Marathon Man, Page 21

  "Yes, by all means," Janeway urged. His blue eyes hit Babe's.

  He knows, Babe thought. He knows the difference between shooting targets and shooting bone, he knows about tearing pulp and scarring flesh. He knows about screaming and dying and he knows I don't. "My terms are Szell, that's what I want, just tell me when and where he's going after the diamonds and give me an hour's head start."

  "Oh, we accept," Janeway said right off. "Those are certainly equitable terms, but I'm a bit confused as to how we can insure your head start--how can we make that work? What if you take one car and deflate the tires in the other, that should do it, we'd be at least an hour getting after you, and that way we'd all be happy, what do you think?"

  "I think--" Babe began, but then Janeway was screaming "No!" because Karl was making his move, Karl was going for capture, it was going to belong to him, all of it, not Janeway with his talk, not Erhard with his whining, and as he roared toward the skinny figure trying to back still farther into the corner, Karl reached out his giant hands for Babe's throat, fingers ready and spread, and he was within a yard of triumph when Babe shot his eye out and Karl screamed, careening into the wall and down, and as he did, Babe went into a roll because Janeway was going for his weapon now, and as Babe's once gawky body moved he was aware of something new and different and that was grace, he felt it, he didn't feel like a creep now, he felt like a fucking menace now, and there was death in his hands and enemies all around him and Erhard was going for the door when Babe squeezed off a shot and Erhard screamed like Karl had done and fell, leaving Janeway, and that was tough because Janeway was on the move too, a gun in his hands now almost ready for shooting, not pointed yet, but there, and did you try for the wrist or the heart, did you try to hit the weapon like the Lone Ranger or did you rearrange the brain, and in that indecision Babe fired and hit, but the stomach only, not a good-enough shot to stop Janeway, so he fired again and this time Janeway fell, his weapon sliding across the floor, but still Janeway wasn't done, and Babe was beginning to wonder what you had to do to stop him, and he got off one more shot before he realized that Erhard was moving, and he fired again in that direction, hoping to Christ he was sharp because Elsa was going for Janeway's gun and he had to beat her to it because he needed to reload now, but there wasn't time, and she had the lead except she was a girl and he was a marathon man and his legs got him there and he kicked the gun out of her reach and then went for it, grabbed it, pointed it at her face and started to squeeze as she cried out, "No--no--Jesus--" and Babe said, "The bank--Szell's bank--" and she said, "--I don't know--" and Erhard was groaning, groaning, and his crippled leg was twitching out of control, and Janeway was pouring blood as Babe said, "You lying bitch, you do know, you know and you're going to tell me, you're going to tell me or I'll kill you," and she screamed, "You're going to kill me anyway," and he screamed right back at her, "You're fucking right I'm going to kill you but you're still going to tell me," and her face wasn't so lovely now because she was panicked and she managed to get out "Madison--Madison and Ninety-first" and that might have been wonderful news for Babe, ordinarily it would have been triumphant information, but not any more, because Janeway was alive and Janeway's hands gripped his ankles and Babe could feel his balance starting to go and as he began firing into Janeway's body he saw that crippled Erhard was crawling toward him too, and he kept on firing but there were no more miracles, this was it, this was the end, all his corpses were coming for him, and he wondered where the rest were, where were Doc and old H.V., one with the bloody temple, the other with the split up his insides, why weren't they reaching out for him too, everybody else was, the universe was bleeding, the universe was bleeding and reaching out for him, bringing him down...

  28

  Fascinated and cheery, Szell wandered among the Jews.

  He had never conceived that such a place as the diamond market existed, yet here it was in all its ethnic glory, stretching from Fifth Avenue to Sixth along 47th Street. Szell held his suitcase lightly as he stood on the sidewalk and turned around in a circle.

  Even the bank on the corner of 47th and Fifth was the Bank of Israel. Perfectly logical, Szell thought; undoubtedly it was set down there so that the Chosen People would not have far to travel after they spent their days in exhaustive haggling.

