The Novels of William Goldman

by William Goldman

  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, Janeway 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 Chrissakes, 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 voice, 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 voilà, your pain is diminished as if by legerdemain.”

  “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.

  “Come closer,” she said softly. “Rest.”

  He moved toward her, put his head on the shoulder of her black raincoat. “I am tired,” Babe said.

  “Soon it doesn’t matter any more, because we’re going to be so happy, I know.”

  “I could sure use a dose of that along about now.”

  “Do you like the car? I had to sell practically my body for it, I hope you like it.”

  “It’s very nice,” Babe said, eyes half closing.

  “There is a man above me in my building who finds me most attractive—at least he used to, I don’t know what his opinion is now, since after you called I could only think to wake him and say I needed his car, could he do me that favor.”

  “What favor did he want?”

  “The obvious. I believe he did, I’m not quite sure, since we were both very tactful and neither very awake. You see, the reason I could only think to bother this man was because you said over the telephone that you wanted a quiet place, a place to think, and the same man who owns this car, he also has such a place, and I thought we might go there, it’s by a lake.”

  “Lake?”

  “Yes, he owns a little house about an hour out. There are a few other houses and docks, and it is very beautiful. He invited me there one weekend, and it was like living in a subway car, with all the motorboats and water-skiers, but that was summer. Once September begins, it becomes, almost overnight, deserted. On the weekends a few people still come, but in the middle of the week, like now, there is no one. Why don’t we try it?”

  “ ’Kay,” Babe muttered, eyes fluttering.

  “Rest,” Elsa whispered.

  His head against her shoulder, Babe closed his eyes, and for just a moment he really thought he was going to be able to obey her soft command, “Rest,” but then there began the knotting in his stomach, tension and sadness intertwining, and even before it happened, he knew that although he might have chosen a better moment, a lonelier place, still, when your mourning time came you took it, and suddenly his body went into spasm and the tears literally burst from his weary eyes, splattering his raincoat, hers, and for a while he was blinded.

  Then, as suddenly as it had come, it left him, with just the sharp intake of breath as a memory that it once had been. But it had been. He had mourned. Unsatisfactorily. God knows insufficiently. Elsa was looking at him, almost, Babe thought, with fear.

  “You are all right?”

  He made a nod.

  “Yes?”

  He nodded again.

  “Nothing is wrong then?”

  “Tired.”

  “Yes.”

  She brought an arm around him, drew him close. “Comes soon the lake. And all will be lovely ...”

  It really was lovely. They reached it not much after seven, and the sun was already hitting the water at a strong angle; as they took the road around, Babe could tell how quiet the place was. He saw no activity. Nothing but the dust rising behind them as they drove along. He rolled down his window. The air brought nature sounds into the car, the kind of thing he hadn’t really heard since he’d hit Manhattan months ago.

  Elsa drove into a run-down driveway and stopped the car. “I think this is his house,” she said, getting out. “I hope it is. I know where he keeps his key.” She went up the porch steps and around to a drainpipe and bent down. “I think half the lake keeps their keys in their drainpipes,” she said, laughing, and Babe smiled back at her. She opened the front door with little difficulty and stepped inside, then quickly out. “Musty,” she said.

  Babe got out of the car. “Leave it open, let it air a little,” he said, “let’s walk down to the water.”

  She nodded, came down the steps, held out her hand to him, and together they headed for the lake. The sun was growing brighter now. The breeze had died, and the nature sounds were louder. Elsa smiled, and glanced off in the direction they’d come from. They stepped out onto the small dock. Babe pointed back to the house. “Szell’s?” he asked.

  “Zells?” she said, her head tilted, as if she had not heard the name.

  “Oh, come on,” Babe said. “You’re in on it. I don’t understand what you do exactly, what service you perform, but you’re in on it.”

  Elsa shook her head, smiled again.

