Marathon Man

by Goldman, William

  —then click.

  1913, Babe commanded, the book clenched all he had in his thin hands. Russia. He shut his eyes tight. Russia. The Sleeping Giant. Nicholas was still runnings things, but Rasputin was coming up fast on the outside, his hold on Alexandra stronger by the month, each time he cured another of her son’s hemophilia fights while the doctors stood around helpless. Lenin was humping the cause of restlessness when and where he could, making headway. And in America? Money. M-o-n-e-y, thazzall. The Vanderbilts gave a little soiree with not just Franz Lehar himself doing the orchestra conducting, and not just Kreisler and Elman sawing away on their fiddles; no, for the capper they had Caruso entertaining the guests with his tenoring. How about that? The world sliding down the tubes, and over here you just didn’t count unless you could have old Enrico himself belting his lungs out for the entertainment pleasure of you and your four hundred intimates. Amazing. How could we have been so out of things? Is it any wonder that it all exploded, that finally—

  —finally click.

  Babe was ready for it. He just calmly put the book down and said to himself, There will be a fifth click. And if there is, that means all the clicks weren’t clicks at all, they were creaks, and my four lights still burn, and all is well with the union.

  There will be a fifth click, he repeated.

  I have complete confidence that the fifth click will come, because logic dictates that it will, and if you’ve put your life in logic’s hands, you don’t say “So long” at the first sign of a little uncertainty.

  His position was simple: All he had to do was just wait around for the fifth click and, when it came, go back to hitting the books.

  And if it didn’t come?

  Still simple. Just wait inside, locked safe and sound, because they built buildings solid when they built his pit, so let them try and break the door, what they’d get for their troubles would be shoulder separations, and screw, what they got they deserved.

  Unless they were giants. Giants could splinter the door in pretty quick. Maybe they hired a specialist, a door cruncher, and if they had a guy like that, he’d be in for a few sweaty moments.

  “Help,” Babe said, experimentally at first, because he had never called that word before, not and really meant it; oh, as a kid sure, everybody called for help all the time, but then it meant “Make this bee quit chasing me,” not SAVE ME SAVE MY LIFE!—

  —click.

  Babe lay back in the tub and thanked God that the walls were thick, and so he didn’t have to get out, humiliated and dripping, to explain to some unknown neighbor that there must have been some mistake, he hadn’t been the one that yelled for help, why would he go and do a thing like that? No, Babe decided, that would make the neighbor angry, and the neighbor had, after all, done a good deed, so what he would do is say, “Oh, you heard that yell for help too, so did I, it came from outside in the street, maybe those stoop kids are mugging somebody, wait just a sec till I get dressed and we’ll go investigate.” That would be a good, reasonable thing to say to a neighbor in the middle of the night, except, of course, since the fifth click, it didn’t matter all that much now—

  —now scratch.

  Babe held his breath. That was what the fifth sound had been, not a click but something that sounded like it, a scratch, and here it was coming again—

  —again scratch.

  Scratch.

  Someone was taking off the hinges of his bathroom door.

  “Help!” Babe hollered, but not loud enough, so he did it again. “Help!” and he was really working into it now, his lungs loosening up fine, but just before he was about to really start to scream it out, he heard something that scared him. Worse than anything.

  Rock music was blasting from his room now, blaring out, his radio turned up full, covering even the loudest cry.

  Scratch.

  Scratch.

  Scratch.

  Scratch.

  Babe got the hell out of the tub and stared around for something to attack with. They were coming in to get him, and son of a bitch, why did he use an electric razor? His father had used a straight razor, and Babe had loved to watch him with it, scraping the whiskers, and if only he’d copied H.V. that way too, then he’d have a straight razor clenched and ready so that when they came in he’d just calmly swipe the shit out of them, and when they were helpless he’d call the cops and wouldn’t that be something—

  No it wouldn’t—quit this now—because you don’t have a straight razor.

  But he did have the gun.

