Marathon Man, Page 22

  All I can control is one thing: myself. And all I can do is one thing: the unexpected.

  They would expect him to have guns, which was not now and never had been true. In the first place, he never wanted to train to become adept--he was to be a dentist, what use were guns? And when he did try to learn, he turned out to be a terrible shot. He hated the noise. The gun always bucked. He hit nothing. Not having a gun, of course, was not the same as saying he was unarmed.

  He did, after all, have the Cutter.

  His Cutter, really; not that he had invented anything --there had likely been knives in existence since we stopped being amphibians--no, his contribution was really just one of refinement. His Cutter was always strapped around his forearm, where, with a simple unobtrusive flick, it would slide, ready for use, into his right hand. The handle was thick, the blade buried deep in hardwood. The blade was pointed, sharp as a hypodermic needle, but only one edge was dangerous, the opposite one being unusually thick, so that all you had to do was swipe with your arm, or slash if you preferred, and the enemy's stomach was wide open, or his throat, wherever you found it convenient to strike. He loved the silence of his Cutter when placed against the horrid sound of guns.

  They would expect guns. And they would also expect him to flee.

  And so, with a startling degree of calm taking over his body and mind, he decided to stay where he was, since they would know that he would, at the first possible opportunity, vacate the area, take a cab, the subway, a bus, anything to get as far from the sighting as possible, but Sixth Avenue wasn't very pretty, the buildings all but blocked the sun, so he turned in after a little and crossed back toward Fifth, got halfway there when he saw a little plaza bathed in sunshine, and made his way toward it, and genuinely gasped in stunned surprise as he stared down on this warm day at the lovely ice skaters whirling around and around just below. Szell moved to a railing and watched.

  Incredible.

  The best thing yet about America. Here, in the middle of this jungle city, in the middle of an unnaturally hot day, people were actually behaving like winter. Children were smiling and falling down and old women were skating with old men, hand holding hand, and in the very center were the trick people, professionals perhaps, in any case very good, leaping and turning for themselves, the crowds, whatever, and Szell noticed that most of the really good ones had the same bodies, thick legs, ballet dancers' legs, really, only thicker, and thin upper torsos, thin from the effort of beating their frames into something resembling obedience, not at all fat, like the fat man from the second jewelry shop, who suddenly put his hands on Szell's shoulders, spinning him around, panting, "I knew you weren't English, you murdering son of a bitch," and Szell, as he felt his body turning, flicked his Cutter down, and by the time he faced the fat man, it was already moving, one quick, almost imperceptible gesture with his right hand and the fat man's throat was suddenly and totally laid open, and as the fat man started to fail forward, grabbing for his jugular, Szell began shouting, "There's a sick man here, there's a man here needs help, a doctor, please a doctor," and as the fat man fell over the railing, almost already dead, a crowd gathered, and by the time the fat man could no longer hold his hands around his throat and dropped them, by the time the blood began to faucet, he was surrounded by many people, most of them screaming and none of them Szell, who was half running toward an empty cab, because to hell with the unexpected, storm clouds were gathering over him, bad things came in threes, and the crone remembering him was one and the fat man catching him was two and Szell had no intention of waiting for three to tap him on the shoulder, it was the bank now, the bank and the diamonds, so he told the driver where to take him, and on the trip up he opened his suitcase, and behind the cover of the lid he handkerchiefed his Cutter clean, quickly strapped it back in place, put the handkerchief in the case, closed it, and at shortly before half-past eleven he approached the corner of 91st and Madison.

  Well now.

  The bank was on the right-hand uptown corner. There appeared to be nothing unusual, but that meant nothing. Szell put even less faith in "appeared" than he did in "seems."

  If they were waiting for his exit, if there was a plot, what were his alternatives? The money could stay here, true, but that would make him by Christmas an impoverished fugitive, not the best of positions.

  Szell paid, got out, entered the bank.

