Weekend (39 page)

At first the fire was narrow, confined by the diameter of the studs that served as its runway, but as it burned through the wood, it began to infect the very walls of the hotel’s interior. Ropes of flame dropped into every available opening, widening every crevice. They joined with electric wires in an alliance of movement and speed. When the fire met with any installation that proved an obstacle, it hesitated as if it had a consciousness and was considering alternatives. Then it simply found ways to move around it enveloping it until it lost its support and fell out of the path. Nothing in the hotel’s guts could stop the onslaught. It would be the most deadly of all possible blazes—working from the inside out.

As soon as Nick was satisfied that the conflagration had reached the point of no return, he stopped feeding material to the pyre. In the truest sense, that’s what it really was. This was the hotel’s funeral, whether the people upstairs knew it or not. Thinking of it in those terms gave Nick another idea. He took a full bottle of paint thinner and threw it over Grant’s corpse. Then, in one great effort, he lifted the body and threw it on the fire.

His mission accomplished, he walked quickly to the nearby service stairway and left. If he was really lucky, he thought, the fire would even be damaging enough to destroy Jonathan’s suite before anyone discovered his body. It could all be so perfect. He congratulated himself for his genius and actually considered going to the bar for a drink of celebration. But only if he was close to an exit.

Just a short time before Nick started the fire, the nightclub opened its doors. By now less than half of the hotel’s eight hundred guests were inside. Despite the liveliness of the orchestra and the quick one-liners from the M.C., a wakelike atmosphere hung oppressively over the proceedings.

Jack and Toby Feigen, renewed and relieved by the good news concerning their son, got a babysitter for their kids and came down to the Flamingo Room to be entertained. They moved gracefully down the aisle toward their table, pausing only to greet some people they had met in the dining room. Most men turned to look in their direction. Toby looked as radiant as ever.

Although the M.C. continually invited couples to enjoy themselves on the dance floor, few took advantage of the offer. Because of the limited lineup of talent available for the variety show, a half hour of dancing had been scheduled to start things off, hopefully to get people in a congenial mood. From the looks of things, it wasn’t working very well. Ellen had agreed with Artie Ross that Bobby Grant, the house singer, would be featured as the key act. It was the best they could do. Other members of the staff who had talent would follow. On any other occasion, it would have signaled the big break the amateurs had been waiting for. Tonight, however …

Ellen’s intention was to pop in and out of the nightclub all evening. Right now, though, her thoughts were preoccupied with the whereabouts of Sandi. The bellhops had returned without finding her. Magda had grown concerned and decided to keep away from Ellen until she could bring her some definite information.

Bruce joined Sid in the kitchen for coffee. They sat alone at a small table in the corner, a table usually reserved for the chefs. A lone janitor was completing his cleanup around the stoves. There was a real sense of hiatus, a respite to contemplate the significance of all that had gone on the past couple of days. Sid and Bruce spoke in quiet and calm tones. Both showed signs of fatigue. For the first time since breakfast, they could relax somewhat and even make jokes. Each of them wondered out loud about the whereabouts of Jonathan Lawrence.

“He’s probably sitting in his suite feeling sorry for himself,” Sid said, “trying to figure out what hotel to inflict himself on next.”

Upstairs, Melinda’s party had slowed somewhat but there was still enough activity to keep it going. New people arrived periodically, many simply to look in on what was being described as the “wildest scene in the mountains.” Manny Goldberg was singing in the corner near the spot where he had discovered his wife before. He had his arm around two women and the three of them were working over a chorus of “Roll Me Over in the Clover.”

Flo and her lifeguard had slipped into the linen room at the end of Melinda’s floor. That was why Manny couldn’t find them when he looked down the hall. It turned out to be the craziest experience of Flo’s life. The two of them stripped and climbed into the large linen cart stored in the rear. Then they rolled over and on top of each other in and around the soiled sheets and pillow cases, working to get into a comfortable position. Flo finally landed almost on her head, her ankles supported by the rim of the cart. The lifeguard mounted her by pressing his feet against the cloth sides and squatting on his knees. The wheels of the cart moved slightly back and forth in rhythm to their thrusts and returns, and they laughed and grunted simultaneously. Afterward, they collapsed against each other and dozed off in the softness of the linen.

