Night Gallery 2

by Rod Serling

  "All right, Tony," he interrupted, "here's what I need. A doctor, about three sets of muscles to stand outside a door—and your presence not later than fifteen minutes from now. And, Tony—come alone. Capisce? If I hear more than one set of footsteps—I may be dead, but we'll be holding ice-cold hands together."

  The voice gurgled at him from the other end. Compliance, guarantees, promises.

  Augie put down the receiver. He turned, to see Molly standing near the steps, an overnight bag in her hand.

  "Anything else?" Molly asked.

  Augie looked at her and fought down the impulse to touch her. "Good-bye," he managed to say, "good luck, stay healthy, and be grateful you're not being carried out on a stretcher. Next time you pick a patsy, my darling, get one that doesn't die so hard."

  "Sure," she nodded, then turned and unlatched the night lock.

  Augie moved hurriedly over to her. "Hold it, love," he said, pointing to the door. "Don't open it too wide—and then leave fast."

  Molly turned to him and studied him as if seeing him for the first time. There was a look—not just on his face—but behind his eyes; like the horizontal ruin of a fighter looking up at a referee's arm as it swings back and forth, counting him out and pointing the way to oblivion; the look of watchful, waiting, constant fear that came with helplessness.

  "You poor slob," Molly said to him softly. "That's what you are, Augie—a poor slob. You want to know why? Because you got cigar boxes full of money, and apartment houses in every state in the Union, and a piece of everything from stables of broads to casinos—"

  "Don't tell me what I own. I got six sets of bookkeepers who get paid to do that."

  "I'll tell you what you don't have, Augie. You don't have ten minutes during any given day when you can breathe easy. And there isn't a three-hour stretch when you don't have to look over your shoulder at least a half a dozen times. You don't have any breathing room, Augie. That's why I agreed to sell you out tonight. Or at least step aside while it was done. I can't hack it with you. Your fears rub off. I may not get points for the sell-out, but let me tell you something, Augie—I should get some points for hanging in as long as I did. Being around you is like walking around a cemetery."

  She released the night latch on the door and took one last look at him. "Augie, baby—you die every day!" She moved out of the door, closing it softly behind her, leaving him standing there, staring at the spot where she'd stood.

  Tony, a clucking, obsequious, pawing Tony, drove him to the fashionable apartment-office of a particular doctor around Park and Fifty-fourth Street. Tony waited in the anteroom while the doctor finished treating Augie's arm and the bruise on his face.

  The doctor was an aristocratic, thin-lipped, silver-haired man with cold blue eyes and a very cultured voice. He put the last piece of tape on Augie's bandage, then laid the scissors down. "You're lucky, Mr. Kolodney."

  Augie looked up at him. "In what? Never in love—rarely in craps—and infrequently at the track. So pick it up, Doc—what am I lucky in?"

  The doctor pointed to his arm. "That glass was about a quarter of an inch away from an artery." He moved over to a small sink and began washing his hands. "A quarter of an inch, Mr. Kolodney—but that's the difference between a bandage and a funeral. That's lucky." He turned off the water and began wiping his hands. "Also—you have a doctor who's the soul of discretion. I won't even mention your being here tonight—let alone any knowledge I have about a dead hood in the kitchen of Schirrappa's Italian Gardens. Now, I'd call that lucky. Do you want to pay me now, Mr. Kolodney, or shall I send a bill?"

  Augie reached into his pocket with his good hand, took out a roll, and looked up questioningly.

  "Five hundred dollars," the doctor said softly, and then a quick smile, "after office hours."

  Augie peeled off some bills and put them on the desk.

  The doctor very deftly picked them up and deposited them in the pocket of his white coat. "And now, Mr. Kolodney, I'll give you the midnight special. Free medical advice." He took a few steps over toward Augie. "You've got a pulse like a locomotive. You've got a heartbeat that sounds like a dull needle on a broken record. Your color is a chopped-liver gray, you're carrying an extra hundred pounds on your frame, and your blood pressure—and I'm winging this, but I'm close—is ready to blow you into the next county."

  Augie rose and rolled down his sleeve. "That's the advice, Doc—now give me the prescription."