  He had the safe deposit key in his suit-coat pocket and the box number emblazoned in his heart. He moved quickly toward the sign that said "Safe Deposits" together with an arrow. He followed the arrow. Down some steps he went, and there, beyond, was the large locked gate. He could see the guard parading inside. Szell walked up to the woman at the desk on the near side of the gate. Middle-aged, fat, but pleasant-faced for a blackie.

  "My box," Szell said, and he brought out the key.

  She looked up at him strangely. "I thought I knew 'em all," she said, "but I guess there's new folks every day. Name, please?"

  Szell went German--if she was experienced, she must have known his father, who had no ear for languages, so his German accent must have lingered until death. "Christopher Hesse. I am deputy only. My father--" he said it "fasser"--"suh box iss inn hiss name." He smiled at the black face.

  "Old Mister Hessuh," she said, pronouncing it that way. "So you're his boy. Don't think I've ever seen you. Not usual, sending a deputy after so many years." She was still looking at him strangely.

  Why was his heart beating? What could she know? "He died," Szell explained.

  "Oh my lordie, I'm sorry to hear that," and she sat back in her chair.

  "Yess, it iss a sad business."

  "That's not what I meant," she said. "'Course, I'm sorry about him too, but see, we got a law, when there's a death, the box gets sealed till after the lawyers is done examining."

  Szell just stood there, blinking.

  "I can't let you in's what I'm trying to say."

  Bad things did come in threes; it was true.

  "Maybe you better sit down, Mister Hessuh."

  "Pleess," Szell managed, and then he started to cry, tears streaming down his face.

  "I can't do nothin', Mister Hessuh--ask me, it's a stupid law, but there it is, on the books, I got to obey it."

  "Pleess, you go too fast." Szell sank wearily into a chair, buried his head in his hands. "Three weeks more only," he began.

  "I didn't quite make you out, Mister Hessuh."

  Szell looked at her with his moist blue eyes. "My fasser is dead in three weeks more only. The doctors say this. Cancer, zey say. I beg. Pleess. Pleess. He iss all I haff left for family, make him liff longer, pleess, more zan chust three weeks." He shook his head, turned away.

  "Oh, that's a whole different thing," she said. "If he's only sick, 'course you can go in," and they quickly went through the rest of the admission procedure, "George," the blackie said to the guard. "George, you take young Mister Hessuh to his box, please." To Szell she said, "Give George your key, why don't you, Mr. Hessuh." Szell stammered, "Sank you," handed the key through the bars, waited through the clicks and turns until the gate swung open and he was into the box area, following the guard.

  "Would you like a private room?" the guard asked.

  "Pleess."

  The guard took the key, placed it in one lock, took another key, placed it in a second, turned them both, pulled out a very large box. Szell followed the guard to a room. The guard put the box down. Szell thanked him. The guard nodded, left.

  Like a child at Christmas, Szell shook the box gently, expecting weight.

  It was like a feather.

  He threw it open.

  It was empty except for a coffee can. One large-sized Melitta coffee can, that was all. In fury, Szell ripped the lid from the goddamn thing.

  And the diamonds tumbled out.

  Szell decided he'd better sit down. The can had been full to the top. How much was that? He spread the contents of the can all across the bottom of the box.

  The
sound was louder than he'd intended, so he closed the box fast, in case the guard came running in. When he was secure again, he opened the box and began separating the diamonds. The smallest were the size of pencil erasers, and he wondered what those were in carats. Three? More than three, probably. There were literally dozens of them, and dozens more the size of a thumbnail.

  Then there were the big ones.

  Many bigger than pecans, and some the size of walnuts. Look at that one--Szell could not keep his hands off the stone--it was as big as a baby's fist--and he suddenly saw a long-dead face, a pretty woman, frail and young and a cousin, she said, of the Rothschilds, and was this enough, it was all she had, would it suffice?

  Yes, my dear, of course. More than enough.

