Marathon Man

by William Goldman

  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 bullshouldered 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 bullshouldered 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 bullshouldered 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 bullshouldered 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 bullshouldered 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 bullshouldered 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 how 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 bullshouldered 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."

  "You think he knows?" the Limper asked.

  "Of course he knows," the dentist said. "But he's being very stubborn." Then there was a long pause. Then Babe heard the worst words of his life: "Next time I'm afraid I'm going to really have to hurt him."

  The big-shouldered guy, Karl, lifted him then. Babe blinked as Karl carried him out of the bright room and down a long hall in what must have been a r
ailroad-car type apartment, and at the far end of the hall Karl pushed a door open and dropped Babe on a bed in the far corner and shoved some smelling salts in his face, and Babe blinked, coughed, coughed again, he couldn't stop coughing, so he tried to turn away, but Karl wouldn't let him, he could not escape the smelling salts, and when he was finally able to keep his eyes open, Karl said, "Take this," and shoved the oil of cloves bottle at him and poured some on Babe's finger, and Babe groggily pushed the finger against the wounded tooth, trying to make the pain go away again, and he licked the tooth too, the warm covering of his tongue helping some, and then he held out his finger again for more of the oil of cloves, and as Karl poured, Babe was somehow able to force a single thought through his unclear head, and that thought concerned life and how uneven it was, what a jagged craggy thing, peaks naturally following valleys as you moved along, because no more than a few minutes earlier he had heard with his very own ears the worst words of his existence, the news that the bullshouldered dentist was going to really hurt him soon, that the agony he had lived through up till now was just a warm-up, the prelims, kid stuff, and here, not many minutes later, he was able to see with his very own eyes the most glorious vision he had ever been privileged to behold in all his troubled years, because behind Karl now, moving silently, slowly, through the door, came Jane way, with just the most beautiful knife held tight in his hand...

  Babe realized that he had to keep his eyes away, not just from Janeway but from Karl too, because if the big man ever saw them, he would know that something was ten feet behind him, and if he turned in time, Janeway would be finished, because even though he had a knife, Karl had cornered the market on brute power. "... Please... more..." Babe muttered staring hard at the mattress he was sprawled across. "... More..." and he held out a trembling finger for the oil of cloves.

  Instead, Karl shoved the smelling salts full into his face, and the strength and surprise of that sent Babe falling full out on the mattress, gagging and coughing again, and it was rotten, sure, but it got him a chance to shoot a look toward Janeway, to see how he was doing on his wonderful errand of mercy.

  Eight feet to go. Maybe seven.

  Silently, Janeway was coming on.

  Look away! Babe commanded, immediately obeying himself, forcing his body back onto one elbow. "... The other... please... the other... for the pain..." and this time Karl did allow him the oil of cloves, pouring it on Babe's finger, and Babe raced the finger to his mouth, rubbing and rubbing the damaged tooth, and whatever the stuff was, whatever was in it, it was amazing because the ache in his mouth was diminishing rapidly, but he had to keep that bit of news from Karl too, lest the big man start to drag him back to the chair, and anyway, where the hell was Janeway, what was keeping him?

  Unable to help himself, Babe risked the glance, one fast eye flick, and Janeway was close now, not close enough for an accurate strike, but he had traversed most of the distance, and more than that, he hadn't made a sound. He must be part Indian, Babe decided, to cross a room in total quiet, and he dropped his eyes and began to rub his tooth and tongue it, and make weak appreciative sounds.

  Three feet to go.

  And coming. Aaaaaaannnd coming.

  "... Please just a little more..." Babe said, but he said it either too fast or too loud or perhaps it was the combination of the two coupled with the glance he'd made toward Janeway.

  It didn't really matter what his specific mistakes were; the conclusion was the bad thing, because, without preparation, Karl turned, saw Janeway, began to give a cry of warning as he stood with surprising speed, his great killing arms already in position to slaughter Janeway.

  Karl was candy.

  Babe never saw anyone move like Janeway moved, nowhere near that quick, because in one single blurred motion he stepped inside the bigger man's arms, spun him, threw his left arm around Karl's throat, lifted Karl slightly off the ground, using his left hip for leverage.

  And then Janeway's right hand moved.

  Babe saw it all. He was staring into Karl's peasant face as the right hand thudded home. Karl screamed like a baby, then pitched forward across the bed, Janeway's knife sticking out of him, and if you made an X on a man's back opposite from where the heart would be, that was where the handle held.

