Levy crossed Columbus, picked up his pace a bit more as he closed in on Central Park, turned left at 95th, ran one block up and into the green area itself, straight to the tennis courts, and after that it was just a little half turn and then he was there.
At the reservoir.
Whoever invented the reservoir, Levy had decided months ago, must have done it with him alone in mind. It was without flaw, a perfect lake set in this most unexpected of locations, bounded by the millionaires on Fifth and their distant relations on Central Park South and their distant relations along Central Park West.
Levy easily passed other joggers as he began his initial circling of the water. It was half-past five—he always ran then, it was ideal for him. Some people liked a morning jaunt, but Levy wasn’t one of them; his mind was at its best in the morning, so he always did his most complex reading before the noon hour; afternoons he took notes or read simple stuff. By five his brain was exhausted, but his body was desperate to move.
So at half-past five Levy ran. Clearly he was faster than anyone around, so if you were a casual observer it would have been logical to assume that this rather tall-ish, sort of slender fellow with the running style not unreminiscent of a goose covered ground really quite well.
But you had to consider his daydreams.
He was going to run the marathon. Like Nurmi. Like the already mythical Nurmi. Years from now, all across the world, track buffs would agonize over who was greatest, the mighty Finn or the fabled T. B. Levy. “Levy,” some of them would argue, “no one would ever run the final five miles the way Levy ran them,” and others would counter that by the time the last five miles came, Nurmi would be so far ahead, it wouldn’t matter how fast Levy ran them, and so the debate would rage, expert against expert, down the decades.
For Levy was not going to be a marathon man; anyone could be that if you just devoted your life to it. No, he was going to be the marathon man. That, plus an intellect of staggering accomplishment coupled with an unequaled breadth of knowledge, the entire mixture bounded by a sense of modesty as deep as it was sincere.
Right now he only had the B.Litt. he’d won at Oxford, and could race but fifteen miles without fatigue. But give him a few more years and he would be both Ph.D. and Champion. And the crowds would sing out “Lee-vee, Lee-vee,” sending him on to undreamed-of triumphs as now sports fans shouted “Dee-fense” as they urged on their heroes.
“Lee-vee, Lee-vee—”
And they wouldn’t care about how awkwardly he might run. It wouldn’t matter to them that he was over six feet tall and under a hundred and fifty pounds, no matter how many milkshakes he downed per day in an effort to move up from skinny to slender.
“Lee-vee! Lee-vee!—”
It wouldn’t bother them that he had a stupid cowlick and the face of an Indiana farmer, that even after spending three years in England he still had the expression of someone you just knew would buy the Brooklyn Bridge if you offered him the chance. He was beloved by few, known by none save, thank God for Doc, Doc. But that would change. Oh yes, oh yes.
“LEE-VEE... LEEEEEEE-VEE.”
There he was now, up ahead and running with the firm knowledge that no one could ever conquer him, except possibly Mercury. Tireless, fabled, arrogant, unbeatable, the Flying Finn himself, Nurmi.
Levy picked up his pace.
The end of the race was still miles off, but now was the greatest test, the test of the heart.
Levy picked up his pace again.
Levy was gaining.
The half-million people lining the course could not believe it. They screamed, they surged almost out of control. It could not be happening but there it was— Levy was gaining on Nurmi!
Levy, the handsome American, was closing in. It was true. Levy, so confident that he even dared a smile while running at the fastest pace in marathon history, was definitely destroying Nurmi’s lead. Nurmi was aware now—something terrible was going on behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, and the disbelief was plain for all to see. Nurmi tried to go faster, but he was already at maximum pace, and suddenly his stride began to betray him, the crucial rhythm getting erratic. Levy was coming. Levy was making his move. Levy was getting set to pass now. Levy was—
Thomas Babington Levy paused for a moment, leaning against the reservoir fence. It was hard to really concentrate on Nurmi today.
