Marathon Man

by Goldman, William

Scylla shook his head.

  “Do you want to?”

  I really don’t, Scylla thought; you don’t want to hear from Johnny Unitas that he can’t throw the bomb any more or have Elgin Baylor tell you that his jump shot is gone. “If you feel like talking, talk,” Scylla said.

  “I was thinking that there has never been a woman I didn’t pay for, or a child who knew my name, or a wig that enhanced me.”

  “Sentimental crap,” Scylla said, hoping it would work... Pick it up, pick it up, Mr. Loman...

  The little man was silent for a while. Then he broke into a huge laugh. “Goddamn, Scylla, what a good thing to say.” Then he actually smiled.

  Scylla nodded and said, “Now get on with the damn Fidelio story or I’ll go look for the Confessions of Lana Turner in the bookstore.”

  “First some ablutions,” the little man said, and he hopped off the stool. “You know about that, I’m sure it’s in my file at Division,” and he scurried out of the bar in what was unmistakably a good mood.

  The file on Ape mentioned a weakness with his kidneys and a troublesome lower intestine—there had been an operation some years back. So Scylla would have known he was headed for the men’s room, “ablutions” remark or not.

  He had only raised his glass with Ape barely out of sight when he decided, just-like-that, to change his ticket and go Coach—it was not a traumatic decision if you were the one doing the deciding. Scylla left the bar immediately, made his way to the Pan Am windows, waited surprisingly little time, explained what he wanted, got it, just-like-that, and made his way back to the bar. Probably his gesture was the same as Ape’s outburst, sentimental crap, but if the Fidelio story had any texture, any coloring at all, there would never be a better time to hear it, and the Trench tale too, and Scylla made a note to say exactly that when Ape realized they were flying together, so that way Scylla could seem an interested executive on the rise rather than a premature mourner for the dead.

  Scylla took his place at the bar again, and waited for Ape to return. He finished his Scotch and soda slowly.

  The other stool stayed empty.

  Scylla ordered a refill.

  And took a sip.

  Obviously, something was very much wrong.

  Another sip.

  It’s none of your affair, Scylla reminded. He sat alone and quiet at the bar for a moment, then took a large swallow of Scotch. Probably it was the size of that swallow that determined his next actions, because he never drank a lot without the door being locked, and you certainly didn’t get that kind of privacy in airport bars, which meant he was giving in to anxiety, which meant he must really want to hear the Fidelio story, which meant he had to do something other than sit, so Scylla got up and walked toward the men’s room.

  The sign on the men’s-room door put it all in perspective. “Sorry, Pipe Trouble. Please Use the Facilities at the Bottom of the Escalator. Thanks.” It was taped to the door, written in ink in a neat hand. Scylla nodded to himself, remembering that the escalator was a good distance away, which explained why the little toupeed man was so long gone.

  He was halfway to the bar when he decided the sign was a phony. Scylla turned and went back to the men’s-room door, wondering why he was so sure. Probably it was the word “Facilities”—no one said “Facilities”— you developed a sense for things after a while. He knew the sign was false, just as he knew the door was locked, but he gave it a slight push anyway.

  It was locked, but locks meant nothing to Scylla, he had a way with them, and he reached into his pants pocket. Everybody was always talking about skeleton keys, writers were always writing about skeleton keys, but Scylla knew they were nothing, not unless you had a hundred different sizes and styles. Picks were the thing, and he always had one, and one was all you needed if you had the gift of touch when it came to tumblers. He took out his pocket knife, small, two-bladed, and ordinary except that he had altered the tinier blade, thinned it slightly, given it an almost imperceptible hook, so that it wasn’t much of a pick really, no decent locksmith would want to take it on an important job; still, it sufficed, and Scylla inserted it noiselessly into the lock once, got the feel of the tumblers, ripped up and down, and that was that.

  Scylla lurched drunkenly into the men’s room, made his unsteady way toward the sinks. There were two others in the place, a young Caucasian engineer in overalls, who was working on the overhead pipes, and a Negro janitor, who was cleaning up, pushing an enormous canvas garbage sack along. “Martinis ’re killers,” Scylla slurred to the black man, and he ran the cold water, tested it. “Martinis ’re killers,” he slurred to the engineer.