  “I don’t really know you’re in on it, I just know you’re in on it, if you understand me—you didn’t do anything wrong, no mistake or like that—it’s kind of like Janeway said once: After a while you get a feel of the way the other guy operates, you get a sense of his mind.”

  Now she said, “Janeway?” She had not heard that name either.

  “I’m talking,” Babe shouted, “about two very famous people, George Szell and Elizabeth Janeway, and nobody who hopes to win my heart can be a functional illiterate, so quit acting like one.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and she held his hand very tightly and looked at him adoringly with her eyes. “You’re very tired and very funny and I care for you.”

  “My brother loved me,” Babe said.

  “I know. You’ve been through a terrible time.”

  “He really did, he loved me plenty, no more than me him, y’understand. We fucking cared for each other, and after you tore out of Lutèce, you know what he said? He said I should forget you because you didn’t love me, you were just using me, and I said bullshit, how can you tell, and his answer to that, his answer—and remember, we would have died for each other—his answer was that you were gorgeous so you must have been using me because why else would someone love me?—

  “—Can you imagine how that hurt? I mean, I knew I wasn’t in Tyrone Power’s league, but can you conceive what it’s like when someone that loves you says a thing like that to you? It just racked me so bad until I realized I was wrong, he didn’t love me, because no one who loved anyone would say such a crippler, anything that cruel ... and then when he died—when he bled away in my arms—I knew I’d been right the first time, that he did care, and when he said why else would someone love me, he knew you were using me, somehow he knew, and that was a shorthand, a code kind of, and I thought back to all the things, like your lying about being German and Szell being German and the funny way you stood up in the park just before the mugging and how you happened to find a guy with a car and a deserted place on short notice, and none of it means anything, no court would call it evidence, but you’re in on it, I know it and Doc knew it, so I’m asking you again, is this Szell’s house or not?”

  “George Szell? I don’t think so. Someone would have mentioned it, don’t you think?”

  “What did you do for Szell?”

  Elsa sighed. “It isn’t charming any more, Tom; stop it.”

  “Where’s Janeway?”

  She just shook her head.

  “Was this Szell’s house?”

  “Tom, I can’t tell you things I don’t know, believe me, please.”

  “When are they getting here?”

  Elsa only shook h
er head.

  “What did you do for Szell?”

  “Nothing.”

  “When are they due?”

  She must have known then that he wasn’t going to stop, because softly she said, “Soon.”

  “Oh,” Babe said. “Good. Right.” And they stood there, alone, close together on the tiny dock with the sun getting warm, the truths at last spoken, not all of them by any means, but enough, the crucial ones, and Babe could only think of Gatsby, Gatsby at last at Daisy’s house, just before they all took off for their deadly trip into and out of the city, when she looked at him in front of Tom her husband and said, “Ah, you look so cool, you always look so cool,” and Tom knew then and they all knew then that she loved him, Daisy loved Gatsby, his tortured trip from Shaffer’s to the blue lawn had not been so in vain.

  They started walking slowly up to the deserted house with the door open, a Wyeth place, ghosts abounding. “It was the sister’s,” Elsa said, gesturing toward the house. “Then, when she died, Szell’s father kept the house himself; he would come here weekends. For whatever reasons, it reminded him of home, the lake.” She glanced off toward the distance again.

  “What’s keeping them, do you suppose?”

  Elsa shrugged. “Just making sure there were no police following after you.”

  Babe had to smile. No one understood that what he wanted was just one thing: the final class reunion. He wanted his very own try at that, and afterward, fail or not, it ended how it ended. “No police,” he told her. They continued on up, approaching the house. “What did you do for him?”

  “Courier work, mostly. The diamonds went from the bank to the capital and then to Scotland, and a fat antiques man did the barter. I took the money down to Paraguay, made whatever currency changes were necessary, gave the money to Christian.”

  “Kind of a glamor job, sounds like: easy hours, lots of travel.”

  “It had to be done.”

  “Did Szell kill my brother?”

  She shrugged.

  “Yes, you mean.”

  She said nothing.