The Novels of William Goldman: Boys and Girls Together, Marathon Man, and the Temple of Gold

by William Goldman

  “ ’Course he was, for years, how the hell do you think he earned his living?”

  “I know exactly how he earned his kopeks, and believe me, the closest he came to the oil business was when he filled up at his friendly Standard station.” Janeway shook his head. “You’re amazing, you know that? He always said you were gullible, but this gullible I never dreamed.”

  Janeway was full of it.

  “He wouldn’t lie to me. We never lied to each other—oh sure, maybe fibs, like that, but hell, everybody fibs once in a while.”

  “All right, where did he live?”

  “Washington.”

  “And what’s Washington the center of?”

  “Everything: the government.”

  “Okay. Now are you aware just how much each part of the government hates each other part? Example, the military: The Army hates the Navy and the Navy hates the Air Force. Why? Because once upon a time the Army was it, and then the world changed and the Navy became the glamor branch, and then flip, another change, and now the Air Force gets everything it requests while the admirals and the Army generals eat it. Think of what’s going on down there today—it’s on TV all day long, plain and crappy. The FBI hates the CIA, and they both hate the Secret Service. They’re squabbling and whining, continual internecine rivalry, and the whining gets loudest when you get close to the limits of their powers. The edges are sharp, and between those edges are crevices.

  “We live in the crevices,” Janeway said, after pausing, taking a swallow, giving it a paragraph for emphasis.

  He’s really a fantastic liar, Babe thought.

  “We were formed when the crevices widened. Date it after the Bay of Pigs, if you like. Now, when the gap gets too large between what the FBI can manage effectively and what the Secret Service, say, can bring off, more than likely, we’re called in!”

  “And you’re who?”

  “This is where it gets embarrassing if you’ve the least intelligence. I’m a Dartmouth graduate, honors, and all the code names and passwords are enough to make you scream. We’re The Division. That’s all. Capital T, capital D. Which is a totally inaccurate name, since we exist only because of the divisions between other groups.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Provide. That is how we’re referred to. I was a Provider until I more or less got promoted into the executive end; if I live long enough and don’t behave too stupidly, I’ve got as good a chance as anyone of running things. Finding your brother’s killer wouldn’t be unhelpful to my cause. He was a Provider when he died.”

  “What did he provide?”

  “Anything that was necessary.”

  “That’s kind of vague.”

  “Yes, isn’t it.”

  “When you say anything, you don’t mean anything?”

  No reply.

  “I mean, you don’t mean, well, not bad things.”

  “Isn’t that a fairly simplistic way for an historian to view the present world struggle for ultimate power? ‘Good things. Bad things. Meanies.’ ”

  “He wouldn’t ever hurt anybody. I’m positive of that. I don’t care what you say.”

  “Do you know who Scylla was?”

  “ ’Course, but Scylla wasn’t a ‘who,’ Scylla was a ‘what,’ a giant rock off the coast of Italy.”

  “Scylla was your brother’s code name.”

  Babe shook his head. He wanted fresh air, except he didn’t, not really, but he did want something. Doc, I guess, Babe thought. I want Doc back.

  “Shake your head all you want, it’s true.”

  “You’re telling me my brother was a spy—I’m sorry, Provider—and I never even had a notion.”

  “I’m telling you your brother was a top Provider because you never even had a notion. He always drank Scotch, except with you it was wine. There wasn’t a hand gun made he hadn’t mastered, except with you he always pretended to panic at a BB pistol. I think the single thing that frightened him most was that someday you’d confront him with all this.”

  “Why?”

  “He dreaded your disapproval.”

  “Why? I used to copy him. If he started using an expression, I’d pick it up. The way he walked, facial expressions, I used to love it when I could wear his hand-me-down clothes. I ...” He lacked the energy to go on. He was tired and dirty, and the news rocked him, and even before that he’d been exhausted; the outburst about his father had taken a lot out of him. Defending was always so hard. How great life must be if all you ever did was attack. Wouldn’t it be terrific to wake up one morning and find yourself Attila the Hun?

