‘Here?’ said Bortolotti, frowning at the map.
‘Here, dummy!’ snapped Garunisch. ‘Here in New York City! They’re already dropping dead in the goddamned streets in Miami! Imagine what’s going to happen if it starts infecting people here!’
Bortolotti blinked. ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘That would be murder. Nothing short of murder.’
‘You bet your ass it’d be murder,’ Garunisch stood up and walked across to the window. A dirty dawn was just making itself felt over the East River, and he lifted the embroidered net curtains and stared out at it. Then he turned around.
‘And do you know whose murder?’ he said. ‘Not the fucking federal government’s murder. Not the kiss-my-butt President of the United States. Oh, no. They’re okay. They have their private doctors and their quarantined quarters, and if the worst comes to the worst, they can always fly off and leave us to stew in our own germs. Dick – if anyone’s going to get murdered in this epidemic it’s the members of the Medical Workers’ Union. Our members. Our boys. And what do you think the federal government is doing about it, right now, right this minute?’
‘Fuck all, I should guess,’ said Bortolotti.
Garunisch wrinkled up his nose. ‘Don’t swear, Dick, it doesn’t suit you.’
Bortolotti said, ‘But I’m annoyed, Ken. I’m just as annoyed as you.’
Garunisch, in a burst of temper, threw his half-full can of beer across the living-room. It splashed against the wall and rolled under a fat Colonial settee.
‘Nobody is as annoyed as I am! Nobody! This half-assed administration is using my members as cattle-fodder, and it’s going to stop!’
Dick Bortolotti coughed. ‘What are you going to do, Ken?’
‘I want the legal department round here right now. Get them out of bed if you have to. I want Edgar and Cholnik round here too. This government may have gotten the press to play patsy, but they’re not doing it to me. Unless we get assurances on protection and pay, we’re coming out. Today.’
Dick Bortolotti put down his can of beer. ‘Ken,’ he said uncertainly, ‘wouldn’t that kind of make matters worse? I mean, if this plague’s spreading at 75 miles a day, and our members go out for a couple of days, well that’s 150 miles, and maybe a whole lot more, just because they weren’t there to slow it down.’
Kenneth Garunisch stepped up to his aide and patted him, a little too briskly for comfort, on the cheeks.
‘You’re quite the little Einstein, aren’t you Dick? Yes, that’s exactly what would happen. And if this tight-assed government have any sense at all, they won’t argue for five minutes. We’re just about to see the biggest pay and benefits deal that any union ever negotiated, Dick.’
*
It was five hours later before Herbert Gaines woke up. To help himself sleep, he had drunk half a bottle of Napoleon brandy, and his mouth was furred and dry. He slept in a long kimono of black silk, decorated with dragons, with a hair-net to keep his white leonine mane from getting mussed up on the pillow. He opened his eyes just a fraction, and reached across the bed to make sure that Nicky was still there.
Nicky, of course, was. He was rude, bitchy and defiant to Herbert, but he never forgot that he was comfortably ensconced in a luxury condominium in Concorde Tower, and it would take more than an argument, no matter how brutal or vicious, to winkle him out. He lay naked and seraphic, his hands raised on either side of his head, his soft and hefty penis resting on his thigh.
Herbert raised himself on one bony elbow, leaned over, and kissed that penis with showy reverence. Then he swung his legs out of bed, and went to fix himself a blender full of mixed vegetable juice.
He was slicing up tomatoes and green peppers when the doorbell chimed. He frowned up at the early-American wall-clock, and muttered ‘Who the hell…?’
He was still trying to figure out which of his less couth friends would dare to disturb him before noon when the doorbell chimed again, and someone hammered on the door. Herbert Gaines sighed crossly, and tugged off his hair net. He walked quickly through the dark, heavily-curtained living-room and up the three steps to the door.
‘Who is it?’ he called.
There was no reply.
He bent down and put his eye to the peep-hole, but whoever was out there must have had his hand across it.
Herbert called, ‘I can’t let you in until I see who you are!’
The hand was removed. Herbert squinted out, and saw a stocky, well-groomed man in a respectable gray mohair suit.
‘Well,’ said Herbert. ‘What do you want?’
The well-groomed man gave a smile. A radiant, politician’s smile. ‘My name’s Jack Gross,’ he said. ‘I was wondering if you could spare me a few minutes of your time, Mr. Gaines.’
‘Do I know you?’ asked Herbert irritably. Shouting always made him hoarse, and there was still enough of the actor left in him to worry about protecting his voice. You should do. Do you read Time magazine?’
‘Sure, for the showbiz section.’
Well, if you have last week’s edition, you’ll see something about me in the politics section. Go and look. I can wait.’
Herbert sighed again. ‘Look here, Mr—’
‘Gross, Jack Gross.’
‘This is very early for me, Mr. Gross. At this time of the morning, I am still rescuing myself from the little death. Even if you are who you say you are, I can’t help feeling that a few minutes of my time would be a ridiculous waste of yours.’
Jack Gross, seen through the peep-hole in the door, smiled his radiant smile again. ‘I’m sure it won’t be, Mr. Gaines. All I want to do is make you an interesting
