Marathon Man

by William Goldman

  Anyway, he needed the air. It was dark when he stepped outside and began hunting up a pay phone. He never worried about the night; he was big and bigshouldered, and he could kill with either hand, and sure, a mugger wouldn't have any way of knowing that last, but still, he moved like an athlete and he had size, and muggers had never bothered him.

  He found a spot near the Arc and after a good deal of pidgin French and dials and beeps and king-sized waits, finally he could hear Janey's sleep-filled voice coming through. "Huh? Wha?--who? What time is... oh, never mind," and then, finally, "Hi."

  "This is the answering service," Scylla said. "Didn't you leave a wake-up call?"

  "A joke?" Janey wailed. "Three thousand miles in the middle of the night to make a funny? People have been jellied in aspic for less."

  Scylla began the segue into code now; at first it had irritated him, the inconvenience of it all. Now it was sort of a game you had to play at a party to humor the host. "Are you awake enough to take down some stuff?"

  "Only partially, I'm afraid."

  "Partially" was the crucial word. "Wide awake" meant there was nothing much going on. "Partially" meant there were items that Scylla ought to know about. "I'll sign off then. The reason I called was to tell you I'd be back three days early, but since you're only partially awake, I won't bother you with information like that. You're not mad at me for waking you."

  "Never," Janey said. "I had to get up anyway, the telephone was ringing."

  They ended on that joke, both hanging up, and then Scylla had ten minutes to wait. His return "partially" meant he would call again, to the pay phone in the basement garage of their apartment building. Ten minutes was how long it would take Janey to get roused, dressed, out the door, and gone.

  It was still before six, and cold. Scylla shivered with it, and wondered why he had left his Scotch bottle back by his bed table, where it could do no one any good. He could not, as he paced the dead street, think of one good reason why he didn't just quit and take off with Janey for London and rent or buy a little mews house maybe, and sit around watching the telly and visiting the greengrocer and living the way you were supposed to, happily ever et cetera.

  To hell with Division not letting you quit until it wanted to retire you. If he were rich enough, if only somehow he could get like Croesus, he'd bribe his way out, or at least try, and if that didn't work he could buy an island in the goddamn Pacific and fortify it and let The Division do its worst.

  An island in the Pacific, Jesus--Scylla shook his head. Maybe it was a good thing he'd left the Scotch bottle back at the hotel, if that's the way a few swigs were going to affect his thinking. Keep the Croesus notion, though; at least it gave him a culture hero to think about.

  Scylla placed the second call, went through all the beeps and sounds again, and then he had Janey back. "Where are you," Janey began, obviously upset.

  "On the loose in gay Paree, it's a very swinging place. Or is that London? Let's go to London, I'd like that, would you like that?"

  "I mean, exactly where? On the street, in a hotel? Why aren't you asleep, it isn't even six yet."

  "Dream woke me. I just took a walk."

  "You're alone, then?"

  "All."

  "You better be, you bastard. I hate it when you go on trips without me. How bad was it?"

  "The dream?" Scylla shrugged his big shoulders. No point to lying. Janey always sensed that kind of thing, anyway, he had no way of knowing how. From his tone, probably. "Very. Extremely, even."

  "My doctor always recommends Scotch."

  "Didn't work."

  "Get back here; that's what I always recommend. The best cure I know is me."

  "Taken once every four hours."

  "Dream on--you're not that young any more."

  "You'll pay for that kind of talk, you tawdry bitch."

  "Call me Janey; all my friends do."

  Scylla listened, making sure that the upset was gone from Janey's voice. Then he proceeded with the business at hand. "Why the 'partially'?"

  "Kaspar Szell was killed."

  "Wow."

  "I knew you'd say that."

  "When?" Scylla said.

  "Almost two weeks ago in Manhattan. The Yorkville section. He was in a car and another guy tried cutting around and they smashed into an oil truck. Total incineration. I think that's why the news took so long getting around. Identification wasn't all that easy. He was using the Hesse name, and besides, nobody ever heard of him anyway. But it's done. You still there? You're not saying a word."