  Szell's heart was pounding again, because he realized that what he was looking at was more than he had ever dreamed of. I can buy Paraguay if I choose. I won't but I could, and--and--

  Szell began gathering up the diamonds, banishing thoughts of country-purchasing. He was the possessor of one of the great fortunes, but what good was that if you had to hide in some tropical swamp. There were supposedly, in Turkey, doctors, great surgeons who did things to you, changed your face, could even, if you could stand the pain, shorten you, and perhaps that was the thing--give yourself to these men and let them rape you for their services--if they gave you a different exterior, you could sip champagne on the Continent until gout claimed you at the age of seventy-five. His hands were actually trembling as he managed to sweep the diamonds back into the can, put the can in his case. Then he called for the guard and had the empty box locked up again.

  Szell waited through the locking procedure, then followed the guard to the main gate and beyond it to safety, where the blackie said, "My regards to your father--be sure and tell Mister Hessuh that Miz Barstow sends regards," and Szell smiled and nodded and up the stairs he went, out of the building into the sunlight, where he realized that bad things came in fours, threes were nothing, because moving across the sidewalk now was a certifiable madman, a lunatic in running shoes and raincoat.

  "It isn't safe," Babe said.

  29

  Szell waited. No sudden moves. Because if this one was alive, that meant that, more than likely, his people were no longer, and that meant that the crazy was armed, probably a gun. Szell noted the bulge in the right raincoat pocket.

  Of course, he was armed too. He had his Cutter, so losing was not something he intended. Winning was but a matter of getting close, of being right beside the enemy. Once you were right beside them, it was checkmate. Szell glanced around, looking for a suitable place to get close.

  "So what happens?" Szell asked.

  "Just tell me where you want to die," Babe said.

  "Oh come now," Szell began, but then he saw the pistol butt coming out of the raincoat pocket and he realized this skinny creature, this one he had weeping in the chair no more than a few hours before, had to be taken seriously. All madmen had to be taken seriously. "Put it back--I wasn't mocking you, but there are things you don't know, I have items in my possession, terms can be made."

  "Where do you want to die?" Babe repeated. Very soft. His voice was from some other world, human no more.

  Szell couldn't believe it. He wants to kill me; I hold the wealth of the Indies in my suitcase and suddenly I am confronted with an idiot child who would glory in my death.

  "The park," Szell managed, pointing to the entrance a block away. "The park is quiet, we can talk to each other," get close to each other, he did not add; right beside each other.

  Babe nodded toward the green.

  Szell began to walk. "You must hear me, you must let me tell you," he said. "You are very young, but let me assure you of something: Life can take a very long time, and better live it through with comfort than without." Babe said nothing.

  "You're very young," Szell said again. There was a pleading tone in his voice now. "You are very smart but not yet wise."

  "You killed my brother," Babe said.

  "No, that is a lie, I was not present, I swear."

  "Janeway told me. Elsa did too."

  "It had to be done," Szell said. "I didn't want to, I swear."

  "Janeway didn't tell me anything," Babe said. "Elsa didn't either. So don't worry about me. I'm fucking wise."

  They were getting close to the park now.

  "Killing me accomplishes nothing," Szell said.

  "Not for you."

  "Nothing."

  Babe walked behind him. "Faster," he said.

  They crossed Fifth Avenue, entered the park. "Head for the reservoir," Babe said, and they walked up the steps and started around it. It was quiet, and too hot for many joggers. The entire right-hand part of the running path was lined with thick bushes.

  "Here," Babe said.

  "I must show you! You must see!"

  "Get into the bushes," Babe said.

  Szell backed down into the underbrush. "The coffee can, look at it, I beg you, just lock at it, that's all." Babe took out H.V.'s gun.

  "Christ," Szell cried, "one request, everyone grants that."

  "Did you?"

  "Auschwitz was an extermination camp, not a concentration camp, they were not meant to regain strength." Babe cocked the pistol.

  Szell fell to his knees, flinging his case open, grabbing the coffee can, all the time begging, "--Look--you must look--I ask no more--please--"

  "I don't want your diamonds," Babe said softly. "I don't even want you crawling, I just want you dead," and then he said "Jesus," because by that time Szell had the lid off the coffee can.