For he had a toothache, and as he ran, as his right foot hit the ground, it jarred the cavity on the right side of his upper jaw. For a moment Levy rubbed the offending tooth, wondering if he should see a dentist now or not. The thing had come on only lately, and maybe it would depart as it had come, because it hadn’t gotten worse, and proved a nuisance only when he ran. Dentists raped you anyway, they charged a ton for maybe two minutes’ work, and there were better things to spend your money on, like books, all the books ever printed; records, too. To hell with it, Levy decided.
In the end, it didn’t really matter. Once they found his weakness, they almost killed him...
2
As scylla entered the airport bar, he spotted the toupeed man immediately, and for a moment he was undecided as to what to do, since at their previous meeting they had both tried very hard, if somewhat briefly, to kill each other.
True, that had been Brussels and business, while this was Los Angeles International and, if flying could ever be considered pleasurable, pleasure, but that didn’t make Scylla’s problem any less tangible: Namely, how did you tell a fellow you’d recently made a pass at destroying that now you were off duty and interested in nothing more lethal than a little conversation? You couldn’t just walk up and say “Hi, how are things?” because more than likely there would be a new and un-asked-for-hole in your temple before the “things” was fully sounded, Ape was that quick with a pistol.
Ape was working for the Arabs now, Libya or Iraq or one of them—Scylla could never really keep them straight—or at least he had been at the time of their Brussels encounter. As soon as he’d returned to Division, Scylla had asked to see Ape’s file, knowing there would be one and also that it would be thick—Division prided itself on its ability to collect and itemize all information on any adversary.
Not that Ape had always been an enemy. He shifted countries and allegiances frequently, but for six years he had worked for the British, and the two following that for the French. After that he tried free-lancing, but evidently that hadn’t turned out well—it never really worked out well for anybody; only the inscrutable and virulent Mr. S. L. Chen free-lanced on a more or less permanent basis. After his attempt at becoming selfemployed, Ape moved a good deal more quickly than before: Brazil for a while, then a quick stop in Albania before settling into his present slot with the Arabs.
Scylla stared at the little toupeed man sitting alone at the farthest stool. The genuinely remarkable thing was that he should be faced with the problem of how to introduce himself safely, because it was rare that two such as he and Ape should have gone against each other and both survived. Even though Ape was both shorter and less menacing-looking than Mickey Rooney, he had been absolutely top international level with any kind of small firearm for over a decade, whereas Scylla rated along with Chen as the two fastest at killing with either hand—palm up, palm down, right hand, left, it mattered not at all.
The logical thing, Scylla decided, was to find another bar. Risks didn’t bother him, but the unexpected he always tried avoiding. He had backed several steps out of the place when he paused, because, dammit, he wanted to talk to Ape. You didn’t get that kind of opportunity often, since when Scylla had first entered the business, Ape was one of the fewer than half dozen from any country who could lay legitimate claim to being remotely legendary. Scylla flicked back a bit, coming up with some of the others—Brighton, Trench, Fidelio —all, alas, retired. Violently.
And suddenly Scylla was in motion. He was extraordinarily quick for a man his size, especially at the start; he wasn’t particularly fast, but straightaway speed meant nothing, q
uickness was all. He had once heard a basketball coach ask another about a young player: “How is his quick?” The phrase stuck—he had not known till then you could be both quick and slow. Scylla moved along the bar behind the stools, and when he was close enough for his move, he threw some recognition on his face and whirled in behind the little man, his powerful arms locking Ape firmly in place, and it looked like two long-lost Elks or Babbitty Rotarians suddenly finding each other and going into their semisecret greeting as Scylla whispered, “Peace, Ape,” followed by the lightning rejoinder “I’ve none.”
Scylla took the next bar stool, impressed by the speed of Ape’s reflexes; it was what made him unsurpassed with a pistol—not his aim, which was good, but that his bullet was already in the air while the enemy was still aiming. “Does that bother you?” Scylla wondered.
