Plague: A gripping suspense thriller about an incurable outbreak in Miami

Gay.
‘Was that something serious, dear?’ said Gay, rinsing her hands. ‘You look awful sore.’
Garunisch reached over to pilfer a smoked-salmon canapé. ‘It’s just the usual,’ he said, with his mouth full. ‘They got some kind of epidemic down in Florida, just like the Spanish influenza, and they’re expecting the porters and the drivers to handle the patients without any compensation for extra health risk.’
‘That’s awful,’ said Gay. She was a small, busty woman with wide-apart eyes. ‘Supposing they caught it? Sup posing their children caught it?’
Garunisch looked around the expensive, glossy. Colonial kitchen, with its antique-style tables and chairs. It still gave him a sense of justice and satisfaction, this condominium. For the first time in his life, he owned a luxurious home, decorated just the way that he and Gay had wanted, and he could turn around to all those capitalist palookas who had tried to crush him, and grind him and his union out of existence, and he could raise two rigid fingers.
‘That’s right,’ he said absent-mindedly. ‘Supposing their children caught it.’
Gay said, ‘Beth, haven’t you finished those prawns yet? We still have the fondant frosting to make.’
Beth peeled as quickly as her fat fingers would allow. ‘I don’t have too many more now, Mrs. Garunisch. Just as soon as I’m through, I’ll make that frosting.’
‘Well!’ said Gay Garunisch, turning back to her husband. There was a pleased little smile on her face. ‘Our first social event at Concorde Tower! Isn’t it exciting?’ Kenneth looked up. He was miles away. ‘It’s terrific. Gay. I just wish we didn’t have this plague business hanging over our heads. It really kind of worries me.’
‘It’s not hanging over my head,’ said Gay. ‘I don’t even know what it is.’
Garunisch took another canapé, and pushed it into his mouth whole. ‘Plague is a deadly epidemic disease,’ he mumbled, spitting out crumbs. ‘They used to have it back in the Middle Ages. These days, it’s pretty much under control. But, you know, people can die when they get it, and that’s serious. The news said that thirty or forty people were already dead.’
Gay Garunisch was taking off her apron. ‘Thirty or forty’s not many,’ she said, looking for the pepper. ‘Why, more people die in a single plane crash.’
Garunisch looked at her patiently for a moment. He loved her, but he sometimes wondered how she could be so totally impervious to everything that went on around her. She lived in her own self-contained world of cocktail parties and celebrity luncheons, and the real events of America escaped her attention.
‘Plane crashes,’ he said, very gently, so that he didn’t sound sarcastic, ‘are not catching.’
The doorbell rang. The chimes were a copy of the bells of Amory Baptist Church, which used to ring outside Mrs. Garunisch’s home when she was a little girl. Beth looked up from her prawn-peeling, but Kenneth moved to get it.
He opened the door with a fixed grin on his face, and welcomed his first visitors. It was Mr. and Mrs. Victor Blaufoot, from the apartment above theirs. They had met in the elevator just the other day, and Kenneth, in an expansive mood after successful overtime talks, had invited the Blaufoots along to their condo-warming.
‘Mr. Bloofer, isn’t it?’ said Garunisch, showing them in. ‘Would you like something to drink?’
‘Blaufoot,’ corrected the guest. He was neat and small, in a shiny blue mohair suit, with gold-rim spectacles, and a large nose. Mrs. Blaufoot was even smaller, in a dark green dress and a fur stole.
Kenneth Garunisch laughed. ‘I’m sorry. I’m usually terrific with names. This is my wife, Gay.’
There was a lot of hand shaking and uncomfortable laughter. Then they all stood there and looked at each other.
‘I hope we’re not early,’ said Mrs. Blaufoot. ‘The truth is, we don’t have very far to come.’
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 aint 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 jeweler’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