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

by William Goldman

  “It had to be done.”

  “Did Szell kill my brother?”

  She shrugged.

  “Yes, you mean.”

  She said nothing.

  They entered the house, walked into the living room, looked out. Far in the distance now, a car. “Them?” Babe asked.

  “I should think yes.”

  Babe nodded.

  The car was coming steadily closer.

  Babe’s teeth were hurting now. Sudden, severe pain. He reached his hands toward his raincoat pockets for reassurance. In the left, the box of bullets, in the right, his father’s gun, loaded and ready, and he was a good shot—no, he was a great shot, he was a goddamn Daniel Boone with his father’s pistol, and he damn well should have been, the hours he put in when he was old enough, firing it and firing it, all out of some neurotic hope for revenge.

  And now revenge was coming steadily closer down the road; all of his wishes were coming true; Christian Szell was coming toward him down the road, and in a little while Christian Szell was going to die, if Babe just had the guts to make it happen. He didn’t care if he made it out himself, he didn’t even think much about making it out himself, just so Szell didn’t make it out too, that would make things more than even-steven, thank you, because Szell had killed them both, H.V. and Doc, no matter what anyone said; he had killed H.V. even though they were continents and quarter centuries apart, a Nazi was a Nazi, you couldn’t ask for better if you needed a bad guy, and he had to have killed Doc, Babe wanted that so badly it just had to be true, it couldn’t have been assholes like Karl or Erhard, Doc would have whipped them without breaking stride. Babe stood very still, watching the car’s approach, realizing that at blessed last all his wishes were coming true, and on this perfect day, he could feel himself starting to fold.

  He couldn’t help himself, he was crumbling.

  Babe could practically hear his wild heart because so what if he was deadly with the gun, so what if he could rip the bull’s-eye out of any target you could hang, he had never fired at flesh before, and suddenly he knew that with Szell and Janeway and Erhard and Karl and Elsa standing around him, what he would do would be just what he always did under pressure, make an ass of himself, just like the coward he was—if he hadn’t been a coward, if he’d only gone in with the goddamn wool paper, H.V. would still be breathing and—

  —dear dear God, this one time, please don’t let me think too much, I’m going on an animal hunt, let me be an animal, I never asked it before, there’s not gonna be a chance at asking it again, so this once, this one time, please ...

  The tooth pain was horrid now, and he reached into his pocket and pulled out the oil of cloves and with all his strength hurled it smashing against the nearest wall.

  Elsa jumped, frightened by the sound, confused by the sight of broken glass and spreading liquid.

  “Painkiller,” Babe started to explain, and then he thought, “Save your breath, let her think you’re crazy,” and then he thought, “Forget about her, just inhale, inhale,” and he pulled the air in sharply, forcing it against the open nerves, his tight gasping the only sound in the room. Babe kept right on inhaling and oh, but it hurt, Christ it was terrible, but it was necessary. If he was ever going to do what he had to do, he needed all the pain he could get.

  27

  THE CAR WAS IN no hurry. It just moved along at sightseeing speed. Elsa watched Babe but said nothing, just stared into his frightened face.

  Then the car stopped, parked behind Elsa’s car in the run-down driveway. For a moment there was nothing inside. No movement. Then the doors opened. And Karl got out and Erhard got out and Janeway and Babe whirled on Elsa, grabbing her hard, saying “Where’s Szell?—there’s only the three of them, where is he?”

  Elsa shrugged.

  Babe stared at the car, waiting, praying for Szell to move into the sunshine, but the car was empty now and it was all going to be for nothing, because Szell hadn’t come, but where could he be, he couldn’t be getting the diamonds yet, because no bank was open, and anyway, he’d never get the goddamn diamonds, because once there was a death, safe deposit boxes were sealed until after the law had its chance for examination; they’d gone through all that when H.V. died and they couldn’t get into his safe deposit box, nobody was allowed to touch anything for a long time, not that there was anything there much worth touching. “Is Szell waiting at the bank, what bank?”

  “I know nothing,” she was about to finish, but Babe took his gun out then, and that stopped her. “I’m not afraid,” she said.

  “You will be,” Babe told her, and he gestured her out toward the porch. She moved quickly, and he followed her, his gun hand already damp.

  “Morning,” Janeway called. He stood between Karl and Erhard, and his smile had rarely been more dazzling.

  Babe just watched him.

  “Perhaps we might come up and have a chat,” Janeway said, and Babe could only think again of Gatsby, and the whole thing was a house party, fun and games and tea sandwiches when the time came.