  “I’m sorry,” Janeway said, his voice gentle.

  “Is that it? Do I know everything now?”

  “You know nothing, maybe a particle, at the most. I promise you, Dave’s death will not be written up in the Daily News, that’s all been taken care of.”

  The blows were coming at him from all angles now, and he was helpless to stop them. “Dave ...?” Babe blinked. “Dave ...?”

  “We all called him that, he wanted us to. Obviously, you know it’s his middle name, Henry David Levy.”

  Babe leaned back and closed his eyes. “All my life we were together, and I never once called him that. ‘Hank’ in public, and ‘Doc’ was our name. From I Love a Mystery. That was his favorite. He was always going on about Jack, Doc and Reggie, and for a while I called him Reggie, but he said, ‘No, I’d rather be Doc,’ so that was it. And when I was eight he took me to a little-league game and I was pitching, H.V. was supposed to bring me but he was too bombed, so Doc did, and I hit a homer. My very first real one. I mean actually hitting it over the outfielder’s head. They were playing me in, I guess, seeing as I was the pitcher and pitchers aren’t supposed to be much with the bat, and it was such a thrill that when we walked home I said, ‘Doc, I’m giving up pitching, I’m not gonna be any big-league pitcher, that’s kid stuff, I’m goin’ for the long ball, Doc, I think I’ve got a shot at Babe Ruth’s record,’ and from then on I was Babe, except when there were strangers around,” and then, his eyes still closed, the cry “I don’t know anybody” broke across the room. After a moment, Babe said, “I’m sorry, I’m fine now.”

  Janeway stood and started moving around the room. He opened his eyes. “Dinner,” he said. “Begin there.”

  “Dinner was fine, dinner was terrific; no—wait a second, it wasn’t, that’s right, dinner was awful; it seems so long ago, what time is it?”

  “Almost one o’clock.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Dinner was awful,” Janeway was saying, moving quietly now, here, there, always gracefully moving. “Can you be a little more specific?”

  “It was at Lutèce and there was me and Doc—me and Dave, you’d say—and my girl, Elsa, you want her full name?”

  Nod.

  “Elsa Opel, she lives up around Columbia, four one one West One hundred thirteenth, phone number four two seven four oh oh one—” Babe stopped. “Why aren’t you taking notes if it’s all so important?”

  “Because we’re trained to put nothing down, it’s best that way.” Then he rattled off “Elsa Opel—four one one West One one three—four two seven four oh oh one.” He sipped lightly at his wine. “I assure you I’m paying attention. Go on.”

  “Well, it ... the first hour, maybe, Doc couldn’t keep his hands off her, she’s gorgeous, and he was pawing her like he was in heat.”

  Janeway took a longer drink.

  “Then it turned out he was just getting her guard down, and when she was all softened up he got her to admit she’d been lying to me about her age, and where she was from, a lot of things, and she was humiliated and ran out, and Doc and I had words, and then I ran out and looked for her and couldn’t find her and came back here hoping she’d call. She did, but then Doc arrived, and the rest you know.”

  “Okay, push this now, really go back over it all in your mind. Let’s try and re-create a little—there’s blood all over the stairs, so clearly he wanted d
esperately to get here. Was it just to see you? Could there have been any other reason? Anything at all?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, but did he ever leave anything here, keep anything here, send himself mail here—along those lines?”

  “Never. No sir.” Babe shook his head, trying to remember. “I mean, you can go through his suitcase if you want, but I think it’s just a few clothes, toilet articles; you can examine it all you want.”

  “I’ll take it with me when I leave, if you don’t mind. We’ll run some checks, for the hell of it, but it probably won’t come to anything.”

  “He appeared in the doorway suddenly—leaning against it—he said my name, then again, loud, ‘BABE’—and then he crumpled and I caught him and held him till he died. Maybe I rocked him a little.”

  Janeway rubbed his eyes. “Not a bad beginning, I suppose.”

  “I don’t get you—‘beginning’? What comes next?”

