Weekend by Andrew Neiderman, Tania Grossinger Page A

killer,” he chuckled. He took off.
    It was a sight to behold. The sweep of pale chiffon dresses, the sharply pressed tuxedos, the dazzle of pearls and diamonds, the peals of laughter and loud, exuberant conversation, all dominated the corridors and lobbies with rich vibrant images—a montage of people caught up in a swell of abandon and gaiety. On this lovely Friday evening, the hotel had turned into a luxury liner on a voyage of unadulterated pleasure.
    Every word, every gesture, seemed exaggerated and everywhere there were groups of people looking, staring, taking things in. The happy couples prouder of each other than ever, the singles more aggressive than usual, their eyes darting about to see whose attention had already been caught and who still looked good enough to latch on to.
    It’s a long way from the Bronx, Bruce thought to himself as he began his hegira to the cavernous Gold Room.
    To the right of the entrance were a series of tables set up with an elegant buffet—Nova Scotia smoked salmon, fresh-water sturgeon, caviar, both red and black, smoked whitefish and lox, Swedish sweet and sour meatballs, chopped chicken liver castles, barbecued beef ribs with special sauce, thinly sliced prime rib and filet mignon, sweet and sour chicken wings, mini egg rolls, cocktail franks in a blanket, Hungarian stuffed eggplant and cabbage, watermelon and fresh pineapple sculptures, mouthwatering petit fours, a kosher cacophony of gourmet specialties. The chefs and bakers outdid themselves each Fourth in trying to tempt, torment and tear away even the most resistant dieter from the mast of his restraint. “Well … maybe … just this once…” All slogans of surrender. “After all, we’re paying for it!”
    Bar waiters, balancing their trays of Dom Perignon like amateur Nijinskys, maneuvered themselves deftly through the crowd, offering refills before one had to ask. In the back, a five-piece combo played for those who wanted to dance, though eating and drinking were by far the most popular activities.
    Magda the hostess, striking as ever in a shimmering violet shantung, moved purposefully among the celebrants, affectionately greeting people she knew and bringing special friends over to Ellen who stood by herself a few yards away from the entrance. Even guests who hardly knew her made their way over to Mrs. Golden, touching her hand, kissing her cheek, and offering subtle gestures of condolence. She bore it all stoically, her lips locked into a smile as if in a freeze frame photo, seemingly the epitome of control and dignity.
    Occasionally she would pause from her small talk, turn and take a sip of champagne. Only then, her shoulders hunched, did she give the slightest hint at the turmoil raging within. It was her first major holiday without Phil and she missed him terribly. Try as she did to get caught up in the tumult and excitement, the pressures of the past six weeks were beginning to take their toll. How she wished she could see an end in sight!
    Bruce, of course, had no way of knowing this. The only face familiar to him was that of Jonathan Lawrence, who seemed to go out of his way to avoid him. The hotel manager, coming into the room via the service area, moved about like an insurance adjustor, his greetings perfunctory, his charm, what little of it there was, artificial. Warmth and hospitality, the cornerstones on which the Congress had established its reputation, had no place in his personal or professional life. As far as he was concerned guests were commodities, bodies to be checked in and out with machine-like regularity. They were to be housed, fed and entertained—en masse. Personal attention, catering to individual needs, was a waste of time.
    People didn’t return to the Congress out of some romantic concept of loyalty, he had recently concluded. That was an outmoded and outdated fantasy, something Ellen Golden would have to get through her head. Guests came back for one reason and one reason only. They