"Why?"
"He dreaded your disapproval."
"Why? I used to copy him. If he started using an expression, I'd pick it up. The way he walked, facial expressions, I used to love it when I could wear his hand-me-down clothes. I..." He lacked the energy to go on. He was tired and dirty, and the news rocked him, and even before that he'd been exhausted; the outburst about his father had taken a lot out of him. Defending was always so hard. How great life must be if all you ever did was attack. Wouldn't it be terrific to wake up one morning and find yourself Attila the Hun?
"I'm sorry," Janeway said, his voice gentle.
"Is that it? Do I know everything now?"
"You know nothing, maybe a particle, at the most. I promise you, Dave's death will not be written up in the Daily News, that's all been taken care of."
The blows were coming at him from all angles now, and he was helpless to stop them. "Dave... ?" Babe blinked. "Dave... ?"
"We all called him that, he wanted us to. Obviously, you know it's his middle name, Henry David Levy." Babe leaned back and closed his eyes. "All my life we were together, and I never once called him that. 'Hank' in public, and 'Doc' was our name. From I Love a Mystery. That was his favorite. He was always going on about Jack, Doc and Reggie, and for a while I called him Reggie, but he said, 'No, I'd rather be Doc,' so that was it. And when I was eight he took me to a little-league game and I was pitching, H.V. was supposed to bring me but he was too bombed, so Doc did, and I hit a homer. My very first real one. I mean actually hitting it over the outfielder's head. They were playing me in, I guess, seeing as I was the pitcher and pitchers aren't supposed to be much with the bat, and it was such a thrill that when we walked home I said, 'Doc, I'm giving up pitching, I'm not gonna be any big-league pitcher, that's kid stuff, I'm goin' for the long ball, Doc, I think I've got a shot at Babe Ruth's record,' and from then on I was Babe, except when there were strangers around," and then, his eyes still closed, the cry "I don't know anybody" broke across the room. After a moment, Babe said, "I'm sorry, I'm fine now."
Jane way stood and started moving around the room. He opened his eyes. "Dinner," he said. "Begin there."
"Dinner was fine, dinner was terrific; no--wait a second, it wasn't, that's right, dinner was awful; it seems so long ago, what time is it?"
"Almost one o'clock."
"That's all?"
"Dinner was awful," Janeway was saying, moving quietly now, here, there, always gracefully moving. "Can you be a little more specific?"
"It was at Lutece and there was me and Doc--me and Dave, you'd say--and my girl, Elsa, you want her full name?"
Nod.
"Elsa Opel, she lives up around Columbia, four one one West One hundred thirteenth, phone number four two seven four oh oh one--" Babe stopped. "Why aren't you taking notes if it's all so important?"
"Because we're trained to put nothing down, it's best that way." Then he rattled off "Elsa Opel--four one one West One one three--four two seven four oh oh one." He sipped lightly at his wine. "I assure you I'm paying attention. Go on."
"Well, it... the first hour, maybe, Doc couldn't keep his hands off her, she's gorgeous, and he was pawing her like he was in heat."
Janeway took a longer drink.
"Then it turned out he was just getting her guard down, and when she was all softened up he got her to admit she'd been lying to me about her age, and where she was from, a lot of things, and she was humiliated and ran out, and Doc and I had words, and then I ran out and looked for her and couldn't find her and came back here hoping she'd call. She did, but then Doc arrived, and the rest you know."
"Okay, push this now, really go back over it all in your mind. Let's try and re-create a little--there's blood all over the stairs, so clearly he wanted desperately to get here. Was it just to see you? Could there have been any other reason? Anything at all?"
"Like what?"
"I don't know, but did he ever leave anything here, keep anything here, send himself mail here--along those lines?"
"Never. No sir." Babe shook his head, trying to remember. "I mean, you can go through his suitcase if you want, but I think it's just a few clothes, toilet articles; you can examine it all you want."
"I'll take it with me when I leave, if you don't mind. We'll run some checks, for the hell of it, but it probably won't come to anything."