  “Hey, off,” the engineer said, coming toward Scylla. “Pipes are screwed up.”

  Scylla blinked stupidly, turned off the spigot.

  “Didn’t you read the sign?” the Negro said.

  “Sign?” Scylla said, very perplexed. “Said men’s room, ’course I read th’ sign, natur’ly I read th’ sign, wouldn’t want a buncha ladies screamin’ at me.” He shook his head. “Martinis ’re killers,” he said to the mirror, and turned the cold-water spigot on again and put some water on his face.

  The engineer turned the spigot off, while the black went for the door, opened it, glanced to see if the sign was gone. “You can’t use the water, mister, really. I’m sorry, but you can’t.” He was very polite and sincere, and Scylla wondered who had retired Ape, he or the black, and were they Arabs or enemies of Arabs. It didn’t matter much to Ape any more. He was resting, Scylla knew, at the bottom of the canvas sack.

  “Sorry,” Scylla said, and he meant it. Now the Fidelio story was gone, and it would have been interesting hearing about Trench too. But it had to happen. Ape knew it as well as anybody. Scylla felt regret. Sincere, but hardly more than a dollop’s worth.

  The black was returning quickly now. “Sign’s still there.”

  The engineer looked up at the janitor.

  “Oh, that paper thing,” Scylla said. “Thass not a sign, what did it say?”

  “That these facilities are busted,” the engineer answered. “And to use the ones downstairs.”

  Scylla almost laughed then at his own genius—“no one said facilities, you developed a sense for things after a while.” Oh, he was smart, all right, all right. They were looking at each other still, and Scylla knew they were wondering whether to let him go or not. “Here lies Scylla, undone the first time he ran into a decent vocabulary.” He stood very still, drunkenly bracing himself on the sink, not remotely tempted to move until they told him to go. He was sure they would, because he was not on their agenda; they had their job and they had done it and he was none of their affair. And he certainly would never mix with them, since he had his own work to take care of. There was no possibility of more violence; it did not exist, Scylla knew that, so when the violence came, he was surprised, even more so by the fact that he was the one to start it.

  Because it was then that he saw Ape’s pathetic toupee in a toilet-stall corner.

  The bastards had taken the little man with the troublesome lower intestine at the least dignified of times—they had wasted a legend with his pants down. “You should have waited, Jesus Christ!” and as they looked away from each other and toward him, Scylla went first for the engineer, not because he was nearest but because he carried a heavy wrench, and that had probably been the weapon.

  He rammed up with his fingertips forced together and lifted the engineer off his feet with a blow beneath the chin, and the black was easy, because he didn’t know then whom he was dealing with, so he went into a quick guard position for another right-hand assault, so Scylla took him easily with his left, clubbing the hard edge of his hand down at the janitor’s shoulder near the neck, and there was the sound of bone cracking as the black sprawled near the engineer.

  “Why didn’t you wait?”

  The engineer was trying to gasp, and probably he would never speak quite the same again, while the black blinked up, dazed, trying to hold his shoulder in pla
ce, looking for some way to make his brain order the correct words.

  Scylla started softly. “I think I’ll take your pants down, would you like that? And then I’ll put you on the squat, would you like that? And kill you. And kill you! Would you like that?”

  “Orders,” the black managed. “There was nothing about you. Don’t kill us.”

  “You know who I am?”

  “I do now,” the black said. “Scylla.”

  Scylla looked at them, genuinely undecided as to whether to finish them. Rage still had him, so the doing would be no problem. And he would risk the getaway. “Don’t,” the black said again.

  The engineer continued to gasp.

  Then the black saved their lives: “They never said he was your friend.”

  “Well, he was,” Scylla said. “Yes.” But now the rage was lowering. “For many years,” Scylla went on, trying to keep it high. But there was no way of doing that. For Ape had been no friend. Not friend nor acquaintance nor cohort nor any other thing. They shared an occupation. What was that?