  The names, my God, the names: There was the Diamond Exchange and the Jewelry Exchange and the Jewelers' Exchange and the Diamond Center and the Jewelry Center and the Diamond Tower and the Diamond Gallery and the Diamond Horseshoe--each of them nothing but barnlike areas teeming with tiny stalls, each stall teeming with Jews, hustling and hawking and clutching for shoppers. And in between these larger jewelers were smaller jewelers--smaller but better, private places. Szell was looking for a few of them to talk to later; he had things to learn, and as he passed these private jewelers he saw they were all locked so that you had to ring to gain entrance and their answering buzz-buzz-buzz was a constant part of the underscoring of 47th Street, part of the color, along with the delicatessens with their salamis and the young men with their round caps and the old men with their beards.

  Knowing he would return shortly, Szell sauntered to Sixth Avenue and took a cab uptown to the bank. He knew it would be open, though he had no intention of going in yet. For two reasons chiefly. First, his plane back to South America did not leave till seven, and the longer he was on the streets with his diamonds, the greater the risk.

  Because of Scylla.

  That was the second reason. Had Scylla planned to rob him, and was that plan still in effect? If their situations had been reversed, he would have certainly robbed Scylla--who wouldn't make the attempt for one of the larger illicit fortunes in the world, especially since the victim couldn't very well complain to the police?

  Was it safe?

  The taxi trip took him through Central Park, then out at 90th, by the reservoir, and Szell told the driver to turn up Madison, where the bank was, on the corner of 91st Street, red bricked and lovely.

  Now, Szell began to concentrate.

  He had a phenomenal memory--chess games, incisor configurations, noses, hands, colors--and he told the driver to continue touring the bank area, noting all the details of upper East Side street life as he went past. He had made a similar trip shortly after eight, slightly more than two hours before, and now he was checking and cross-checking in his mind. Was that the same old woman with the same nurse sitting by the canopied building taking the sun? Were the work clothes on the men digging in the street at 92nd Street of sufficient age to be legitimate? Were any of the people strolling on the avenues the same as two hours ago, and were there doormen who appeared ill at ease, postmen who seemed nervous? Szell missed nothing; he never had, why start now?

  Szell finished his tour of the bank area as satisfied as possible, considering the stakes. Everything seemed perfectly normal, though he never trusted "seems." He paid the cab at 93rd and Lexington, got out, and waited till the taxi was gone from sight before hailing another, beginning the journey back to the diamond center.

  Because referring to the contents of his deposit box as one of the largest illicit fortunes in the world could either be truth or wishful thinking, he had no way of knowing.

  He hadn't the least idea of what a diamond was worth.

  Oh, once he had. Once he knew exactly, but that was in a different life, another land. It was crucial that he know at least approximately what he was worth when he finally saw his fortune. The remainder of his life and how well he could afford to live it depended on his knowing. Which was why he was returning to 47th Street. He had questions that needed answering, which was why, when he got to the diamond market again, he paid this driver with a good deal more excitement than he had the one before.

  He carried his luggage easily as he walked away from Fifth, reached the first of the two stores he had selected, Katz's. He decided to start small, first finding out the value of a one-carat stone, because if he began asking after giants, it might make them look at him clos
er than he wanted. He tried Katz's door. It was locked. A buzzer had a "push" sign over it. Szell pushed. The buzzer buzzed. The door unlocked.

  And these people thought Germany was a terrible country.

  "I'd like to see a one-carat diamond, please," Szell said to the tiny man who all but bounded around the counter.

  The man surprised him with "Why?"

  "Because..." Szell began, but it came out German, "Bee-cuss," and that was a mistake on this street, and he wondered if the little man had caught it.

  "'Cause if you're just a see-er, go window-shop, but if you're genuinely interested, if you want the best gem quality rock on the block, I'm your man."

  "How much would it be?" Szell asked, nodding, because all his stones were gem quality, the highest.

  "Before I tell you, we gotta go to this independent appraiser I know, and if he doesn't tell you I'm practically giving the stone away free, I'll get a new brother-in-law." He laughed.

  "Please," Szell said, "cannot you tell me just the value of a one-carat stone?"