  The problem was getting to it. Babe stood in a corner of the room, naked, desperately trying to figure what the hell to do, but all he could come up with was to get dressed. It would be too humiliating if they roared in and he was naked—you couldn’t fight your best if you didn’t have any clothes on, that was just giving them too much of your vulnerability to aim at— so he quickly got dressed, pajama tops and bottoms, the bottoms tied tight, the top buttoned all the way up.

  There, Babe thought. That’s a lot better.

  Better? Better, you asshole, they’re coming to get you and you’re feeling like a big deal ’cause you’ve got pajamas on? think of something!

  And he did.

  “Save me,” Babe shouted. “Save me, help, hellllp,” and they turned the rock music on even louder, which he figured they would, and that was fine with him, because they had to know he was helpless and cringing and ready to fold the way he was calling out “Hellllp for Chrissakes, somebody save me” and that was what he wanted them to think, because as long as they thought that, the last thing they’d expect is that he’d attack them, unlock the door and yank it full open and dive into the darkness, falling toward his desk, and once he got his hands on the gun he’d fire the fucker, he wouldn’t aim it, just fire it, because once they knew he was armed it was all his, every ad point worked his way, because they’d be in a room with an armed man, armed and deadly and ready to kill. “Save me,” Babe screamed, creeping toward the door. “Help please Jesus!” he hollered, his fingers edging toward the lock. “Omigod won’t somebody please do something,” he shrieked, and when he had both hands ready, one on the knob, one on the lock, he let go one final begging “Pleeeeeeeease!” and then he unlocked the door and threw it open and was all set for his dive and roll toward the desk.

  Babe was candy.

  The Limper blocked his dive, and then the bigshouldered guy was all over him, slamming him back into the bathroom, and as Babe spun he thought Jesus, they’re going to beat me to a pulp again, and he tried some feeble defense, but it was garbage, the bigshouldered man was forcing him down, and then the bathroom lights went out and there was nothing but the sound of the rock music as Babe went into the tub again, his legs kicking and splashing, his head going steadily under water, so he knew it wasn’t a beating this time at all; this time it was drowning they intended.

  No air. Even the rock sounds were gone now. Nothing in the world but giant hands keeping you down, even if you kicked, even if you tried with all you had to thrash and flail and find an opening. His kicking got weaker, less frequent. He wanted to go out as well as he could, because Janeway had said these were probably the guys who’d killed Doc and Janeway had been right about everything else so far, and the memory of Doc sent a new surge of strength through him, not much, but enough to get his head out of the water, and for an instant he heard again the blare of rock.

  But only for an instant. The giant hands were firm now. No way to sway them. Nothing to do. So this is what it’s like to die, Babe thought. Underwater, he kept his eyes closed. It really isn’t all that bad, he decided; not as bad as you’d think.

  But then he had to cough and his mouth opened and the water poured in, and the big hands held him down. No, Babe realized then. He was wrong about death not being as bad. All wrong. It was worse.

  21

  Damp, drained, pajamaed, in a room, in a chair, tied, Babe awoke, alone and—hey how about that—alive.

  He blinked, trying to
sort out impressions. Nothing special about the room—plain-walled, small, but brightly lit—maybe unusually so. Nothing special about the chair either—except, he realized as he leaned back slightly, that it was kind of a recliner. He could adjust his angle within reason, although doing it didn’t greatly add to his comfort, because he was bound too tightly, hand and foot, for anything resembling ease. It must have been a while since they attacked, but it couldn’t have been too long, or his clothes would have been dryer. There were no windows in the room, but he was willing to bet it was still night, probably not much after three or in that vicinity. Summing up, he was uncomfortable, completely captive, undoubtedly the helpless victim of relentless sadistic destroyers.

  But who gave a shit, he was breathing.

  My God, Babe thought, what an underrated function—we ought to declare a National Breathing Week, pick some time of year, maybe late autumn, when the air quality was pretty decent, and just let the public go around inhaling the ozone. He was getting giddy, not proper behavior for historians—where would the world be today if Carlyle had gone giddy doing his rewrites?—but he couldn’t help it, he was there, present, the earth was turning and he was spinning too; he had no cause whatsoever for complaint.

