In the early hours of Saturday, Herbert Gaines was driven back to Concorde Tower in the back of Jack Gross’ Cadillac. He was exhausted, and he was looking forward to a large brandy and a long sleep.
‘You did beautiful,’ said Jack Gross. ‘In one day, you made more of a hit than Gerry Ford made in three years.’
Herbert rubbed his eyes. ‘It seems to me that I’ve caused nothing but distress and confusion. Even if this whole thing about the blacks were found to be true, there are times when it’s kinder not to tell the truth at all.’
Jack Gross grinned. ‘Herbert, you’re a man of conscience and no mistake. Can I pick you up at three?’
‘You mean there’s more?’
‘Of course there’s more. This is just the beginning.’
‘Mr. Gross, I tell you quite plainly, I don’t want to do any more.’
Jack Gross waved his hand deprecatingly. ‘Don’t even think that, Herbert. You’re just tired. Have a nice rest, freshen yourself up, and then we’re off to make a speech to the New York Republicans.’
Herbert Gaines stared at him gloomily. ‘And if I refuse?’
Jack Gross smirked. ‘You know very well. If you refuse, young Nicky starts singing in the girls’ choir.’
Herbert looked out of the car window at the deserted wastes of 43rd Street. He felt desolated and old.
‘Very well,’ he said, after a while. ‘If I have to do it, I suppose I might as well enjoy it. I’ll see you at three.’
*
Kenneth Garunisch, as Friday dwindled into Saturday, was still talking with the officials of Bellevue Hospital. He had chosen Bellevue as his last discussion of the day, because he could walk home up First Avenue afterwards, and he usually felt like a short stroll at the end of a day’s work to clear his head.
The cream-painted conference room was thick with cigarette smoke, and the table was strewn with overflowing ashtrays, newspapers, files, gnawed pencils and unbent paperclips. Talks had started at six o’clock on Friday evening, and they were still chasing the same points of principle around and around at midnight, like dogs chasing their own tails.
Garunisch, his tie loosened and his nylon shirt stained with sweat, was lighting one cigarette from the butt of the last, and he had dark circles under his eyes. Dick Bortolotti sat beside him looking waxy and strained. They had both been under tremendous pressure since they had called the strike, and every available hour of every day had been spent in talks and negotiations and organization. But the Medical Workers were still out, and intended to stay out until they were given a substantial package of pay guarantees and fringe benefits.
Ernest Seidelberger, the thin bespectacled Bellevue spokesman, was sitting mournfully at the other end of the table, struggling to light his pipe. He looked more suited for lectures on medieval manuscripts to bored housewives than union negotiations with hard nuts like Kenneth Garunisch, but he had a tedious pedantic way of refusing to give in, ever.
‘Mr. Garunisch,’ he said wanly, ‘I can’t repeat often enough that this hospital administration has nothing more to offer your members in the way of pay, bonuses or incentives, unless you can guarantee something special in return. At the moment, all you’re offering us is work that they should be doing anyway under our last agreement with you.’
Kenneth Garunisch blew smoke. ‘The plague was not mentioned in the last agreement,’ he said hoarsely.
Seidelberger nodded his head patiently. ‘My dear Mr. Garunisch, no disease is specified in the agreement, and so one can hardly make out a special case for this plague. I urge you to think again. Your members’ action has already accelerated the spread of the plague by two days at least, according to my expert informants, and if you hold out any longer, and the plague reaches Manhattan, we here at Bellevue will be totally unable to cope with it.’
Garunisch was about to answer when there was a rapping at the conference door. A pale-faced young hospital executive walked in, smiled nervously at everyone, and leaned over to whisper something in Ernest Seidelberger’s ear. Seidelberger listened for a few moments, his face expressionless, and then waved the young executive away.
Garunisch ground out his latest cigarette. ‘Is it something we should hear?’ he asked bluntly. ‘Or is it privileged information for hospital big-wigs only?’
Seidelberger shook his head. ‘It’s not privileged, Mr. Garunisch. It’s just been on the news. The plague has infected so many people in New Jersey that the state has been declared a quarantine area. Nobody is allowed to enter or leave, and anyone attempting to do so will be forcibly detained by the National Guard.’
One of the hospital negotiators, shocked, said, ‘My wife’s in Trenton today, visiting her mother! And my children! They’re all there! What am I going to do?’
Ernest Seidelberger said, ‘I suggest you go home, Rootes. See if you can call your family from there. Meanwhile, I have a last word to say to Mr. Garunisch before we close this meeting.’
Rootes, shaking, gathered up his papers, crammed them into his briefcase, and left. When he had gone, Seidelberger looked steadily at Kenneth Garunisch, and said, ‘You know what I’m going to say, don’t you, Mr. Garunisch?’
Kenneth Garunisch shrugged. ‘I haven’t a notion, Mr. Seidelberger.’
‘I’m going to demand that you send your members back to work. New Jersey is in quarantine, and that means the plague could be with us in Manhattan by tomorrow morning. This city is going to catch it, Mr. Garunisch, and thousands will die, and it will all be your fault.’
Garunisch’s mouth went taut and hard.
‘Mr. Seidelberger,’ he grated, ‘just because you work for a hospital and you wear a white coat, that doesn’t mean that you are automatically on the side of the angels. My members, if they deal with plague victims, are going to be doing the next best thing to committing suicide. They will do it, just as