  "Wait--wait--first you come traipsing in asking to see, now you wanna know how much? Money's garbage, it's value I sell, and when we've seen the appraiser--he's just upstairs--you'll know I'm your man and no high-pressure artist. Well?"

  Szell worked to control himself; he had had his orders followed for thirty years and more, and the insolence of the kike was simply not to be tolerated. You asked a question, he would not give the answer.

  He turned, wheeled, left, headed more toward Sixth. Push.

  Buzz.

  Open.

  The place was painted mostly blue. There were just two men, one with his back to Szell, a sweating fat one, but the one who came over to him was clearly a gentleman, pencil moustache, dressed to match the walls. "Yes sir."

  Szell went British. "I'm interested in the value of a one-carat diamond."

  The pencil moustache smiled. "That's like asking me the price of a painting. It all depends."

  "My wife and I have been married twenty-five years, and I know that's silver, but, you see, she adores diamonds and I've yet to purchase her one and I'd wait, but that's not till our sixtieth and I don't think the chances of being around for it are all that strong. So I thought, perhaps, a surprise, if you gather my gist."

  "I'll tell you the range, sir. You can probably find a one-carat on this street for as low as three hundred fifty. I've got one that goes for four thousand. Now, where in between did you see yourself?"

  "Four thousand," Szell replied, thrilled, because he had never bothered with anything remotely that small.

  The salesman leaned across the counter. "You're being very smart, sir--always buy top. It's the best investment you can make--diamonds always go up, the top ones, there's never enough of them and the demand won't stop growing. Just for example, a top three-carat would go today for eighteen thousand easy, and by next year it'll be closer to twenty-five thou."

  Szell nodded, doing his best to get the numbers straight, but it wasn't easy, because the fat man on the phone was getting loud. "Amie, I understand," the fat man was saying. "Amie, my God, we know each other twenty years, Amie, for Chrissakes I know she's Jewish, of course she wants a big stone, just give me some idea what you'll spring for. Twelve? Will you go twelve? Because I can get you something she'll cream over if you'll say twelve. Lemme know today, Amie," and as the fat man hung up and turned, Szell thought, "My God, my God, I know that Jew, I worked on him!"

  The fat man stood, stretched, glanced at Szell.

  He wasn't so fat then, and he must have been strong or he would not have lived, he must have worked at Krupp's or Farben's because of his strength--Christ, how many are there on this street I have worked on?

  The fat man was staring at Szell now.

  Szell knew he should flee, but he could not, he simply could not. He had dreaded more than anything ever this moment--of someday in daylight meeting a victim.

  "I think I know you," the fat man said. "You look familiar."

  "I do hope so, I quite love surprises," Szell said, going as British as he dared. He held out his right hand. "Hesse, how do you do." He and the fat one shook. He extended his hand to the pencil moustache. "Hesse, how do you do. Christopher Hesse, perhaps you've been to our shop in London, the missus and mine."

  "It wasn't London," the fat one said.

  "Well, we've been there since the middle thirties, Hitler, you see, we're Jewish, you see, and we left when we could, our friends thought us genuine hysterics but we went nonetheless, and we've run kind of an odds-and-ends place, out near Islington, it's quite trendy now, but not when we settled, it was all we could afford, let me tell you. I don't want to seem the braggart but we've done quite well actually." He pronounced it "ectually"-- overdoing it, true, but he had earned the right, he was that proud of himself: The fat man was won over, the strange look of remembrance gone.

  "I always wanted to visit London," the pencil moustache said.

  "Oh, do," Szell said. "And please look us up. 'Hesse of Islington.' Remember now, promise."

  "Sure," the pencil moustache said. "You interested in seeing anything?"

  "I might be. Let me just sound out the missus, surreptitiously, of course, and gauge her reaction. Four thousand is a goodly amount."

  "Shall I hold it?"