  He knelt suddenly over them then, his hands in killing position. He wanted their fear, and got it. It was in their eyes and in their minds that they were going to die. “You remember this now,” Scylla said, and even though his rage was going, his voice still trembled. “Always leave a person something. Do you understand me? Some little thing, leave them that. A shred will do, but there must be that shred. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes,” the black said.

  Scylla brought his hands lower.

  “I understand!” the black cried out, but he knew it was over for him then. The engineer knew he was done, too.

  When he had them convinced of their extinction, Scylla rose in silence and left them there, returning to the bar, finishing his Scotch, ordering another.

  What a stupid performance! Word would get back. These two would report to their headquarters, and their headquarters would contact Division very loudly that Scylla had misbehaved. Worse—Scylla had interfered. And of course, Division would do their best to deny the allegations.

  But they would never be quite so confident of Scylla again. Oh, they would use him, certainly; he was much too valuable still to discard. But they would watch him too. Much more carefully than in the past, wondering why he had misbehaved, what was wrong with him to do a thing like that, could you trust Scylla any more or was he past it. And at the next sign...

  There must not be a next sign, Scylla decided.

  And the Arabs who hired the black and the engineer —if indeed it had been the Arabs—they would be watching him too. You had to protect your people, and it would not be unfitting for them to try to take him when he was vulnerable, perhaps break his shoulder, destroy his voice. Or, if they were really angry, perhaps break his back at the spine base, let him try living crippled a decade or so.

  I must not become vulnerable, Scylla decided.

  Easy enough to decide, but why had he gone wild in the men’s room? Why had the sight of an illfitting wig in the corner of a toilet stall sent him into fury?

  Because... Scylla realized—

  —because... It was hard for him even to shape the thought—

  —because I want to die with someone who loves me.

  There. Out, admitted, done. And was it so terrible a wish? Was it so much to ask of life, a decent dying?

  Probably.

  “Check,” Scylla said, and he paid for his drinks, Ape’s too. On the way to the plane, he detoured briefly back to the men’s room. The piece of paper was down. Scylla opened the door, stepped inside briefly, glanced around. The toupee was gone.

  Scylla nodded, pleased. They hadn’t bolted after he’d left them. They’d stayed around, cleaned up whatever was necessary, made the proper final checks. They were probably good men.

  Good men?

  Scylla left the men’s room hurriedly, angry with himself for the thought. What’s happening to you? Five minutes ago you were near to a double closeout, and now you call them good men. He reached the Pan Am area, took his place in the check-in line. I want to die with someone who loves me.

  “Pardon?” the aged lady in front of him said.

  Omigod, I’m thinking out loud!

  Scylla smiled at her. He had a wonderful smile, unforced and reassuring. The woman bought it, smiled back, turned away. You keep this up, they’ll be sending you Coach soon, Scylla told himself.

  The possibility set him trembling.

  3

  There were four of them in the seminar room, waiting for Biesenthal. The other three knew one another, and talked quietly together in the front. From the rear of the room, Levy watched them. He had heard of them; even while he was doing his work at Oxford, news of these three had made the trans-Atlantic intellectual grapevine. The biggest of them was Chambers, black, with a shot, so they said, at being the first top-notch Negro historian. The other two were the Riordan twins, a boy and a girl, and at Yale the word was they had the best Catholic minds since Billy Buckley.

  From his position, Levy knew that from time to time he was the subject under discussion. If you had a really first-rate case of inferiority, you could tell when people were going on about you, and Levy inferred from various head movements and half-shrugs that although they certainly knew who they were—only the best got Biesenthal—the presence of the sweaty guy in the back was a puzzlement. I should never have run to school today, Levy told himself, pulling at his damp white shirt. It was stupid, on opening day; opening day you wanted to make an impression, not break records. Run home, jerk, he reminded himself. Sprint home if you want to, but don’t come to class all schwitzing. No one respects perspiration in the groves of academe.