  The doctor smiled. "Also free. Retire. Buy a dairy farm in Bucks County. Or take up work at orchid growing in the Bahamas. Stop drinking like a fish, eating like a hippo, and running through life like you were missing a train. That's the prescription."

  He picked up Augie's coat and helped him put it on.

  "You wanna know something, Doc?" Augie said, his voice shaking slightly. "If I was to retire one minute from now—if I was to find some monastery in the Himalayas, five thousand miles from anybody who spoke English—they'd still get me."

  "Who?" the doctor asked.

  "Any one of a dozen hoods who are jealous of me. A division of torpedoes who would knock me off for carfare. I got more enemies than you got patients. Now, where does that leave me? Right back where I started."

  He was halfway to the door when the doctor spoke again. "Wait a minute, Mr. Kolodney."

  Augie turned to him.

  "Do you want out?"

  Augie's voice shook again. "I want out so bad that . . . I want out so bad that I'd cut off both arms and deliver them with ribbons." For some incredible reason, he couldn't keep the pleading out of his voice. "I want out so bad—that I'll sign away anything but my first and last name—everything I own, from the hairbrush to the socks." He put his hand on the doorknob leading to the anteroom, and his voice fell to almost a whisper. "I want out so bad, Doc, that one of these days I'm gonna use a razor, and it'll take a bucket brigade to clean up the mess."

  The doctor nodded, as if something had been confirmed. He continued to nod as he walked behind his desk, took out a pen and a paper, and began to write something down.

  Augie stared at him from across the room.

  The doctor ripped the paper off the pad, folded it carefully, held it out to Augie. "There's a name and address on this paper, Mr. Kolodney. I don't want you to open it up until you're in your car. I don't want you to give that name and address to anyone. Including the torpedo you've got waiting for you in the anteroom. And after you've read what's on it—and memorized it—chew it up and swallow it."

  Augie walked over to the desk and took the paper, looked at it briefly and a little warily. "Very hush," he said. "Very top secret."

  The doctor nodded. "Very. It's the name of somebody who might be able to help you."

  "Help me what?"

  "Survive. If you're as hungry for it as you say."

  Augie nodded. "I'm hungry for it."

  The doctor smiled. "Then this is an individual who might help."

  Augie looked down at the paper again. "Expensive?"

  The doctor leaned back in his chair. "I wouldn't know, Mr. Kolodney," he said, "but do you care? You're obviously not going to take it with you. And at the rate things are going—you'll be going all too soon!"

  Augie very thoughtfully put the folded paper into his pocket. The doctor was quite right, of course. What the hell kind of options did he have? What choices? What if it cost him a bank-roll, or even an arm and a leg? What the hell good was currency, a right arm, or a left arch when you were encased in concrete and lying on the bottom of a river?

  He turned and moved into the anteroom, where Tony, the last of the palace guards, awaited him. Squat, muscular Tony, his body encased in a too-tight suit, his perpetually beard-shadowed face with eyes staring, half-stupid and half-fierce. "Ready, boss?" he asked breathlessly, looking through the open door toward the doctor. "Should maybe I remind the doctor to keep his mouth shut?" His voice was properly menacing.

  "Just open the frigging door, Tony, and keep your eyes open all
the way to the car."

  "Sure, boss," Tony said eagerly. "It'd take a tank to get through to you with me here."

  That's right, Augie thought, but didn't say. It would take a tank before someone like Tony could sense danger. It had come to this. Hundreds of people on his payroll—literally hundreds. Fifty guns he could call out of bed—but all he had between himself and the jeopardy of the night was this muscular idiot who had to get hit with the pounding side of an ax before reflexes responded.

  Fat, rich, powerful Augle, walking seminaked into the darkness with his fear trampling all over his logic. Why couldn't they leave him alone? Why couldn't it be live and let live? Why?

  When he and Tony got out of the elevator and started across the small lobby, he felt dangerously close to crying. Live and let live—that's the way it should be.

  Tony went out first, got the car parked on a side street, then pulled it around to the front of the building, reaching out behind him to open the rear door.