Sam and Blanche Teitelbaum had decided to go to sleep early. They were both exhausted from the day’s events. He sat on the edge of the bed, a half-dazed expression on his face and waited while his wife washed and prepared herself for bed. The music from the nightclub, although muffled and subdued, was audible. Neither he nor Blanche liked air-conditioning. It usually made him cough. They preferred fans and opened windows. While he was waiting, he got up and checked to make sure their window was open.

Most of the staff—Stan Leshner, Moe Sandman, Mr. Pat, Rosie the telephone operator, Halloran, Rafferty and others came to the nightclub to be supportive of the staff entertainers. The hotel family, threatened and desperate, had closed into an even tighter and stronger alliance. Like circus people, they came together in a crisis and lent each other comfort and support. They applauded when Ellen entered the club. She joined them for a while and then went to see the Feigens, greeted other guests, and left to check the main desk for news of Sandi.

Charlotte talked herself into a short nap. Her head was still spinning from drinking on an empty stomach and throwing up and she knew she just had to sleep for a while. When she lowered her head to the pillow, she immediately passed out.

Outside, the hotel path lights flickered. A new shift of state police had come to the gates of the hotel. The driveway was empty, and there was an ominous quiet about the grounds. Some chambermaids were walking at a leisurely pace back to their quarters. They were talking so low their voices couldn’t be heard. Although Sandi was not in the farmhouse, her bedroom lights were on. It was the only window lit in the old wooden building.

The night sky was moonless, clear and filled with stars. The humidity was somewhat high and the breeze had died down considerably. The tree limbs were so still it was as though they had been painted onto the scene. The silence was extraordinary, and because of this the music of the nightclub carried all the way to the main gate of the hotel. The two new patrolmen listened to it for a few moments and then continued their conversation.

The line of traffic going past the grounds was constant. Many local residents were curious and teenagers from the nearby towns drove by to get as close a look as they could at what was happening at the Congress. National radio and television networks had picked up the story. The Sunday morning headlines for the
News
and the
Mirror
had already been constructed!

There were only thirty or forty guests in the main lobby. A group of bellhops were off to the right of the information desk bemoaning the fact that no one was tipping. The switchboard was active with incoming and outgoing calls, but the receptionist at the counter had little to do. When Ellen came back to the lobby, she remembered she wanted to send a bellhop up to Jonathan’s suite to see if he was there and why he didn’t answer the phone. She called one over, gave him instructions and sent him to the main desk for a master key. Then she went to her office to call the farmhouse again and see if Sandi had returned.

The bellhop got his key and went to the elevators. He pressed the button to command one and waited. His attention was drawn back to his buddies, who kidded him about the errand. Then he turned back to the elevator. When it didn’t open, he pushed the button again. It was then that he noticed that the lights showing which floor the elevator was on were all off.

Sandi sat on the bench at the edge of the baseball field cloaked by the darkness. She was far enough away from the main building to escape the reach of its lights. After she had left the basement, she had wandered about aimlessly until for some reason this was where she had ended up. There was nothing deliberate about her choice but when she had gotten there, she realized it was on this very bench a couple of years ago that she had sat with her father and they had had one of their longest private conversations. He had told her stories about some of the things that had happened to him at the hotel when he was her age. She had laughed at the panorama of characters he resurrected—old Mrs. Rosenblatt, who pilfered entire meals from dining room tables and smuggled them out in her large pocketbook to share with the pigeons; Max Grossbard, the undertaker, who married and buried four wives, honeymooning with each at the Congress. “Imagine the confusion each time he introduced his new wife to Mama and Papa.” Then there were people like the Rothen-bergs. “Their son Danny was so lonely they offered me money to play with him. The first time I took their nickel, Mama practically cried. She made me give it back to them and I felt so bad, I ended up giving Danny a nickel of my own. Later he became one of my best friends.”