  Scylla grunted.

  "Upset?"

  "I guess--I don't really know. I can't take it all in yet."

  "Is it going to cause that many changes?"

  It already had. He couldn't be sure, but probably there was some connection with the death in New York and the Chen business--even though Chen was simply a free-lance assassin, still, somebody had to do the hiring. And then, of course, poor Robertson had mentioned a South American call informing him that there would be a new courier. Scylla thought a moment; he had to make an answer, but there was no point in troubling Janey with specifics; just a general truth would do. "Many changes? Only everything."

  "Wow," from Janey.

  "Conservatively speaking," Scylla said.

  10

  "Cold?" Levy asked.

  Elsa shook her head, no.

  They were sitting on a rock by the lake in Central Park. Below them, their rowboat moved lightly as bursts of evening winds skittered along the water. Levy knew she was lying, because, in the first place, he had a sweater on and she didn't and he was cold, so there was no way she could avoid being just the least bit uncomfortable. And it was getting colder because his stupid tooth was hurting worse. It always did when the weather chilled. It was that front tooth on the top, and he did his best to cover the cavity with his tongue: They really ought to be getting back, he knew. But they'd been sitting there for an hour now, since the sun had started leaving, and it had just been so damn terrific that he didn't want to be the one to tear it.

  Elsa put her arm around him. "Not so cold now," she said.

  Levy kissed her gently. At first he had been rough with her, because he thought she wanted that, manliness, machismo; a girl this gorgeous must have seen her share of winners, and he wanted to measure up. But she'd shied from that, and after a night or two of necking he realized that what she wanted was what he was: tender. Oh, he didn't look it--he looked angles and bone, sharp-elbowed, much too clumsy to be soft. But it wasn't so. He liked necking, he even liked holding hands. Although that was probably against the law nowadays for anyone under thirty. Not that screwing was so terrible; Levy had done some of that too, though not with Elsa, not yet, anyway. Screwing was fine and orgasms glorious, but, at least in his limited experience, it was also rough and quick, too rough and too quick, and where sex was concerned, he was never in a hurry. Sometimes, in the back of his mind he realized that he was probably very good at sex and that if he had been handsome, he would have been as much in demand as a caterer at holiday time, but he wasn't handsome, and it wasn't so terrible.

  Elsa touched his cheek. "Such a lovely face," she whispered.

  "Everybody says that," Levy told her. "Even on the streets, strangers come up to me."

  In the darkness, she smiled at him, ran her tongue along his lips.

  "That's very inventive," Levy said. "Do it again, why don't you, just to be sure you've got it."

  She ran her tongue along his lips again.

  "I take pity on waifs and weirdos, you're a very lucky girl."

  She put both her arms around him now. He could feel her body trembling.

  "Hey, you're just freezing. We really ought to be turning the boat in anyway."

  "Let me freeze, I've just loved this so, just talking, go on."

  Levy kissed her neck softly, grazed it with his lips.

  "Homer Virgil," she said. "Before you asked was I cold, you were telling about him. Was he famous, your fat
her?"

  "Old H.V.? Well, not like Ann-Margret or Donny Osmond, but for an historian he did okay."

  "Such a terrible name for a child."

  "That was my grandfather's doing--he gave all his kids terrible names--see, he was the principal and head teacher and chief cook and bottle washer in this little Midwestern school, and he claimed that it didn't matter, all anybody heard was the Levy part anyway.

  There weren't a whole lot of Jews in central Ohio in those days, believe me. He loved the Greeks and the other oldies. One of my uncles had Herodotus for a middle name. He's dead now, my uncle--I don't mean to imply that's what killed him, but it couldn't have helped him a whole lot either."

  "Your father is also dead?"

  "He is also dead. Cerebral hemorrhage. Out of the blue, totally unexpected."

  She watched him in the darkness.

  "What?" he asked.

  "Nothing."

  He hesitated, wondering if he could go on, clear it up, but it was doubtful that she knew; she hadn't been in the country then, and even if she had, she would still have been a kid, and besides, H.V. hadn't been that famous.