“What? Being unarmed? No, why should it, does it bother you?”
Scylla said nothing, his big hands clasped loosely together, fingers interlocked on the bar.
Ape flicked a glance at them. “But then, you’re never unarmed, are you?”
Scylla shrugged.
“Hands are better,” Ape said. “Close in, there’s no comparison. If I’d had your size, I’d have specialized in hands.”
Scylla thought immediately of Chen, who was far smaller even than Ape, frail, barely a hundred pounds. He would never have brought up the name, but he didn’t have to, Ape did. Scylla had to smile. He hadn’t the least idea where Ape had received his original training, which country, but more-than likely it wasn’t dissimilar to his own. Actually, all they really knew about each other was whatever was locked in the files of their different main offices. In a way, this was nothing; in another, all. They could almost, on occasion, mind-read each other, and this was clearly one of those occasions.
“The reason Mr. S. L. Chen can kill so adroitly with either hand is because he is a goddamn heathen Chinee, and that kind of thing comes as second nature to Chinks, like all coons can dance.” Ape stared at the trace of whisky left in his glass. “That was supposed to be funny,” he said. “It didn’t come out that way though, did it?” Before Scylla could reply, the little man rode right on: “Now you’ll probably go to your grave thinking I’m a treasure house of prejudice. ‘Ape? I met him once. Bigoted little fart, wig didn’t fit.’ Another.” This last was to the bartender, who nodded, went for a Scotch bottle, poured. “Make it a triple,” Ape said. The bartender nodded and poured.
Scylla ordered what he always did. “Scotch, please, lots of soda, lots of ice,” he said, thinking that Ape was too smart to be ordering triples. Triples were dangerous; your tongue got slow, your brain, your pistol reactions. All this was true, so of course he couldn’t say it: he sought a different avenue. “It’s not a bad wig,” he said.
“Not bad? Jesus, in the wind here today it rose up on my head, the front part did—the back part stayed in place but the front started flapping—it must have looked like it was trying to wave to somebody.” He stared at his drink, “That didn’t come out funny either. I used to be so funny. Truly, Scylla. A comedian.”
“I believe you.”
“You don’t a bit.”
“Does it matter?”
“No,” Ape said, before he said, “Yes, yes it does, a lot.”
Scylla thought it best to say nothing.
“I picked my name,” the little man went on. “I selected my own anonym. They said, ‘What do you want to be known as?’ and I’ve been dead bald since I was twenty-two, and out it popped, not even a pause— ‘Ape,’ I said. After the play Hairy Ape by O’Neill, the American. Don’t you see how funny that is? I was like that all the time, barrels of laughs.”
Scylla smiled, because it was the decent thing to do, and also because it was one of Ape’s passions to keep his origin secret. He spoke no language quite well enough to seem native in it, and by referring to O’Neill as “the American” he seemed to remove that country as a possible home.
“I meant that about the wig,” Scylla said. “It’s absolutely serviceable—not as good as Sinatra the American’s toupees, but then, probably you don’t sing as well.”
Ape laughed. “There was a fellow once—before your time, I expect—Fidelio his name was, and he was crazed to find out where I was from. It was an obsession with him—the slightest clue, he’d track it down in his spare time. I used to pepper my speech with hints for him.” Of all the legends, Scylla was most fascinated by Fidelio, who’d been a music lover—he’d been something of a fiddle prodigy as a child, but the talent didn’t carry over into adolescence, only his passion for music came along—and he’d been, from what the files at Division said, anyway, the most brilliant of any of them, from any country. “Did you know him well? Fidelio?”
“Know him? Did I know him, for God’s sakes, I retired him—”
“You did? I never knew that—our files don’t say a word about that, how did you do it? It must have been hard, God, it must have been damn near impossible,” and Scylla could have gone on, but he stopped before he made a fool of himself. He felt, right then, very much like a young Joe DiMaggio saying to the Babe, “Did you really point your bat and call that home run or was it luck? Did you know you could hit a homer? What did it feel like circling the bases, hearing them cheer? Go on, please, it’s important that I know.”