  Biesenthal blazed in then. “Blazed” was the right word. His eyes—he couldn’t help it, they just were— seemed back-lit, like a pretty Western. All you had to do was just peek at Biesenthal and you could tell he was brilliant. Levy had seen Oppenheimer once, and he was the same way. Oppenheimer’s shirts were too big in the collar, and his pants bagged, but stick him on the Bowery, you’d still know there was genius in the vicinity.

  Biesenthal was like that. Not that his shirts didn’t fit—he was totally fastidious. He could afford to be; he’d been rich going in, and his career had been, for an historian, incredibly successful. Two Pulitzers, three best sellers, numberless television appearances and interviews in The New York Times. Biesenthal was tireless, unflaggingly colorful, an intellectual Sammy Glick. The reason he got away with being rich, successful, and famous while at the same time maintaining his stronghold in the intellectual community was that he seemed to know every fact ever unearthed in the history of the world, which gave him an advantage over most people.

  “I hope you all flunk,” Biesenthal began.

  That caused a certain breath intake in the room.

  Biesenthal relished that. He sat on the desk at the front and crossed one well-creased leg over the other. “There is a shortage of natural resources worldwide,” he went on. “There is a shortage of breathable air. There is even, alas, a shortage of adequate claret. But there is no shortage of historians. We grind you out like link sausages, and you are every bit as bright. Well, I say, enough! I say, let you find harmless employment elsewhere. Use your backs. Shovel your way through life. The universities have processed you for financial purposes, and so long as you could afford to pay tuition, they could afford to pay me. Progress, they called it; manufacturing doctorates was progress. Well, I say, ‘Halt the ringing cry of progress’—that is a quote—who said it? Come, come, who said it?”

  Tennyson, Levy thought. Locksley Hall Sixty Years After. That’s right. I’m sure it’s right. But what if it’s not right? You don’t come in sweaty opening day, and you don’t make mistakes opening day. Probably it’s Yeats, anyway. What if I said Tennyson and Biesenthal said, “Wrong, wrong, it was William Butler Yeats, 1865 to 1939, DON’T YOU KNOW Irish poetry? How can you expect to be decent historians if you don’t know Irish poetry, and who are you, sir
, and why are you perspiring in my presence? Sweat is no substitute for claret in my lexicon.”

  “Tennyson,” Biesenthal roared. “My God, Alfred Tennyson, how can you expect to compete on a doctoral level and not know Locksley Hall and Locksley Hall Sixty Years After?”

  The girl Riordan began making a neat note. Levy watched her, angry at the precise way she was undoubtedly writing down the titles along with a reminder to quickly become acquainted with the verses. “I knew,” he wanted to cry out. “Professor Biesenthal, I really did, I could have quoted you lines from it.” Levy shook his head. You are a jerk; you could have impressed the man.

  Biesenthal jumped lightly off the desk and began pacing. He was quiet for a time, as if letting them have a good look at him, letting it sink in that they really were in Biesenthal’s presence. His modern-history seminar was the most prestigious class at Columbia, with the possible exception of the Barzun-Trilling seminar in Lit, but Levy wasn’t even sure they gave it any more. “We shall meet on a bi-weekly basis. I shall be here promptly, and so shall you. I promise to be dazzling at least fifty per cent of the time. On occasion I am more than that, more often only brilliant. I apologize in advance for those occasions. I do not generally see much of my students, but I will undoubtedly be on your orals board, where I will do my best, which is really quite good, to delay your acquiring your degrees. Think of me as your own particular roadblock. I am also something of a snoop, and I can cause you more grief if I know your strong points so as not to bother inquiring after them. So please, briefly, describe the subjects of your dissertations. Chambers!”

  “The reality of the black experience in the South as it parallels the unreality of Faulkner’s fiction.” Biesenthal stopped pacing. “And if there’s no valid parallel?”

  “That’s what I’m hoping,” Chambers said. “I’d love a short dissertation.”

  Biesenthal smiled at that.

  Oh is that Chambers clever, Levy thought. Smooth, anyway. God, what I’d give to be smooth.

  “Miss Riordan? Miz Riordan, a thousand pardons.”