  "You see? Millions--so many millions for us both-- deals can be made--"

  Babe hesitated, shook his head.

  "At least look at what I'm offering you!--come down and look, consider it, I beg you, come down here next to me, come right beside me and decide, that is my last request, you must grant that!"

  Babe hesitated one more time, then moved down into the dark covering of the bushes beside Szell, who waited, waited, and then when Babe was right beside him, the Cutter began to move.

  Szell was candy.

  Babe squeezed the shot off, and it exploded at close range into Szell's chest. Szell spun backward as if yanked, then lay on his face in the dirt, trying to gather strength to move.

  Babe sat comfortably on the ground, holding the gun, talking quietly. "I don't know that you'll understand this, but once upon a time, long ago, I was a scholar and a marathon man, but that fella's gone now, dead I suppose, but I remember something he thought, which was that if you don't learn the mistakes of the past, you'll be doomed to repeat them. Well, we've been making a mistake with people like you, because public trials are bullshit and executions are games for winners--all this time we should have been giving back pain. That's the real lesson. That's the loser's share, just pain, pure and simple, pain and torture, no hotshot lawyers running around trying to see that justice is done. I think we'd have a nice peaceful place here if all you warmakers knew you better not start something because if you lost, agony was just around the bend. That's what I'd like to give you. Agony. Not what you're suffering now. I mean a lifetime of it, 'cause that's the only degree of justice I think we're ready for down here yet, and I know any humanist might disagree with me too, but I don't think you will, because you had a lot to do with educating me, I'm like you now, except I'm better at it, because you're going to die and I've still got a long way to go."

  Szell charged. He pushed himself forward like a tackle when the bail is snapped, trying to reach Babe, who didn't bother moving, just fired again, and Szell's stomach split and he spun back down.

  "You know it gets easier? You're the fifth I've killed today, and Karl went first, whap through the eye, and if I'd had time, I would probably have tossed my cookies over what I'd done, but each death it gets easier. I'm kind of enjoying this. Does it keep on getting better? Tell me, I'd really like to know."

  Szell was a bull of a man, and like a bull he made his final charge
.

  Babe waited until he was very close this time, then fired three or four times.

  Szell screamed and collapsed, and there was blood coming from all over now.

  "'Groin' is a funny word," Babe said quiedy. "I don't know the German for it, but I'm sure you do." He began to talk more quickly then, because he could tell Szell was starting to die. "Oh, maybe you didn't see it in the papers, but they've made this fabulous theological discovery, do you know what they've found? People don't go to heaven or hell, they all go to one spot first, sort of a way station, and that's where things happen, because, you probably won't believe this, but some people on this earth have been known to do bad things to other people, innocent people, and at this way station, the innocent people wait, and then when their savager comes, they get to exact a little portion of revenge. God says revenge is good for the soul. Do you know who's waiting for you, Mr. Szell? All the Jews. They're all there, and you know what else? They've all got drills, like you used on me--remember how you said how wonderful it was, anyone could learn that, how to use them? Well, they have and they're waiting, and I don't know about you, but I think it's gonna be terrific."

  Szell was almost dead now, but Babe just had time to get it in.

  "Have a swell eternity," Babe said...

  AFTER

  THE END

  30

  The cop came tearing along the reservoir, and he was big, and he had his gun out, and he looked efficient as hell.

  Inside he was panicked.

  He was not yet twenty-four, had been on the force less than a year, and he'd just been minding his own business on the corner of 90th and Fifth when the backfires started--that's what he'd hoped the explosions were, anyway. Just backfires. Nothing to cause you trouble when it was this hot and you were stuck wearing the heavy uniform. The second explosion more or less convinced him that he wasn't going to get his wish, and when the third shot came, he knew that's what he'd been listening to: gunfire.

  So he took off into the park, and it sounded like it had been a hassle near the reservoir, so he started there. "Hey," he called to a kid. "You hear any shooting?"