  "Oh, why not," Szell said, and he smiled, picked up his packages, left the store. He moved by hatted men, aged scholars, hawkers; the street was jammed. And getting hot now. Szell looked at the time and found it well after eleven. Since he planned on returning to the bank as late as possible, that meant he had several hours left to wander, take in the sights, fix Manhattan as firmly as possible in his mind, because you had to give it to the Americans, it was an extraordinary place, everywhere height, the little narrow streets, the spired buildings, and at first, as he sauntered close to Sixth Avenue, he wasn't sure where the word "Engel" was coming from, his mind or some record shop, but then as it repeated, he realized it wasn't just "Engel," it was "der Engel," and Szell felt a slight pulse quickening, which he didn't altogether relish, because now the voice--it was female, and building into a scream--was going "Der weisser Engel, der weisser Engel!" and Szell had not heard himself referred to as that, the White Angel, since his Auschwitz time, and then he saw her, directly across 47th Street from him, an ancient bent witch, and she was pointing one hand at him and clutching her heart with the other as she screamed, "DER WEISSER EN GEL--SZELL-- SZELL," and she couldn't hold her witch fingers steady but still they were pointed at his heart, and Szell froze for just a moment, because the street was starting to react, and the Spanish walking along kept on walking, and the blacks too, because what did it matter, a crazy old woman shouting something, "sell" maybe, and the young Jews, they didn't stop what they were doing either--

  --but then an old man with a beard turned toward her sound and said, "Szell?--Szell is here?--"

  --and then another old man said, "Where is Szell?--" --and then a giant of a woman with a deep deep voice said, "He is dead--Szell is dead--everyone is dead--"

  "Nein, Nein," shouted the witch with the pointing fingers: "DER WEISSER ENGEL 1ST HIER!"

  And now 47th Street was starting to explode.

  Slowly, as slowly as he could force himself, Szell began walking again toward Sixth Avenue. If he ran it was over, if he ran they would know there was a reason for it and that reason was that he was who he was, the great Christian Szell, and there was no reason for panic, he had only Jews to outsmart, and they didn't know what he looked like. Some of them did--the fat man in the second shop, he remembered, and the witch across the street, who was still screaming, she did too--but not enough of the others. The name, naturally, they knew. The face perhaps a number of them knew. But only a few would see beyond his baldness.

  Unless he ran.

  Calm, calm, Szell commanded.

  Sixth Avenue was up ahead now. Just up ahead. Behind him, though, the noises were getting frightening, his name being shouted along the length o
f the diamond center, all the Jews suddenly cold with fear but warmed by their numbers, all of them wondering could it be true, could Szell be alive, be here, in America, and what if they could be the one to catch him?

  Slower, Szell ordered his body. You are a sightseer, you are safe, there is no reason for speed.

  "He is getting away," the old witch screamed, "See? See?"

  All the store windows and doors were opening now; he could see them as he moved along, everyone wondering what the hollering was about.

  Szell made a pleasant smile at a large lady who was standing in the doorway of her jewelry shop. "The day, it is tres belle, yes?" Szell said, doing his best with the French accent, forcing himself to behave as if there were nothing going on behind.

  "What's all the fuss?" the large lady asked.

  Szell made a very French shoulder shrug. "Crazy peoples," he answered.

  She smiled at him.

  Good, Szell thought. As long as you don't panic, you cannot lose. So slowly. Slowly.

  "I'll stop him!" the old witch screamed, and without wanting to, Szell turned his bald head, because if they were going to chase him, well, that changed things, and now the witch had plunged across the street, shouting to the traffic, "Room, give me room," and she was slow and very old so the cars should have been able to stop in time, and most of them did but one didn't and one was enough, it braked, the screech was close to painful, but not before it skidded into the crone, and she held her footing for a moment, then fell, unhurt but down, because her voice was louder than ever as she shrieked, "FOOL--FOOL--WHO WILL STOP HIM NOW?" to the driver as he got out of his car and ran around to the front, starting to try to help the old woman to her feet, and Szell continued his stroll, finally making the safety of Sixth Avenue, turning pleasantly uptown, strolling along, the hysteria and shouting of 47th Street behind him now, hopefully a thing of the past, but perhaps not, perhaps the police would come, and if they did, they would hear the old crone's story, and then perhaps they would or would not believe her, that was not for him to control.