"He appeared in the doorway suddenly--leaning against it--he said my name, then again, loud, "BABE" --and then he crumpled and I caught him and held him till he died. Maybe I rocked him a little."
Janeway rubbed his eyes. "Not a bad beginning, I suppose."
"I don't get you--'beginning'? What comes next?"
"I can't say for sure, because this is a situation where we can only counterpunch, which we'll do. But I can guess that whoever killed Scylla wouldn't have risked it if some situation somewhere wasn't coming to a head. It's also not unreasonable to assume they thought he knew something. And since he lived here when he was in town, and since he died here, if I were in their position I'd feel justified in assuming you knew something too. Or might. People do, it's known, say strange things when they're dying. Conclusion: If I were whoever killed him, I'd sure as hell like to ask you a few questions."
"But I'm ignorant--I'm not even involved, not in anything."
"I know that and you know that, but tell me, how can they know that?"
Babe was a little short of answers.
"Tom?"
"Yes sir?"
"I'm going to say something just rotten to you now, for two reasons. First, because I believe it's possible, and second, because I want to scare the shit out of you so you'll do exactly what I tell you."
"Listen, Mr. Janeway--hold it a sec. I'm not gonna disobey you, I promise. I'm edgy enough as it is." Janeway nodded, began packing up Doc's belongings. "Fine. I was just going to tell you what I think's going to happen to you."
"I'm not so sure I want to hear that," Babe said, and then he said, "What do you think's gonna happen to me?"
Janeway looked over from his packing. "I think they're going to try to capture you, and then I think they're going to try to torture you, and then I think they're going to try to kill you..."
20
Janeway finished packing in silence. "You still there?" he asked after a while.
Babe nodded.
"That really was only a guess, but after a while, you develop a sense for these things, a feel for the way other minds operate. And in our business, whenever anyone in our immediate family's damaged, we automatically assume it was wasn't accidental. Dave told me about your mugging and why he was coming--to try to get you down to D.C. for a while." He started fastening the suitcase. "He left some extra stuff here, I think, for when he ran short."
"Quit trying to trick me--you asked me that already, did he leave anything, and I told you already, no." Return of the quick smile. "I guess you weren't your brother's brother for nothing."
Babe started with Janeway toward the door.
"I'm at the Carlyle--we oil types live well--it's just a quick shoot across the Park, call me whenever you want--seven four four one six oh oh, Room Two one oh one." He reached for the doorknob. "Now listen to me--we won't have our own surveillance working on you till morning, the police will handle things till then, and I haven't got unbounded faith in New York's finest. So what you do is this: You stay locked in here overnight, okay?"
"Surveillance, for Chrissakes?"
Janeway spun on Babe. "I'm not telling you to turn hermit, I'm just saying stay inside till I have faith in the personnel."
"And then what? I get to go through life with some crew-cut jerk sneaking around after me?"
"For you, as a special treat, nothing but intellectuals and longhairs. Now look--I worked alongside Dave a long time, we were very close, believe that, and we'll meet in hell, and I've got plenty to answer for, but I'm not about to let him chew my ass off for not watching after you. So do what I say and shut up."
"If you're so
worried about my health, why are you leaving me alone, then?"
Janeway put the bag down. "I thought it was obvious. How are we going to find who killed him if they don't come after you? You think we're dealing with morons? You think they'll break in here and say 'Shucks, he's moved out' and then we'll jump them from the closets and say 'Put 'em up, you dirty guys?' If you're not here, they'll know it, and they won't come. If you are here, they probably won't come anyway. It's risky, they know how our minds work, they'll guess surveillance. But if they're desperate, and I think they are, then they'll come."
"In other words, you want to watch after me, but you also want to use me for bait."
For the first time, Janeway looked really tired. "I want to catch who killed him. I've got no better notions. If you do, tell me. If you want to come with me to the Carlyle, for Christ's sakes, say so. I'll get you a room, I'll take you down to D.C., we'll keep you hidden till whatever this is is over. Anything you want, I swear, please, just tell me."
