sinking feeling it wasn’t going to be quite that easy. On the other hand, he knew she was concerned about having to bring Sandi up at the hotel by herself and once she started to discover how complicated the job actually was, she’d probably welcome anyone who could relieve some of the pressures.
A few days ago, his contact informed him they were sending a representative, a Nick Martin, up for the Fourth to look the place over, check out its operation and come back with a decision. If the place looked good and Jonathan made the arrangements with Ellen, they were ready to make a deal immediately. If not …
And now this. Jonathan began to sweat. To think a potential multi-million dollar operation, which he was going to head, could be in danger because some Chink died of probably nothing more serious than food poisoning.
He slammed his fist on his desk. Cholera, his ass. If Nick Martin got wind of what was happening, that there was the possibility of an epidemic and what it would do to the hotel’s reputation, they’d pull out as fast as a guy hearing his girl had V.D.
The medical investigation had to be contained. He was sorry he had given his approval in the first place but it was too late now to turn back. He was playing a dangerous game with dangerous men on both sides. The most important thing now was to know exactly what was happening every step of the way so he would know precisely what measures he’d have to take, if and when he needed to.
Bob Halloran, a tall sinewy young man with legs so long a friend once said his upper body must have been placed there as an afterthought, walked quickly across the back lot to get to the “dungeon,” as the lower level staff‘s dorm was often called. They had called him at his basement office. Some sort of commotion going on down there was threatening to get out of hand. That was just what he needed now, with one of the silver sterilizing machines on the blink, trouble with a front elevator and an outbreak of cockroaches in one of the cottages … more problems.
He could already hear the yelling as he turned down the small knoll. Two of the Puerto Rican dishwashers and Margret Thomas, the chambermaid, were going at it in the entranceway, egged on by friends of both sides.
“What the hell’s going on?” he asked Domingo, the laborer who had called him earlier.
“Those two, José Lorca and Pablo Gomez, have been shacking up with some of the whores down at the bowery building.” Halloran looked at him incredulously. For that he had been called away from his desk?