  “I can’t say for sure, because this is a situation where we can only counterpunch, which we’ll do. But I can guess that whoever killed Scylla wouldn’t have risked it if some situation somewhere wasn’t coming to a head. It’s also not unreasonable to assume they thought he knew something. And since he lived here when he was in town, and since he died here, if I were in their position I’d feel justified in assuming you knew something too. Or might. People do, it’s known, say strange things when they’re dying. Conclusion: If I were whoever killed him, I’d sure as hell like to ask you a few questions.”

  “But I’m ignorant—I’m not even involved, not in anything.”

  “I know that and you know that, but tell me, how can they know that?”

  Babe was a little short of answers.

  “Tom?”

  “Yes sir?”

  “I’m going to say something just rotten to you now, for two reasons. First, because I believe it’s possible, and second, because I want to scare the shit out of you so you’ll do exactly what I tell you.”

  “Listen, Mr. Janeway—hold it a sec. I’m not gonna disobey you, I promise. I’m edgy enough as it is.”

  Janeway nodded, began packing up Doc’s belongings. “Fine. I was just going to tell you what I think’s going to happen to you.”

  “I’m not so sure I want to hear that,” Babe said, and then he said, “What do you think’s gonna happen to me?”

  Janeway looked over from his packing. “I think they’re going to try to capture you, and then I think they’re going to try to torture you, and then I think they’re going to try to kill you ...”

  20

  JANEWAY FINISHED PACKING IN silence. “You still there?” he asked after a while.

  Babe nodded.

  “That really was only a guess, but after a while, you develop a sense for these things, a feel for the way other minds operate. And in our business, whenever anyone in our immediate family’s damaged, we automatically assume it wasn’t accidental. Dave told me about your mugging and why he was coming—to try to get you down to D.C. for a while.” He started fastening the suitcase. “He left some extra stuff here, I think, for when he ran short.”

  “Quit trying to trick me—you asked me that already, did he leave anything, and I told you already, no.”

  Return of the quick smile. “I guess you weren’t your brother’s brother for nothing.”

  Babe started with Janeway toward the door.

  “I’m at the Carlyle—we oil types live well—it’s just a quick shoot across the Park, call me whenever you want—seven four four one six oh oh, Room Two one oh one.” He reached for the doorknob. “Now listen to me—we won’t have our own surveillance working on you till morning, the police will handle things till then, and I haven’t got unbounded faith in New York’s finest. So what you do is this: You stay locked in here overnight, okay?”

  “Surveillance, for Chrissakes?”

  Janeway spun on Babe. “I’m not telling you to turn hermit, I’m just saying stay inside till I have faith in the personnel.”

  “And then what? I get to go through life with some crew-cut jerk sneaking around after me?”

  “For you, as a special treat, nothing but intellectuals and longhairs. Now look—I worked alongside Dave a long time, we were very close, believe that, and we’ll meet in hell, and I’ve got plenty to answer for, but I’m not about to let him chew my ass off for not watching after you. So do what I say and shut up.”

  “If you’re so worried about my health, why are you leaving me alone, then?”

  Janeway put the bag down. “I thought it was obvious. How are we going to find who killed him if they don’t come after you? You think we’re dealing with morons? You think they’ll break in here and say ‘Shucks, he’s moved out’ and then we’ll jump them from the closets and say ‘Put ’em up, you dirty guys?’ If you’re not here, they’ll know it, and they won’t come. If you are here, they probably won’t come anyway. It’s risky, they know how our minds work, they’ll guess surveillance. But if they’re desperate, and I think they are, then they’ll come.”

  “In other words, you want to watch after me, but you also want to use me for bait.”

  For the first time, Janeway looked really tired. “I want to catch who killed him. I’ve got no better notions. If you do, tell me. If you want to come with me to the Carlyle, for Christ’s sakes, say so. I’ll get you a room, I’ll take you down to D.C., we’ll keep you hidden till whatever this is is over. Anything you want, I swear, please, just tell me.”