Babe didn't even hesitate. Bogart wouldn't have hesitated. "I wasn't upset, Mr. Janeway, I swear, it was just curiosity; now that I know, I think it's terrific.
I mean, historians don't get much chance to have adventures, it's kind of a sedentary profession, you know what I mean? Sit on your tail all day, read, read, read. Besides, I hadn't planned on going out till the afternoon, so what you're asking me to do is what I was going to do anyway, only without police protection." Babe could tell that Janeway was watching him closely, trying to fathom if he was telling the truth or not. But that didn't bother him, because he was. He wondered if he would have been quite so confident if he wasn't a dead shot with a loaded pistol in the bottom drawer of his desk, but that was all academic. He had the pistol, he could use it like a bastard.
And how wonderful, if only Janeway turned out to be right in his guesswork, to be able to have revenge so quickly. If only Doc's killers would come and he could blast away and watch them fall. He ran his hands across Doc's blood on his shirt.
"All right," Janeway said finally. "I'll go, you stay. How can you reach me?"
"Carlyle--seven four four one six oh oh--Two one oh one."
Janeway was reasonably impressed.
"I wasn't my brother's brother for nothing," Babe said.
"Lock it behind me," Janeway ordered. He took the suitcase and left.
Babe locked it behind him.
All of them were gone now.
Everything was gone now.
Doc most of all.
Mourning time.
Babe went to his chair in the corner and sat. Now there was no one left to butt in, no reason to dam up his heart. He sat very still, alone, the sole survivor of the union between H. V. and Rebekkah Levy.
He really was alone now, whatever that dread word meant. There was no old family homestead to return to. This horrid student's room was, as much as any place, the family homestead now, and that by itself was almost cause for mourning. An aging rectangle of a place, a single crummy closet, a single crummy sink, rusty water, a tiny windowless bathroom with a tiny tub, and practically hidden off in a corner one nearly cracked window with a mildewing frame that never brought in any breeze or--
--Christ!--the window--the goddamn window, was it locked, had he locked it, because if he hadn't there was a fire escape and that's how they'd come for him, up the fire escape, hide in the darkness, get out their rifles with the silencers, burst in, torture him, kill him, and gone.
Babe ran to the window, checked it.
Of course, it was locked.
Jerk, he told himself. Working yourself up over a stupid thing like that. When there were important deeds to be done, there was mourning to be done "and only I am left alone to tell you."
Babe went back to his chair in the corner and sat. He cleared his mind to mourn.
No chance.
"Doc," he said out loud. "You're gonna have to give me a raincheck." Because the truth was, the terrible and very strange truth was, simply that in all his adult life, he had never had an adventure before, and the thrill of it swept all possibility of thinking far, far away. Bogie and Cagney, they had adventures every day of their fives. Edward G. too. And now it was his turn.
T. Babington Levy was maybe, hopefully, in danger.
Fantastic.
Let the stoop kids try to call him a creep now. Let anybody. Maybe what I'll do, Levy decided, is get my gun and stick it sort of in my pocket but not all the way, and then just kind of walk past the stoop kids and let them see the heater, really scare the pee out of the bastards, and maybe the head of the gang might get up the nerve to whisper, "... hey, sir, is that a... a you know?" and he, Levy, would turn and give his best Alan Ladd look and maybe say, "I don't know; why don't you mess with me and find out?"
You need a better answer, Levy told himself. A real clockstopper of a retort. Lemme think...
Don't bother, Levy told himself. Janeway said you can't show your head till noon.
Screw Janeway. He wasn't any kid.
"I'm not any kid," Levy said. He was an historian and historians had freedom of choice unless they were Marxists, and he didn't work that side of the street. He was free and he could go and come when he so desired, just as he'd done ever since he'd rented his pit.
Hadn't he survived an entire summer on West 95th Street in New York City without a single incident, not counting the mugging, and that took place in the park? And if you could make it through a summer on West 95th, if you could live through August without air conditioning, you didn't need any crew-cutted Provider to tell you what was safe and what wasn't.
He was sitting there, genuinely calm, until he heard them starting to force his window.