  She kissed him very hard, then quickly stood, stretched her arms high. Babe watched. It was a clumsy gesture, but on Elsa even clumsy was pretty.

  Then things stopped being so pretty, because as Elsa smiled and whispered "Come," and started for the boat, there was a sudden sound from the bushes behind them, and the limping man appeared for the first time, back-handing Elsa in the face, knocking her off balance and down.

  Levy watched it, and it was as if he had been a spectator to a street play--it came so quickly there was no chance for involvement, just spectating, and there she was, his one true woman, being beaten by a savage limping man. "Hey!" Levy shouted, and started after them, but too late, because there was another sound from the bushes behind him, and then the big-shouldered man was spinning him around and crashing a fist into Levy's face.

  Levy staggered, blood spurting, but he didn't go down, and his nose felt broken, and Elsa was being pulled toward the bushes now, the limper trying to yank her purse free and Levy started to say "Let him have it!" but the big-shouldered man never let him get it out, because he kicked Levy hard in the stomach and Levy gasped, crashed to his knees on the rock, and then went to all fours as the other man hit him again, hard across the cheek, and Levy rolled down. The big-shouldered man pulled him toward the bushes, started grabbing for Levy's wallet, and Levy instinctively made a protective move, which was stupid, because all it got him was a knee slammed into his back, and the blood from the first punch was smearing now, his tongue stinging of salt, and it was his fault, he shouldn't have stayed late in the park, only tourists were that dumb, and he lay very still while the attacker tried getting his wallet, but he was having trouble, Levy's back pocket was buttoned and the guy couldn't rip it clear fast enough, so he kneed Levy in the back again, hit him again across his broken nose, and Levy started coughing from the blood, and he could hear Elsa almost crying, and if that limping son of a bitch was touching her he'd--he'd--

  --he'd what?--

  --nothing--not a goddamned thing--if they wanted to rape her he was helpless, or even if they just wanted to pound the shit out of her on general principles he was helpless, his nose was broken, he felt as if his ribs were smashed, and they could do what they pleased, he was helpless--

  Helpless! The word forced its way past the blood and into his brain, and the reality of it was so humiliating that Levy somehow found it in himself to kick at the big-shouldered guy, and he landed a good one, and the enemy cried out, and that was a triumph, you couldn't deny that, but unfortunately it didn't last long enough because as Levy tried to make it to his feet and over to Elsa the big-shouldered guy was back, all business now, banging away with big hands at Levy's face, swelling it out of shape until Levy fell, half-conscious.

  Then they were both standing over him, the limper with Elsa's purse and the big-shouldered guy with Levy's wallet. "We have your wallets and we have your names, and addresses." The limper patted Elsa's purse. "And if you report this to the police, we will know and we will come for you."

  Elsa was crying now.

  "And next time will be bad," the big-shouldered man said. "You understand 'bad'?"

  Levy lay there.

  Then the muggers were gone.

  Levy slowly crawled toward Elsa. "... Were you..." was what he said. Touched, he meant, molested.

  She shook her head, no. She understood him; that was the truly splendid thing about them--they understood each other. Everything. "The purse only." She began to come apart then, the reaction setting in. "Just the purse," she said again. "I'm fine."

  Levy held her very close. "Both fine," he managed. He didn't want to ever let go, but when he started smearing her with his own blood, there wasn't much else he could do...

  11

  Doc

  I don't think I'm going to send this, which somehow frees me to write it, but if I do, remember I'm not myself, I mean, I'm a little off my feed, I'm not going bonkers or anything.

  Doc I just got mugged, I got the shit kicked out of me, I'm not upset about that--no, bullshit, I'm plenty upset about that, but it was my own fault, it was Central Park, it was after sundown, only an idiot moron jerk would have been there in the first place.