  Babe didn’t even hesitate. Bogart wouldn’t have hesitated. “I wasn’t upset, Mr. Janeway, I swear, it was just curiosity; now that I know, I think it’s terrific. I mean, historians don’t get much chance to have adventures, it’s kind of a sedentary profession, you know what I mean? Sit on your tail all day, read, read, read. Besides, I hadn’t planned on going out till the afternoon, so what you’re asking me to do is what I was going to do anyway, only without police protection.” Babe could tell that Janeway was watching him closely, trying to fathom if he was telling the truth or not. But that didn’t bother him, because he was. He wondered if he would have been quite so confident if he wasn’t a dead shot with a loaded pistol in the bottom drawer of his desk, but that was all academic. He had the pistol, he could use it like a bastard.

  And how wonderful, if only Janeway turned out to be right in his guesswork, to be able to have revenge so quickly. If only Doc’s killers would come and he could blast away and watch them fall. He ran his hands across Doc’s blood on his shirt.

  “All right,” Janeway said finally. “I’ll go, you stay. How can you reach me?”

  “Carlyle—seven four four one six oh oh—Two one oh one.”

  Janeway was reasonably impressed.

  “I wasn’t my brother’s brother for nothing,” Babe said.

  “Lock it behind me,” Janeway ordered. He took the suitcase and left.

  Babe locked it behind him.

  All of them were gone now.

  Everything was gone now.

  Doc most of all.

  Mourning time.

  Babe went to his chair in the corner and sat. Now there was no one left to butt in, no reason to dam up his heart. He sat very still, alone, the sole survivor of the union between H. V. and Rebekkah Levy.

  He really was alone now, whatever that dread word meant. There was no old family homestead to return to. This horrid student’s room was, as much as any place, the family homestead now, and that by itself was almost cause for mourning. An aging rectangle of a place, a single crummy closet, a single crummy sink, rusty water, a tiny windowless bathroom with a tiny tub, and practically hidden off in a corner one nearly cracked window with a mildewing frame that never brought in any breeze or—

  —Christ!—the window—the goddamn window, was it locked, had he locked it, because if he hadn’t there was a fire escape and that’s how they’d come for him, up the fire escape, hide in the darkness, get out their rifles with the silencers, burst in, torture him,
kill him, and gone.

  Babe ran to the window, checked it.

  Of course, it was locked.

  Jerk, he told himself. Working yourself up over a stupid thing like that. When there were important deeds to be done, there was mourning to be done “and only I am left alone to tell you.”

  Babe went back to his chair in the corner and sat. He cleared his mind to mourn.

  No chance.

  “Doc,” he said out loud. “You’re gonna have to give me a raincheck.” Because the truth was, the terrible and very strange truth was, simply that in all his adult life, he had never had an adventure before, and the thrill of it swept all possibility of thinking far, far away. Bogie and Cagney, they had adventures every day of their lives. Edward G. too. And now it was his turn.

  T. Babington Levy was maybe, hopefully, in danger.

  Fantastic.

  Let the stoop kids try to call him a creep now. Let anybody. Maybe what I’ll do, Levy decided, is get my gun and stick it sort of in my pocket but not all the way, and then just kind of walk past the stoop kids and let them see the heater, really scare the pee out of the bastards, and maybe the head of the gang might get up the nerve to whisper, “... hey, sir, is that a ... a you know?” and he, Levy, would turn and give his best Alan Ladd look and maybe say, “I don’t know; why don’t you mess with me and find out?”

  You need a better answer, Levy told himself. A real clock-stopper of a retort. Lemme think ...

  Don’t bother, Levy told himself. Janeway said you can’t show your head till noon.

  Screw Janeway. He wasn’t any kid.

  “I’m not any kid,” Levy said. He was an historian and historians had freedom of choice unless they were Marxists, and he didn’t work that side of the street. He was free and he could go and come when he so desired, just as he’d done ever since he’d rented his pit.

  Hadn’t he survived an entire summer on West 95th Street in New York City without a single incident, not counting the mugging, and that took place in the park? And if you could make it through a summer on West 95th, if you could live through August without air conditioning, you didn’t need any crew-cutted Provider to tell you what was safe and what wasn’t.