All things considered, later, Babe thought he reacted rather well. He didn't panic, didn't scream or run. Instead he just dove across the room toward his desk, ripped the bottom drawer open, and then the gun was in his hand, and as he stood he cocked it, and as he cocked it he aimed and moved dead at the window.
Obviously, there was no one there.
It had just been a creak, old buildings did that, this one more than most, and the rest had been his imagination. Babe stood still, the weapon in his hands, and he didn't feel stupid and he didn't feel proud.
He felt frightened.
He remembered the precise moment the fear entered him: It was when he grabbed the gun. Because that was reality, and reality was a brother murdered and maybe him standing somewhere in that same line.
Babe began to sweat.
Jesus, he wanted air. He started toward the window, stopped. That wasn't air outside. It was just floating dirt. And besides, it was very dark by the fire escape, a killer could hide by the fire escape.
Perspiration was pouring off him now. His tongue felt dry and what would have really tasted good would have been an egg cream, cool and relaxing--stomach-settling too. Probably the old egg-cream guy on the corner would be closed now, but maybe not, maybe on hot nights he stayed open as long as business stayed good. But even if he was shut, it would be better than staying alone, panic building, pointing a pistol at sounds. So, carefully concealing his weapon deep in his windbreaker pocket, Babe took out his wallet and key and left his room.
Heart, goddammit, pounding.
Cagney wouldn't have even thought twice, Bogie would have gone unarmed after the egg cream, and here was he, panicked as he crept down the reasonably well lit stairs in what he knew was a fruitless quest for a mixture of chocolate and cold milk and club soda.
Babe moved at a slow pace down toward the main floor. Every half dozen or so steps, he brought himself to a sudden stop and whirled around, watching and listening, making good and damn sure no one could sneak up behind him.
He continued down, continued his eccentric halts and spins, his right hand deep in his windbreaker pocket, glued to the gun.
God, the swings of fear, Babe thought.
Just a few moments before, joy at adventure.
No more.
He reached the landi
ng of his brownstone, hesitated, peering through the doors toward the street, trying to spot the police.
He saw nobody.
Carefully, heart still pounding, ready to fire, he stepped outside into the night. It was Indian Summer gone berserk; no wind, nothing to help it along.
"Hey, Melendez," one of the stoop kids said, "it's the creep."
"Hey, creep, past your bedtime," Babe heard, and he turned, fighting the temptation to point his pistol in his windbreaker pocket, because he knew it was the stoop gang. There were four of them drinking beer and smoking on their steps. A couple of girls, one pretty. Probably marijuana in the vicinity.
The one who mentioned his bedtime, their leader, evidently Melendez, sat bare-chested and jeaned in the awesome heat. "Hey, creepy, ain'tcha scared you might catch cold with just that little jacket," he called to Babe. "Wanna borrow my parka awhile?" The others laughed.
That Melendez is cleverer than I am, Babe thought. He dwelled on that awhile, because it took his mind off the stupidity of his situation, looking for an egg cream after one in the morning with a pistol cocked and ready in his pocket. A sixteen-year-old delinquent shouldn't be able to outwit me, Babe decided. He did his best to sound unruffled, casual: "Where's the nearest egg-cream place, I wonder?"
"You mean the nearest open egg-cream place, don'tcha?" Melendez replied. "You can probably break into the one down around the corner if you're really desperate--that's how most of the other egg-cream addicts handle things." The gang hooted again.
Humiliated, Babe backed inside. What a wipeout-- totaled by a Spanish Milton Berle. Babe bolted back up the stairs, ran to his room, unlocked it, stepped carefully inside, locked it behind him securely. Then, gun clear of pocket, he checked the window to see that it was still locked, the bathroom to see that it was still empty. He jerked open the closet door, made sure no one was hiding behind his sport coats, quickly, foolishness growing, dropped to one knee, making certain no one was scrunched up under his bed. After that he crossed the room, dialed the Carlyle, asked for 2101, and before the second ring there came Janeway's voice, urgent and loud: "What?"