  Augie scurried out the door and into the car like a small animal, wishing that everybody believed in "live and let live." It never occurred to him, as he sat sweating in the back seat, hunched low and away from the windows, that he had ordered the death of a hundred men, wrecked the lives of ten times that number, lied, cheated, seduced, and destroyed with syringes, numbers tickets, and hired bullets. He felt the paper in his pocket and realized a sudden surge of hope. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he'd go to the person and the place. Tomorrow he'd be able to breathe again.

  Augie spent a busy next morning. He arranged with an outside corporation to rid the earth of at least six people—two former bodyguards, a restaurant owner, a lawyer, and a couple of white slavers who operated out of Boston. He had Tony deliver his car to his apartment, and then dismissed him.

  At four o'clock in the afternoon he had driven himself four hundred miles into the state of Vermont, following directions that had been given him in a phone conversation shortly before lunch.

  The trip was long, tedious, and difficult; Augie was not accustomed to driving himself and had little sense of direction—but miraculously he found the small private road that had been described, turned onto it, and moments later found himself in front of a châteaulike building, a massive stone structure, incongruous in its New England setting.

  Augie got out of the car and was only halfway to the door when it opened. A butler stood there, smiling.

  "Mr. Kolodney?" the butler asked.

  Augie eyed him up and down. "That's right."

  "Come in, sir. Dr. Glendon is expecting you."

  The front hall of the house was two stories high, with oil paintings, hanging tapestries, a suit of medieval armor, and tables loaded with vases and curios.

  The butler pointed toward a door, and Augie moved toward it.

  "Dr. Glendon is waiting for you, sir. Just go right in." He opened the door for Augie and then hurriedly withdrew.

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Kolodney," a voice said, Concurrent with the door closing behind Augie.

  A man stood near a big roll-top desk in a room cluttered with antiques and statuary. "I'm Dr. Glendon," the man said, smiling, holding out his hand.

  Augie, stiff-legged, moved toward him, studying the man. He was short, affable-looking, with a bland, almost gentle face. His age was indeterminate. What little hair was left was mostly gray. But to Augie, who cataloged people immediately, who rated them good or bad, dangerous or harmless—Dr. Glendon sent out no vibes at all. He was a neutral, noncommittal gray.

  "Sit down, Mr. Kolodney," he said after shaking Augie's limp hand. He pointed to a comfortable-looking leather chair.

  Augie sat down, still stiff, still nervous, and as always, suspicious. He looked around briefly at the statues and vases.

  Glendon picked up a pencil and poised it over a pad. "Are you interested in art, Mr. Kolodney? There are some interesting things here. That vase on the table, for example. That's Japanese. It's called Kutani. It's seventeenth-century—Kaga province. And the bulb bowl alongside. That's Chinese. Sung period. The three-color enamel on the shelf is an incense bowl. That's from the dynasty of Ming. The things across the room there are Persian. The jug, for example, is thirteenth-century. It's from Sultandad."

  His voice, Augie decided, was like that of a museum guide—a droning monotone, pointing out dum-dum pottery with foreign and forgettable names.

  Glendon smiled at the look on Augie's face. "I imagine you'd rather get on with it, wouldn't you, Mr. Kolodney?"

  Augie nodded. "I'd like to get on with it when I know what 'it' is. Up front I give you this. I don't like secrecy, Doctor. I don't like this business of telling me to come here alone and advising me not to mention to anyone where I'm going. That doesn't please. That makes me suspicious."

  Glendon smiled. "Really? In truth, Mr. Kolodney, the secrecy is for your benefit. I take it that anonymity might be a comfort to you nowadays." He moved the pad closer to him, and his voice became more businesslike. "Be that as it may be. Let's get some of the facts and chronology down, shall we?" The pencil was poised over the pad. "The name is—Kolodney. August Kolodney. Age?" He looked up.

  "Over thirty," Augie answered.

  "Occupation?"

  "Investor."

  "Reason for retirement?"

  "Ill health." Then he pointed toward the pad. "What the hell am I applying for—a bench spot at a senior citizens' spa? What the hell are the questions for?"

  Glendon's voice remained affable. "The questions, Mr. Kolodney, are to establish who you are. They are also an aid to me in the general comprehension of whether or not you need my services—and are willing to accept them."