Ape picked up his glass, looked at the liquor.
Scylla waited patiently. When you were talking to Babe Ruth about home-run hitting, you let him set the pace.
“I’m glad you sat down, Scylla,” Ape said, still watching the whisky. “I was hoping you might. I saw you standing in the doorway.” He gestured toward a painting behind the bar; the glass angled faintly toward the main entrance. “Not much of an image; sufficient, though. I almost beckoned when you started backing out.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Ape sipped his triple—touched it to his lips, really; nothing went down. “This is only my second, and I won’t do more than taste it. I’m far from being intoxicated.”
Scylla missed the thought connection till Ape said, “I didn’t wave because I don’t like to force myself on people. Felt in the way since childhood, I expect.”
You shouldn’t be doing this talking, Scylla almost said, but since it was true, he didn’t. Something was cutting at Ape. Something horrid was knifing away inside.
“You were going to tell me about Fidelio,” Scylla said.
“I will, I remember—don’t sweat it, Scylla, I’m not drunk and about to start burbling on.”
Whatever it was that Ape was anguished over would soon surface; Scylla could sense that. There wasn’t much he could do but wait till it happened. Still, it wasn’t pleasant waiting, so he shifted to a subject of mutual interest, the time in Brussels when they both survived. Actually, it was a chance encounter, both of them apparently after the same dead passport engraver for whatever reason, and they came on each other suddenly in the same room with the corpse, and Ape fired and Scylla swiped at him with his right hand, but his aim was bad, he missed the neck, connected only with Ape’s shoulder, which was surprisingly muscled, and then Ape tried once more with a shot, but he was stumbling, it was really more a warning than an attempt to kill, and then it was over, one of them going one way, one another. “Why did you miss with that first shot?” Scylla wondered. “Not that I’m sorry, understand.”
“I hadn’t been drinking—I was a teetotaler then, it was over a year ago.”
“Fifteen months, I think.”
Ape nodded. “Shadows,” he said. “Shadows are ruinous to your accuracy. I was high, I expect. I went for your brain but got the wall. If I’d gone for your heart, you’d have been uncomfortable awhile.”
Scylla raised his glass. “To shadows.”
Ape toyed with his whisky.
The loudspeaker announced a further delay of the polar flight to London.
Ape cursed, took a long swallow of Scotch.
“I’m going to London too,” Scylla said, an
d he touched the First Class ticket envelope in his inside jacket pocket. “Good. I’ve never had company on the damn flight before, eleven hours of nothing’s what it’s always been. I can’t read anything deeper than a magazine on planes. Hedy Lamarr’s autobiography. That was perfect polar reading.”
“I’m flying Coach,” Ape said, and Scylla knew what had been destroying the little man.
“For cover?”
Ape shook his head.
“Mistake, probably.”
Ape shook his head again.
Scylla knew it was best to say nothing. There was nothing to say, really. When you did this work, you went First Class. All the way. There weren’t old-age benefits and pension plans; nobody was guaranteeing job security. If you flew Coach, you did it because it fit the past they’d made for you for the particular task they’d sent you on. The only other reason was to let you know your work ratings were dropping, and once that happened, retirement was a matter of time. Only, of course, you weren’t allowed to retire. Catch-23.
Except it seemed, to Scylla, an altogether shitty act, sending a legend Coach. Christ, give him a job he couldn’t survive, let him go out with a little glory clinging, at least; he’d earned that.
But then, the Yankees traded Babe Ruth, didn’t they.
“I’ve had a good run,” Ape said. “Better than most.”
“And you retired Fidelio.”
“And Trench. Didn’t know that either, did you? Got them both. Very same year. Shadows didn’t exist for me then.” He took another taste of Scotch. “You know what I was thinking before you arrived?”
Marathon Man Page 2