  Janeway grabbed Babe, pulled him up, yanked him out of the room, down the railroad-flat corridor, grabbed a door open, revealing the flight of steps to the street and cried "Go!" to Babe as the Limper appeared at the end of the hall, gun in hand. But Janeway outclassed him, because now there was a gun in his hand too, and he fired and fired again, and Babe did his best with the stairs, holding tight to the banister with both hands as behind him he heard the Limper's shrieks, and they went on until Janeway fired a third time, and that was that as Janeway ran down after Babe, catching him easily, leading him the rest of the way to the street. It was dark and empty, and Babe didn't know where the hell he was; the house they'd left was a boarded-up slum place next to a warehouse, but that was all Babe could make out, because Janeway was yanking him, not caring if Babe stumbled, and then throwing a car door open, shouting, "Get in --no, goddammit, the back--get in the back and lie down," and Babe tried to obey, but not quick enough for Janeway, who shoved him hard, ordering "Down-- down--get on the floor and stay still!" and once Babe did Janeway'-slammed the door shut, turned the ignition, gunning the car with all he had as they roared into the night.

  "Okay, it's all starting to come together, now listen to me and don't interrupt," Janeway began, until Babe said, "Can I get up?--is it all right now?--what time is it?--where are we?--what's happening, you just saved my life, that was really nice, thank you."

  "You just interrupted me, which is the one thing I asked you not to do--"

  "I wasn't trying to be rude, but nobody ever saved my life before and I wanted you to be sure to know I was grateful--"

  "You just did it again," Janeway said. "Now, if I answer your questions, will you just goddammit listen till I'm finished?"

  "I'll try very hard; I will."

  "Okay--about getting up, the answer is no, it isn't all right, I don't know what kind of total operation they're running, and the less your head is visible, the longer it's liable to stay attached to your shoulders, and where we are is the West Fifties, way west, near the Hudson, warehouses, deserted mosdy except during the day, trucking then, meat storage, and it's probably four o'clock or a little before, and I know I saved you, I was there when it happened, and what I want in return isn't your thanks but your silence, your silence, Levy, understand me?--what I'm saying is shut up, think you can handle that?"

  "Yes sir," Babe said quickly from the back seat, lying almost doubled over on the floor. He wasn't really that bad a guy, Janeway, once you got to know him a little. Oh, probably he was spoiled about getting his own way all the time, but when people went around rescuing you from anguish and death, you could learn to overlook little things pretty fast.

  Janeway took a corner on what seemed like two wheels, the tires screaming in the darkness. "Okay. That first guy, the big one, was named Franz Karl, and he was a human pimple, that's probably the nicest thing you could say about him. He thought he was a big ass-man, and he liked making people suffer-- women were a specialty. He should have been a prison guard in some Southern jail--he hated blacks. That probably would have been his idea of heaven, just sitting around swilling beer and clubbing nigras whenever he got bored. Not much of a specimen, God knows.

  "The guy I shot was Peter Erhard. He was Karl's cousin and boss. A higher-type pimple is all. That place we just left, they lived there. It wasn't theirs, they didn't own it, but they were told to live in it, so they lived in it. Tell them something simple enough to do and you could consider it done. That was their greatest achievement, they could follow simple instructions, and they served a purpose."

  "What purpose?"

  "Shut up--ever hear of Josef Mengele or Christian Szell?"

  Silence from the back seat.

  "Goddammit, Le
vy, answer me."

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Janeway, I'm getting everything all wrong, I thought you just said to shut up."

  "I did, but that was a direct question." Janeway took another corner, and again the wheels protested. "Mengele or Szell? No."

  "Jesus," Janeway exploded, "I thought you were supposed to be this self-proclaimed hotshot historian, haven't you heard of any Germans except Hitler? You have heard of Hitler?"

  "Martin Bormann?" Babe tried.

  "Bormann's dead, most likely--oh I know, I know, it's always in the papers how he's on the loose in Bogota or running the singles program up at Grossin-ger's, but most of the top Nazi hunters think he's dead, and they've got a pretty good batting average, I wouldn't want to argue with them. Szell and Mengele, though, everyone agrees they're still with us. They ran the experimental block at Auschwitz. And they're the two biggest Germans left alive."

  Babe tried getting comfortable in the back seat, but the floor was too hard and too narrow, and his mouth was starting to throb now. Every time Janeway hit a bump, it hit his mouth like a fist.

  "The reason they've survived is very simple: They were smarter than anybody. They were always referred to as the 'angel twins.' Mengele they called the 'Angel of Death,' and Szell was the 'White Angel,' because he had this incredible head of beautiful prematurely gray hair. Mengele had a Ph.D. plus an M.D., and he was considered the dummy of the two." He hit a pothole going top speed, and the car bucked.

  Babe cried out involuntarily.

  "What?"

  "Nothing, nothing, go on--what're you saying, the ones you just killed, they worked for these 'twin' guys?"

  "No. Just Szell. And they were only part of the payroll, believe me. Don't you know how rich the big Nazis were?"

  "No. Millionaires?"

  "I guess you could say that without being accused of exaggeration, because, for example, in August of forty-four, when they figured things were going badly, a few of the top fellas got together and paid out five hundred million to Argentina in exchange for identity cards. These guys raped a continent. When Goring killed himself in forty-five--you know he stole paintings from the Jews--well, when he died, his collection was worth two hundred million dollars. That's two hundred million then. Think what's happened to the art market and think what's happened to the dollar and you're talking about at least a billion today."