  From behind him a voice said, “He’s awake.” The Limper came into view, staring down at him.

  There were more footsteps, and the big-shouldered man was on the other side of the chair, watching him too. He was carrying an armload of clean white towels, beautifully folded.

  “Give me,” the Limper said.

  The towels were handed across.

  “Keep his head still, that’s the most important,” the Limper said, his voice suddenly going into whisper. Because behind them now: quick footsteps.

  Babe watched as the men stiffened slightly, almost as the police and the first crew cut had stiffened back in his room when Janeway had first made his appearance.

  But this man now wasn’t Janeway. He was completely bald, powerfully built, bull-shouldered. And blue-eyed—bright, brighter even than Biesenthal’s. A squat bull of a man, but Babe had seen enough around campuses to be able to spitball that this one was not, and never had been, anything less than brilliant. He carried a rolled-up towel in one hand. And a black leather bag in the other. He indicated that he wanted a lamp to be brought closer to the chair. When the Limper hurriedly did that, the bull-shouldered man spoke. Quietly: “Is it safe?” he said.

  Babe wasn’t ready for the question. “Huh?”

  “Is it safe?”

  “What?”

  “Is it safe?”

  “Is what safe?”

  As patiently as ever: “Is it safe?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  No change in tone: “Is it safe?”

  Babe’s voice was starting to rise: “I can’t tell you if something’s safe or not unless I know what you’re asking, so ask me specifically and I’ll tell you if I can.”

  “Is it safe?” the bull-shouldered man said, steady as a rock.

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “Is it safe?”

  “I don’t know—don’t you hear me?—I do not know —tell me what the ‘it’ refers to.”

  “Is it safe?” Like a machine.

  It was getting to be the Chinese water torture. “Yes,” Babe said, “it’s very safe. It’s so safe you wouldn’t believe it. There. Now you know.”

  “Is it safe?”

  “You don’t like ‘yes,’ I’ll give you ‘no,’ it isn’t safe —very dangerous. Be careful.”

  It was still said with infinite patience, but this time there came a finality into the tone: “Is it safe?” so when Babe quietly answered back, “I really really don’t know what you want me to tell you,” he was not surprised when the bull-shouldered man started to move, to begin effecting changes. He gestured toward the big man, and immediately Babe felt the giant hands pressing in against the sides of his head, holding it tight and steady. The Limper brought the lamp closer still.

  While the bull-shouldered man put down his black leather bag, he opened the towel, and Babe could see a bunch of slender shining tools. It was hot in the room, and as the bald man selected a tool he was perspiring lightly, and without a word the Limper reached across with a small clean towel, wiped the forehead dry. The big man’s hand shifted, forcing Babe’s mouth open. The bull-shouldered man took out a clean, angeled dental mirror, then picked up another tool with a kind of rounded end. Concentrating totally, his blue eyes unwavering, he began to work.

  My God, Babe thought, he’s cleaning my teeth.

  Madness. The guy moved his tools around quickly in Babe’s mouth, light taps here, gentle probes there, all very deft. I wonder if I should ask him how bad my cavity is, Babe thought. Then he wondered what the guy’s fees were because what the hell, as long as they were all together, the guy could at least put in a temporary filling for a few bucks. For the briefest moment, Babe wanted to laugh.

  Only, of course, he didn’t, because it wasn’t funny.

  Because, of course, it was frightening. Dentists were frightening, no matter how much music they piped into their offices or the number of Novocain shots they offered. It was all very primitive. It went beyond pain.

  The dentist meant fear, just like in Psycho, in the shower scene, that meant fear. There was something unconsciously terrifying about taking a shower with a curtain drawn, and it was the same with a dentist. You never knew what might happen next.