  But see, I wasn't alone. Elsa and I were sitting on a rock after I'd rowed her around awhile 'cause she'd never done it and she'd always wanted to and what the hell, it was a beautiful day, I said terrific and we did it and it was so great we stayed too long on this rock by the lake and then this Limper appears and I'm sitting there and this sonofabitch clubs her and starts dragging her for the bushes and I think I'll fix that bastard, nobody touches my baby--

  --and I couldn't stop it. I couldn't do anything!-- this big guy with shoulders out to here and I swear I'm not making this up, the guy was a pro, he started kicking the shit out of me and I never got hit like that, he knew just where to put his knees, just where to cream me, and I know Elsa's getting the shit beaten out of her and maybe worse and all I want is just one time in this world to be a hero and this guy's going for my wallet and pounding the crap out of me and I'm not even feeling it, it's not the goddamn pain or the goddamn blood so much--

  --it's the helplessness--

  --the fucking helplessness--

  --Doc I wanted to kill him.

  I swear, if I had had a knife I would have stabbed him and if I had had a bomb I would have blown him apart, and then I would have gone after the Limper and I would have tried to get him with my hands-- Me, I'm a liberal, an historian, I never once wanted to hurt anybody, I never even wanted Richard Nixon to suffer, and right now I want to kill and it scares me.

  I just took five minutes off to go put some cool water on my face, I'm all the hell puffed up and cut and it stung and all I thought was revenge, I want revenge on those guys for making me feel that helpless, nobody should ever be made to feel that way, not in front of a girl who loves him, and I know in her mind she was thinking why doesn't he do something, he's right there, why doesn't he help me and shit, I want to take every goddamn Charles Atlas course ever invented and get so strong and then I want those two guys' throats in my hands.

  Doc, there's this bunch of juvenile delinquents who seem to live on a stoop a few brownstones down (I don't mean funny juvenile delinquents, these aren't cutesy-pies out of West Side Story, these guys would suck your eyeball for a grape), and when I came home tonight, well, usually they mock me and who cares, they think I'm a creep, so what, and tonight when I walked by I figured with the blood and all, at least I'd get some respect and you know what? One of them said, "Who did it, a midget or a girl?" and they all laughed--because, see, they can take care of themselves, they would have pounded my enemies to shreds and I really think my I.Q. is higher than all of theirs put together and what good does it do me?

  I'm going to send this, I guess, because I guess I want to ask you, what would Father have said? See, I t
hink he'd have told me that any experience is profitable if you allow it to be, all actions are profitable, no matter how badly you may suffer from them. The true historian never has enough grist. He spends his life in constant searching.

  Where's the profit in impotence, Doc, huh?

  You tell me.

  Babe

  12

  Levy mailed the letter Sunday evening. He was not so swollen, and the cuts in his face were scabbing quickly, but he still felt freakish, so he pulled his peak-billed cap far down across his face and sprinted to the mailbox on the corner at Columbus, then went back to his room to hide.

  Monday he was supposed to have the Biesenthal seminar, but he could not go; he looked, as he stared at himself in the morning, unshaven, unappetizing. He had never been one for physical force, and seeing himself cut up and puffed he found strangely unnerving; he had never realized that he had all that much vanity, but evidently he did.

  He called Elsa a few times, and she called him a few times, and she wanted to come down--she was, she explained over and over, practically in the medical profession, how much' harm could she do?--but he needed not to be seen, to be alone. He played the mugging over in his mind, winning some, losing some, and he tried to read, but more than anything, what he did Monday was study his face in the mirror and hope that it would reform itself into something he found more recognizable.

  It did; actually, by Monday night it wasn't the kind of thing that would cause heads to turn any more. The cuts remained where the big-shouldered man had pounded them, but, with the constant application of cold compresses, the swelling disappeared quicker even than he'd hoped. His back ached from where the mugger had kneed him, but that he could cope with.

  Elsa's hysteria proved more troublesome: "--Did you tell them--I didn't tell them--"

  "Who?--easy..." It was Tuesday morning, and she had been pounding on the door until she finally woke him. He knew from her tone, even before he let her in, that she was way into panic.

  "--They said they'd come after us--they said they had our names and where we lived, so why did you go when you said you wouldn't--"

  "Elsa, what the hell is this--I didn't do a damn thing, I swear--"

  "The limper..." she began.

  "What about him? Tell me."