Marathon Man

  It was Karl all right.

  Waiting.

  Without a pause, Babe moved to the next brownstone, slipped silently up the steps and into the foyer, and began pushing the Melendez button as hard as he could. First there was nothing, no reply, so he kept at it, working the button with his thumb, jabbing at it, holding it down for a while, then jabbing again, stab, stab, stab, then hold, then stab, stab--

  --suddenly this Spanish woman were screaming at him over the intercom.

  "Listen..." Babe whispered, "... I can't talk loud, but if this is Mrs. Melendez I'm really sorry to bother you, but..."

  Her scream built in insistence.

  "... I need your boy, your son..." His knowledge of Spanish was next to nil; beyond "Sangria" he was in deep trouble, but he had never had cause to regret his ignorance till now. "... Child," Babe said, "the young man, the... the..." what the hell else should he try, "bairn"? "urchin"? "scion"?

  It didn't matter. With a final vituperative burst, she hung up.

  Babe pushed again. He just jammed his thumb against the Melendez buzzer and kept it there.

  This time when she came back she was really in full voice, screaming steadily, and all his "Please you've got to understands" and "I'm terribly sorry but this is importants" couldn't wedge their way through, so before she had a chance to hang up on him again he pushed the buzzer really hard, until suddenly another Spanish voice was forcing its way through the mother's, and then the stoop kid was saying into the intercom, "You wanna lose your finger, keep buzzing."

  "It's me," Babe whispered, taking his finger quickly away. "Me, you know--"

  "--just one more buzz and it's coming off--"

  "Melendez," Babe said, louder than he wanted to, "don't you recognize me, listen, listen for Chrissakes, it's me. Me." Hating himself, Babe said it: "The creep."

  There was a pause. Then: "Creepy? That you?"

  "Sure."

  "What you want?"

  "Talk."

  "Okay."

  "Private," Babe said, and when Melendez pushed the button from upstairs, the foyer door opened. They met a moment later on the first landing, by Melendez's place.

  "What?" from Melendez.

  Babe took a deep breath. "I want you to rob my apartment," he said.

  Melendez just looked at him funny.

  "Right now; you have to do it. If you won't do it now, it's no deal. You can't do it alone, you'll need as many of the others from the stoop as you can get, and if any of you have weapons, you better tell them to bring them along."

  "You kidding? Who don't have a weapon?" Then, "Why?"

  "That's a little hard to explain without getting detailed, but there are some people who are kind of after me and if I go myself they'd have me and I don't much want that and I don't think they'll be as anxious to try anything with you."

  Melendez couldn't help smiling. "That's some swell-looking raincoat, Creepy, but isn't it a little big for you?" and then he said, "Hey, are those pajamas?" and started to laugh.

  "Just tell me yes or no, I don't need your shit," Babe said.

  That stopped the laughter for a while. "What's in it for me?"

  "Well, I got a radio and a black-and-white TV that's not too bad and a ton of books you're welcome to sell, probably you'd do best at the bookstores around Columbia, they do a real business on used stuff, and of course any of my clothes you want, and hell, I don't care, whatever you can carry you can have, and if you're caught I'll tell the cops I told you you could have it all so they won't be a factor."

  "I'm all relieved," Melendez said, "I'm sure glad the cops won't be no factor." Then: "What's in it for you?"

  "Well, I'd like my Adidas shoes, they're probably in the middle of the floor someplace--"

  Melendez started laughing again.

  Babe told him what else he wanted.

  Melendez cut the laughter.

  "The door's probably locked," Babe said, "I was going to try and find the super but--"

  "Doors aren't no problem," Melendez said. Then, "What's the catch?"

  "The catch is it's dangerous."

  "That's not the catch," Melendez said. "That's the fun." Smiling.

  Karl smiled rarely. Many times people thought that was because he didn't have a sense of humor, but he knew that was wrong; the truth was things just didn't strike him funny very often. What he felt inside most often was restlessness. He looked ponderous, with his great muscled arms, but what he needed to keep him in any kind of decent spirits at all was activity. He liked little jobs, lots of them, one piled on the next. That was pleasure.

  Sitting was no pleasure.