  “He is armed,” Elsa said. “He has a pistol.”

  “Can’t be too safe nowadays, I suppose,” Janeway said, the smile still there.

  “Say, ‘Old Sport,’ why don’t you?” Babe said.

  Janeway started toward the porch. Slowly, but his direction was absolutely clear. “My favorite novel, yours too?” he said. Karl and Erhard followed.

  Babe let them come. When they were close enough, he said, “Stop.”

  Janeway obeyed immediately, the others too.

  Babe hesitated.

  “We’re awaiting further instructions,” Janeway told him. “Do we take three giant steps—what?” He did his smile again.

  Babe didn’t know what to do; it wasn’t his turf, he didn’t understand the boundaries. He could try firing now, and perhaps get one, but that left two free to roam, with him trapped inside an unfamiliar place, and maybe that was the thing to do anyway, just fire like a madman, but he wasn’t sure. He had a hostage, and that was probably good, but what for? Should he try a move that way, using the girl? Could he? Would they buy it if he tried?

  “Surely there must be more fruitful ways of passing time,” Janeway said then.

  “I like waiting,” Babe said, which was a lie—ordinarily he hated it—but there was something bothering Janeway, the standing around was getting to him, so that made it just fine as far as Babe was concerned.

  Karl muttered something; Janeway shook him off.

  “Tell Karl not to get upset,” Babe said. “They’ll be here inside five minutes.” And before they could ask after the “they” he supplied an answer: “The cops.” Babe was really very proud of himself for that. They, all suspected the cops were coming, why not let them have their suspicions? Any pressure you could add to the enemy burden was a blessing—that had to be true, he wasn’t his brother’s brother for nothing.

  “He said there were no police,” Elsa said.

  “And I was telling the truth too,” Babe said. “Probably.”

  Erhard began twisting his body around, staring along the road. Again Karl muttered something, moving straight to Janeway, but again Janeway shook him off.

  “I haven’t got my watch, anybody know the exact time?” Babe asked.

  “I don’t believe the police are coming,” Janeway said.

  Babe nodded. “We agree on something, neither do I.” He gave Janeway his smile, hoping it was dazzling.

  Then came the crucial pause. Because after it was over, Janeway said, “All right, how much? And can we please discuss terms inside?” He moved his hands away from his body, so that if he was armed, he would be at a distinct disadvantage in getting to it quickly. The other two followed his gesture.

  “That supposed to imply trust?” Babe asked.

  “Along those lines.”

  Babe gestured with the pistol, and backed into the living room, bringing Elsa with him. He continued on until he stood in a corner of the room, no windows close, no
thing. Janeway came in first, arms still away from his body. Karl followed, Erhard shut the door.

  “You understand, of course,” Janeway began, “that I’m only authorized to go to a certain limit; even if I want to go higher, it’s entirely out of my control, only Szell can give—”

  “Oh cut it, there are no terms,” Babe said, “you only wanted to get inside so you could finish me easier.”

  “Then why did you let us?” Janeway said.

  “Because you’re all in my killing range now,” Babe said, and he pushed Elsa away from him, his father’s gun ready.

  Janeway examined him awhile. “I’m sorry,” he said finally, “but you’re just not good casting for the part, I rather have my doubts.”

  “I’m a crack shot,” Babe said, but he knew they weren’t buying, and his gun hand was really sweating now, his heart going wild again, and he could almost begin to sense that he was paling, going lightheaded. “I am!” he said, too loud for belief, much too loud, and he knew it but he couldn’t take the words back.

  “There are no police,” Janeway said. “If there were, he wouldn’t be panicking.”

  “They’re coming,” Babe said, “and you’re going to be one stunned son of a bitch when they take you, and then Szell goes, you’re all going.” He was panting from his speech.

  Janeway took a short step away. “We’ll all just wait here,” he said, very softly, “and we’re none of us about to do anything, are we, Erhard, because we don’t have to, isn’t that right, Karl, we’re just going to watch, and, Elsa, move away a bit please, I think the boy could use a bit of breathing room.”

  Tall, skinny, Babe leaned into the corner. It was terrible, but he was losing it all; he had the gun, the weapon was his, but everything was drifting from him. He knew it, they knew it. There were few secrets in the room. “I’ll tell you my terms,” he said, making his voice loud but not too loud, he didn’t want that mistake again.

  “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 closer 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.