  Augie leaned back in the chair. "I'll run that around the block," he said tersely, "until I find out just what the hell your services are."

  Glendon nodded, as if pleased. "Excellent. But let's start on a note of mutual trust, shall we? Now, I asked you your occupation."

  "I told you."

  "You told me a semitruth, and a semitruth, Mr. Kolodney, is also a semilie. You dabble in investments, but you're not an investor."

  Augie felt somehow caught or tricked, and strangely vulnerable. "All right," he said, "you write up the tag."

  Glendon nodded again. "I think we could place you generically in the category of—a racketeer, perhaps?"

  Augie stiffened.

  "No judgment implied, Mr. Kolodney," Glendon said hurriedly, smiling. "I'm looking now for an identification. Now, anyone who dabbles in gambling, drugs, protection—I think we could give that an overall title of racketeer." He jotted down something on the pad. "Now, as to reasons for retirement. Ill health." He smiled and looked up. "Again, Mr. Kolodney, just a degree or so off target. 'Ill health' in this case is a euphemism for 'fear for survival.' You're rather a ready aspirant for an assassination, are you not?"

  Augie stiffened again. "You already got the damned answer—why bother with the questions?"

  Glendon chuckled and seemed altogether delighted. "Reasonable. Reasonable, Mr. Kolodney. Frequently in the responses of an individual, one can take a reading as to his . . . well . . . call it character . . . makeup . . . attitude." He looked up very quickly. "Any close relatives, Mr. Kolodney?"

  "I don't have a family tree, Doc. I got a dead shrub."

  "No wife . . . no children?"

  "Look at me," Augie directed. "Do I look like I could get married to anybody?"

  Glendon sounded sympathetic. "And I presume not a fiancée either?"

  "Me?" Augie pointed to himself. "I don't take vows, Doctor. I don't love, honor, or cherish anything except the right to stay alive for the next morning." He pointed to the pad. "Now, what slot does that put me in?"

  Glendon put down the pencil. "I don't put people in slots, Mr. Kolodney," he said quietly, "but your situation does suggest that you have the basic qualifications to receive my services."

  Augie leaned forward. "Just what the hell are those services? What are you, anyway? You a travel agent? Or a real-estate broker?
You better let me ask a few questions."

  Glendon nodded and tapped on the desk with his pencil. "Here is what I guarantee to you, Mr. Kolodney," he said. "A long life—longer than you could have ever hoped for. Free of care, devoid of worry, absolutely without fear or tension of any kind. And uninterrupted physical comfort for the rest of your days." He pointed the pencfi toward Augie. "Now, all that is a firm and unconditional guarantee."

  "In writing," Augie demanded.

  Glendon smiled. "Engraved in rock or etched in ebony if you like."

  Augie rose from the chair. "That's half of the transaction. That's what I get. Now, Doc—what do I give?"

  Glendon nodded, as if satisfied with the question. "What you give, Mr. Kolodney, is up to you."

  Augie felt suspicion rise up in him like mercury in a heated thermometer. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he asked.

  Glendon smiled. "There are no charges for my services, Mr. Kolodney, but I do think that your assets—whatever they may be—will be of no use to you. So my suggestion is that you liquidate everything you own. Give it to charity."

  Augie leaned forward. "Have you any Goddamned idea what I own?" he asked.

  Glendon shrugged. "I can assume that you're a reasonably affluent man."

  "You'd need an adding machine in here, Doctor, to find out just how 'reasonably affluent' I am," Augie assured him with just a touch of pride. "I got cash, securities, stocks, bonds, interests, partnerships, insurance policies, bank accounts, safe-deposit contents—"

  Glendon held up a hand, as if stopping the traffic of words. "Get rid of all of it, Mr. Kolodney," he said evenly. "You'll have no need of any of it."

  Augie whistled through his teeth. "Get rid of it?" he asked. "Now, why the hell should I get rid of it? You mean—whatever you do for me is not gonna cost?"

  Glendon smiled. "It isn't going to cost you in terms of cash, securities, safe-deposit contents, or anything of that sort." He put the tips of his fingers together. "All that will be required of you, Mr. Kolodney . . . is your cooperation."