  Karl sat in the car, his hands around the steering wheel, his head still, his eyes moving from a glance through the windshield to another into the rear-view mirror. Those had been his instructions from Janeway, and he was going to fulfill them perfectly, because Janeway was trouble: If Karl ever made a mistake, Janeway would tell. It was ridiculous--the street was so dark it didn't matter which way he looked, there was nothing to see, no Jew, and so confident was he of his inability to spot anything that when the half dozen niggers suddenly appeared, coming toward him from behind, Karl came as close as he ever did to being startled.

  No. Not niggers, he realized, spies. Half a dozen or more, perhaps even seven, dressed strangely, hardly dressed at all, none of them with socks, all moving in a group behind one leader.

  I hope they come for me, Karl thought. I hope they see a man alone in a car and try to steal it. He glanced quickly at the doors, making sure they were unlocked. He had a knife only, but he did not think he would need it for spies. Just grab the first by the arm, swing him into the others, keep that up until the sound of the arm eventually snapping' would send them into desperate flight.

  The group came to a stop before the Jew's building. For a moment he thought of getting out and making sure they kept on going. Give them a good scare; with his size, in this darkness, they would flee.

  But, of course, those had not been Janeway's rules. Janeway had said wait for Levy, and if he came, take him. If he comes, I'll do that, Karl decided. In the meantime, let Erhard worry about the spies...

  Erhard, from his position at the rear of the main floor, saw the gang halt in front of the building, and he felt immediate panic. If he had been better at violence, he would have enjoyed it more. But, tilted as he was, unbalanced as he always stood, he was forced to enter any fight at too great a disadvantage. Perhaps if he had overcompensated as a child, had whipped his misshapen body into always doing more than it happily could, had spent his nights with barbells for company, well, perhaps then he would have grown into a terror.

  But he had been too smart. That was his flaw. He was too smart for strength and not smart enough to overcome the unpleasantness of his appearance. You saw him, you thought, "freight elevator operator," or you envisioned some night person, a man who came out after sundown, did his job, got his pay, and then was back inside before the sun grew too bright.

  The gang was starting into the foyer of the building now.

  Erhard moved as far back in the hallway corner as he dared. Probably he should somehow alert Janeway or maybe go to Janeway and tell him, but they had no signals for this kind of thing--who would dream of signals for this kind of thing?--and there was nothing to tell Janeway yet. Just a bunch of Spanish teenagers in the foyer of a building; perhaps they lived there, the Puerto Ricans had enough children, maybe they were all from one brood mare of a mother, dark and pendulous and--

  One of the gang was working at the foyer door.

  I should tell Janeway, Erhard thought. But how? In order to get to Janeway, he would have to move to the stairs, and the stairs were by the foyer door, and what if he got there at the same time they managed to open it and there he was, alone, at the mercy of all those venomous Spanish?

  "It's not my job," Erhard whispered, half aloud. His job was to stay silent watching the fire escape in the rear, and if Levy tried to get to his apartment using the fire
escape, then he was to act, stop Levy, kill him perhaps, if required. Erhard had a gun. He was not good at shooting it, it made so much noise and he hated noise, but close up he could hit Levy, he could kill a Jew if he had to, especially if such a thing would please Szell. Szell rewarded when he was pleased. When he was not pleased, he could crucify, but that was his right, he was Christian Szell, alive and breathing in the 1970s, a marvel; different rules applied to him than to cripples.

  The foyer door opened.

  "My God, what if they come for me?" Erhard thought. He could shoot them. Some of them he could shoot. But not enough. And what would the others do to him then? He was afraid of Puerto Ricans when he rode the subway by himself; the idea of four or five avenging their dead brothers, kicking his crippled body to pieces, was too much for Erhard. Janeway. Janeway. He filled his mind with the name. This was Janeway's operation, Janeway would know what to do.

  The gang started silently up the stairs.

  Erhard wiped the sudden sweat from his face, listening to the footsteps rise. Thank God, decisive action was up to him no longer. It was Janeway's problem now...