  Christ I’m scared, Babe thought, I must try and keep that from him. He stared back into the blue eyes, thinking, I shouldn’t be, though. He’s not coming close to hurting me and he could have, he spotted my cavity first thing. Now he was back to it, using the spoon excavator, but with such caution it still didn’t hurt, and Babe was a terrific patient anyway, if anyone could be—he usually went through most stuff without Novocain because he hated the needles and the hours of numbness worse than the few minutes of actual discomfort. The bald guy was scraping gently, quickly away at the cavity, getting the decay out. The tooth was one of the four front ones, upper incisors, and as he sat there in the midst of his lunatic dental appointment, Babe didn’t know a lot of things, but one fact he was sure of: the bald guy was one hell of a craftsman.

  His fingers were strong, sure, lightning fast: They moved with almost unnerving speed as they cleaned out the decay. Babe, pinioned, could watch the bright blue eyes, and the concentration was incredible. Not a flicker; nothing distracted them. The scraping just went on and on and on. After several minutes, the bullshouldered man stopped, took up another tool, looked for a long moment at the cavity. “Is it safe?” he said, his voice still as it had always been, patient, calm, seeming capable of enduring any wait until the sought-after answer was achieved, but Babe could only come back with “I told you before and I’m telling you now, I swear I don’t know.” That would have been his answer anyway; but before he got halfway through it, the bullshouldered man took the new tool, a needle-pointed explorer, and shoved it up through the cavity into the live nerve.

  The top of Babe’s head came off.

  He had never experienced such sudden suffering and his scream was almost instantaneous with the attack, except the bald guy pulled the explorer tool out and the big guy covered Babe’s mouth with his hand, so the scream was nothing really: a little muffled thing, a child’s whimper.

  “Is it safe?” the bull-shouldered man said again, patiently, his voice almost more gentle now.

  There were tears in Babe’s eyes—he couldn’t stop them, they were a reaction, they were there. “I don’t—” he began, but again came an interruption, this time the big man forcing his mouth to stay open while the bull-shouldered man pushed the sharp explorer back up, deeper into the nerve.

  Babe began to black out, but just before he could, the tool was pulled away again, and he could not reach unconsciousness. The bald guy looked at him now, gentle concern in the blue eyes. He understood pain, this one; he knew just h
ow far you could push in, just when to pull out. He reached out again toward the towel, and then there was a small bottle in his hands. “Oil of cloves,” he said, the first time he had varied, and he put some on his finger, and the big guy forced Babe’s mouth open again as the bald one put his finger on the tooth.

  Oh Jesus, Babe thought, the son of a bitch is gonna kill me.

  Nothing like that happened.

  The bald man gently rubbed the cavity with the liquid, and as he did it, the pain began to magically go away. “Is it not remarkable?” the bald man said. “Just simple oil of cloves and how amazing the results.”

  Babe licked at the finger, ran his tongue across his cavity. The dentist smiled, took some more oil of cloves, rubbed it over the cavity again, expertly, soothingly, making the pain disappear.

  Babe began breathing regularly again.

  “Life can be, if only we will allow it, so simple,” the dentist said, pausing for the Limper to reach out, remove the least sign of perspiration. He held up the oil of cloves: “Relief.” He held up the explorer: “Anguish.” He took the towel from the Limper and dabbed at Babe’s features. “You seem a bright young man, able to distinguish light from darkness, heat from freezing cold. Surely you must prefer anything to my brand of torment, so I ask you, and please take your time before answering: Is it safe?”

  “Jesus, lis—”

  “You did not take your time, you rushed. I will not repeat the question; surely by now you know what it is and also its implications. When you are ready, reply.” After a moment, Babe said, “I...”

  The blue eyes waited.

  Babe shook his head... can’t satisfy... what you want... because... I don’t...” and then he said, “... please, aw please, don’t—don’t Jesus don’t,” because the big guy was holding his mouth open again and the bald bull-shouldered dentist was moving in with the sharp-pointed explorer, into his mouth, into the cavity, up, higher, higher than it had ever gone— —Christ! Babe thought, he’s going to push it through my brain! and then his senses at last gave out on him and he sagged, semiconscious, and as the straps were taken off he heard the dentist’s instructions being given: “Karl, take him to the spare room—take the cloves with you, and some smelling salts—get him ready, and be quick.”