As she sat there remembering, she could almost hear his voice. “Remember that no matter how busy I am, princess, I’m only doing it for you and your mother because you’re the two people in the world I love most. And I’m so glad you’re around to keep mommy company when I get involved at the hotel.” Her throat ached from trying to hold back tears. Oh, God, she thought, what have I done?

Thinking about leaving the farmhouse against her mother’s orders and Grant and that terrible scene in the hideaway made her feel terribly guilty. If her father were alive, would he still call her his little princess?

“Daddy,” she whispered, wishing there was some way she could bring him back. “Daddy.” She closed her eyes and embraced herself, rocking gently back and forth. “I’ll be a good girl from now on. I promise.”

She remained sitting like that for a while, totally lost in herself. Then the sound of an excited voice broke her spell.

One of the custodians was running from the basement entrance a couple of hundred yards away. She stood up on the bench so she could see better. He was waving his arms madly, desperate for someone’s attention. It looked like his clothes were on fire.

“What is it?” she shouted, but he was too far away to hear. She struggled to understand what was going on.

She jumped down and took a few steps forward. The custodian fled around the corner of the building, heading for the front entrance. She had never seen a grown man in such panic. Then suddenly she caught on.

“Mommy,” she said. It was practically inaudible. “MOMMY!” she shouted, and ran with all her might toward the main house.

Bobby Grant was understandably ecstatic. For him, the outbreak of cholera in the hotel had precipitated real opportunity. He was resigned to the fact that he would receive low billing all summer long even though some of the name vocalists who’d be entertaining didn’t have half the talent, personality or energy he did. It was all part of paying his dues, something any beginner had to do; but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel frustrated or bitter sometimes.

Tonight it was going to be different. They had turned to him to headline the show. “In fact,” Ellen Golden said, “we’re asking you to be so good, you’ll make the people forget why you’re there in the first place. If you can, I promise to use whatever contacts I have to get you an audition anywhere you want.”

“I’ll give it my best,” he promised. “You won’t be sorry.”

Now he stood anxiously in the wings. He brushed his hair back again and again, checked his face in the mirror, and shook his arms loose like he had seen Bobby Darin do when he played the Congress the last Fourth. He was going to sing some of Darin’s songs too. The M.C. was finishing his introduction. The applause was hardly enthusiastic and although it was difficult to see past the first few rows because of the spotlights, it was obvious the nightclub was well under capacity. None of this, however, discouraged him. Tonight was his night and he was going to bring them to their feet.

He walked out to the band’s last few bars of “Say It with Music” and took the microphone off the stand. It was crazy, considering how excited he was, but as the music started, he was remembering the advice a singer, he forgot which one, had once given him about how to deal with the mike. “Let it hang loose and forget about it. Concentrate on your audience. They’re the ones you’re playing to.” He smiled at the bandleader, held the mike a few inches from his mouth, and took a deep breath. He was going to start with “Three Coins in the Fountain.”

“Three …”

The screaming started from the left and then moved in a ripple across the center of the audience to the right. For a few seconds he and many of the stagehands thought they were screams of adoration. They had heard them many times before, especially when singers like Tony Bennett or Perry Como played the room. Maybe the kid really had it after all. But it took only a few seconds to realize that these screams were different.

Smoke had begun pouring in out of the air-conditioning vents in the nightclub walls, and a haze climbed quickly into the shadows of the lights. Only seconds later, the wall on the right behind the second tier ripped open to reveal a furnace. Chunks of ceiling adjacent to it began to rain down. A middle-aged woman who had stood up in panic was hit on the left side of her face. She raised her hand belatedly as the blood began pouring from her mouth. Some of the men disregarded women and the elderly and bulldozed their way through, knocking over tables and chairs in their way. The room became a symphony of high-pitched shrieks, crashing glasses, cries, screams and commands. A young woman became totally incapacitated, froze in terror, and stood by uncontrollably clutching the side of her face. She was unaware of how deeply she was scratching her skin. An elderly woman lost hold of her husband’s hand and tripped over a broken chair. Fleeing couples behind her prevented her husband from getting back to help her to her feet. He was pushed dangerously near the tier and fell backward himself, his head smacking the side of an overturned table.