  Janeway, standing in the darkness at the far end of the corridor from Levy's room, thought the footsteps belonged to the police, and he was not at all upset. Levy leading police perhaps; even that didn't much bother him. First, he was with Division, and could easily prove it. Second, a Division man had been retired tonight, in this very place, so why shouldn't he be there, waiting, lurking, doing whatever he damn well felt like to avenge a fellow worker, the police were noted for always doing just exactly that too. And if Levy had made melodramatic charges, well, why shouldn't he, the boy had been through hell, a brother had died in his arms, could any of us truthfully know how sanely we would react on such a night?

  The footsteps kept on coming.

  Six, Janeway thought, listening. Then he heard a slightly different pattern and, from experience, correctly adjusted the number to seven. And clearly not police. Seven policemen couldn't move that silently if their graft depended on it.

  Seven what, then?

  It was a bit disturbing, because Janeway had as quick a mind as any, and quicker than most in crisis; no one in Division could react to sudden change with greater speed than Janeway.

  Seven what?

  The floor below him now.

  And rising.

  It was very bloody irritating was what it was, Jane way thought, aware that his anger was greatly his own frustration, more that than any danger in his present situation. After all, the present situation wasn't something he'd had all year to think about. Besides, there had been no other place to look for Levy. It was logical that Levy would come home, get whatever debris he needed. It might not be bright behavior, but it was not illogical, and he had been in bad shape anyway, beaten and cut; no one expected clear thinking from him at this point.

  Seven what, goddammit?

  Janeway gaped as they reached his floor.

  Seven children?

  He looked again. No, not children, not at all children, just small, probably anywhere from fourteen to eighteen, PRs, a gang of PRs, now what the hell would they be doing here?

  The leader, as if in answer, immediately began jimmying Levy's door.

  Janeway watched for a moment, immediately realizing that conclusions were beyond him; even a computer had to have the proper data fed it, and there was much too much he simply did not know. He took a step toward them along the corridor, softly, because he wanted surprise to help compensate for their numbers; he had no thought in mind, really, other than to send them packing.

  "All right," he said, and he took his pistol out clearly, gave them a good look at it, "right now, move."

  The group spun toward him, all but the leader. He was the one Janeway watched, because that was who you needed in a struggle: Get the bosses edgy, the drones run.

  The leader turned slowly toward Janeway from his work on the door. He looked at Janeway, then at the gun, then dead into Janeway's eyes again.

  "Blow it out your ass, motherfucker," the leader said.

  Well! Janeway admitted that wasn't quite the answer they prepared you for at leadership school. He continued watching as the leader went back to working on the door. It was almost a scornful ignoring on his part, returning to his rightful labors after this interruption that could only be called trivial.

  And now two of the others had heat in their hands. Oh, not real power, nothing like his pistol, Saturday-night specials only, but it seemed pointless to try to prove anything just at the moment. He was outnumbered seven to one, and they weren't afraid of him, not remotely. Then the leader forced the door open, and they all slipped into Levy's apartment.

  Janeway sped past the door and down the stairs. It was clearly a waste remaining here any longer. They would have to finish Levy at the lake. Not an ideal situation, perhaps, because it would be light by then, and death was always best accompanied by darkness. Still, you could do only so much, and he had tried whatever was available. So the lake it would have to be. Now it was up to Elsa to get Levy there.

  26

  Babe hesitated before entering Kaufman's. It had to be close to six now; things were starting to lighten up just the least bit, making everything more visible, especially him. He glanced along 49th Street, then along Lex, trying to be sure it was safe to enter.

  Paranoid!

  That's just how he was acting, sneaking around the city near dawn in an undersized raincoat and running shoes. Nobody attacked you in Kaufman's, for Chris-sakes, it was a legendary place, they understood about darkness, you didn't get kidnapped in Kaufman's every day of the week. Babe took a deep breath, trying to get his head on straight, but the air hurt his tooth like crazy. It wasn't really that he was paranoid so much as beat. He hadn't really slept since Doc had put in his appearance, and when was that, was it--?

  My God, could it have only been about twenty-four hours since his brother first appeared from the darkness with the words "Don't kill me, Babe"; was it possible it was only six since he died?

