Plague

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.'

The telephone began to ring, and Garunisch knew it would be Matty, with the same story.

He held himself in close control. 'Who do we have at Fort Lauderdale? Maybe they could drive down and take a look-see.'