  There was a clock in Kaufman's window, reading 5:51, time enough for him to go in, get the oil of cloves he'd come for, pay for it, wait outside for Elsa. Babe walked into the pharmacy and was halfway back to the drug department before stopping cold.

  What if you needed a prescription?

  Babe hesitated by the food counter that ran along one wall of the store. Was he being paranoid again? No. No, because whatever the hell was in oil of cloves numbed you and whatever numbed you was a drug and drugs were verboten unless you had a prescription-- the strong ones were, anyway. And oil of cloves was strong, it had nearly dammed up his pain, so you knew you weren't dealing with Aspergum.

  I better have a good story for the pharmacist, Babe thought, something solid; lemmesee, I've got a prescription but like a fool I left it in my wallet and I left my wallet back home.

  No good. "Go get it," the pharmacist would say.

  All right, I was mugged. There. Terrific. I had the prescription but a couple addicts jumped me on my way and they took it along with my typewriter and color TV.

  Now that was good. Don't embellish it, though, forget the TV and the typewriter. You were mugged, period. Hell, I'd believe a story like that, and I just made it up.

  Confident, Babe made his way to the pharmaceutical section, and he was all the way there when he realized that it didn't matter what story he told, the drug man was going to know it was a lie, because as he drew close Babe could see the guy waiting for him with a smile you could only call strange, and then the guy started walking and Babe saw, too too late, the limp.

  Erhard was waiting for him.

  Babe whirled, ready to try one final dash to the street, but Karl moved out from the paperback racks, blocking his path.

  It was over. It was over. Babe sagged against the counter.

  "... seems to be the trouble?" Erhard said.

  Babe glanced up as the speaker limped around the counter toward him. It wasn't Erhard's vo
ice, and that made sense because it wasn't Erhard, just another member of the maimed legion, a poor, tiny -night man who limped like Erhard and talked exactly like W. C. Fields. Babe turned toward the book racks where Karl had blocked him. A fat old guy was examining the books. Big, sure, but he looked as much like Karl as Cuddles Sakall resembled Argentina Rocca. I am going paranoid, Babe thought. No. I'm not going, I've reached it, I'm there.

  He breathed in sharply, forcing the air into his front teeth, and the quick pain brought him to his senses fast. The pain lingered, and he tried to blink it away. The pain was all he had for now to bring perspective. "I'd like some oil of cloves, please."

  "Oil of cloves, oil of cloves," the W. C. Fields man said, "now why should you want that little pipsqueak of a cure?"

  "Tooth," Babe said.

  "I didn't think you'd want to paint your bidet, m'boy; my point is, there's better on the market."

  "Just the oil of cloves, please," Babe said. It was 5:56 now.

  The druggist limped back behind the counter. "Now here before your very eyes I plant some Red Cross Tooth Drops," and he placed a container on the counter. "Far superior ointment, in this humble burgher's opinion."

  "Just the oil of cloves, please," Babe said.

  "Ah, you see, this little item contains oil of cloves, plus other magic ingredients, plus, mind you, tooth picks and cotton swabs, so all you have to do is push the pick into the cotton, the cotton into the elixir, the dampened lump into your cavity, and voila, your pain is diminished as if by legerdermain."

  "Just the oil of cloves, please," Babe said, beginning to wonder if that was to be his ultimate fate, repeating "just the oil of cloves, please" to a little limping man who tried to make his life bearable by sounding like W. C. Fields.

  "Have you considered oil of cloves?" the druggist said, "some people seem to like it, very devoted following," and he put a small bottle on the counter.

  Babe took it, paid, went to the front of the store, looked out.

  Elsa was parked at a bus stop across the street, motor running. She wore the same black shiny raincoat as when they'd first met.

  Babe opened the oil of cloves, dipped it onto his index finger, rubbed and rubbed, poured more on, rubbed again, and then, when the deadening began to happen, he closed the bottle, pocketed it, and ran out of the store. She saw him coming, and her arms reached out for him through the window by the driver's side, and in a moment he was embracing her on the street. Then he broke it, tore around the car, got in, and this time they clung to each other until from behind them there came a bus honking, so Elsa reluctantly let him go, put her hands to the wheel of the car, and started driving.