by Zev Chafets
“There was a time, just after The Oriole Kid was published and everything was great that I think I was ready for a real relationship.”
“You were what, thirty?”
“Yeah, about that. I hate to admit it but it took me that long to get over you.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Every time I was on TV, I used to think, ‘I wonder if Linnie is watching.’ Sometimes, when the phone rang, I thought it might be you, calling to say you’d seen me or read one of my books and you wanted to come back to me.”
“And what did you say to me?” Linda asked softly. “Did you take me back?”
“I gave you a hard time first, though,” said Mack, grinning to lighten the mood of what was becoming a dangerous conversation.
Linda sensed it, too. “You got over me, though,” she reminded him. “When The Oriole Kid was published.”
“More or less. Anyway, I married a fashion model, which is probably as close as I could come to a quarterback—”
“You’re not blaming me for that?”
“I’m not blaming you for anything. I’m just explaining what happened. I got married, I got divorced, there were no kids, it was like breaking up with a girlfriend. Then things started to come apart with my books, I got all blocked up and—” He paused, surprised at his own insight; he had never quite put things together this way.
“And?” Linda prompted.
“I guess I felt like a cripple,” said Mack. “Women who saw it were too painful to be with, and women who didn’t were too stupid to be with. One-night stands were easier.”
“Poor Mack.” Linda rubbed her hand across his shoulders.
“See what I mean?”
“That’s not pity, that’s empathy, you jerk,” said Linda.
“I was kidding,” said Mack. “You wanted dialogue, I gave you dialogue. Anyway, things are different now. I’m not a cripple any more, I’m writing again.” He leaned over and kissed Linda on the neck. “And I’ve got you.”
“Not yet you don’t,” she said pulling away gently.
“Hey, all I meant was—”
“That now you’re okay, you get the girl and a happy ending? This isn’t a novel, Mack, it’s not that neat. I’m here, too.”
“I thought this meant something to you,” said Mack, certain now that his candor had been a mistake.
“It’s great fun. But I told you the other night, I haven’t been sitting around thinking about you all these years and I didn’t know you were, either.”
“Great fun,” Mack repeated.
“Sure, you’re a good-looking guy, still got all your teeth, not bad in the sack. Healthy, I hope—”
“That’s all this is to you, huh? Recreational sex? Nostalgia?”
“I didn’t know until ten minutes ago that it was supposed to be something more. What are you saying to me, Mackinac, that you love me?”
“Yes, goddamnit, I do. I’ve been in love with you just about my whole life.”
“At the risk of being banal, there’s a difference between being in love and loving someone. But let that go for a second. Are you proposing to me? Do you want to get married?”
“It’s crossed my mind,” said Mack defensively.
“Going in which direction?”
“Come on, Linnie, it’s only been a few days—”
“Relax, Mackinac, I’m not trying to trap you. You’re making my point, that it’s too soon to know what might happen between us. You’ve told me something I didn’t know, tonight, that maybe you’d like to have this turn into something serious. Okay, maybe it will. Let’s take it a step at a time, see how it goes.”
Mack lay back and closed his eyes. For a second, when Linda had mentioned marriage, he had felt a surge of panic. Slowing things down wasn’t such a bad idea. “So, what do we do now?” he asked. “Go steady?”
“That sounds all right,” said Linda. “Maybe I can get on Oprah: Middle-aged Women who go Steady with their High School Boyfriends.”
“I think I saw that one,” said Mack. “Writer’s block and daytime TV go together. Speaking of high school, will you be my date for the reunion?”
“What reunion?”
“My class. It’s Saturday night.”
“I think I’ll pass. Sitting around listening to stories about Tuffy Frankling throwing water balloons at Mrs. Staley and how many beers Jerry Campbell drank after the Midland game isn’t my idea of fun.”
“Come on, Linnie, I went with you to your senior prom. You owe me one.”
“Yeah, I suppose I do,” she said. “You were so cute in your white tuxedo. Yeah, okay, it’s a date.”
“Great,” said Mack. “We’ll have fun, don’t worry. I’ll even buy you a corsage. Afterward we can go out for breakfast at the Pancake House. Remember?”
“Middle-aged Women who go to Class Reunions with Their Senior Prom Dates,” intoned Linda. She leaned over, kissed Mack gently on the lips and lay back on the pillows. “I must be out of my mind.”
Twenty-two
The sign outside the main gate of the Oriole Country Club read: WELCOME, ORIOLE CENTRAL HIGH CLASS OF 67. HAPPY TWENTY-FIFTH. Mack parked in the lot and walked hand in hand with Linda to the clubhouse, a graystone relic built in the flush days of the 1940s by war-rich auto executives. At the registration table, a pie-faced, heavily made-up woman smiled at them vaguely. Mack recognized her immediately—Karen Browning, a studious, uninteresting girl who had sat in the front row of his Spanish class for two years. It amazed him that he remembered her so easily—he even recalled a green argyle-plaid skirt she used to wear—while she obviously had no idea who he was.
“Hi, I’m Mack Green,” he said.
Karen’s eyes widened, and she reached into her purse for a pair of designer glasses. “Mack Green,” she bubbled. “I’m Karen Duff. Karen Browning? I’m sure you don’t remember but we were in the same history class.”
Green didn’t correct her. “You know Linda Birney? She’s an infiltrator from the Class of sixty-nine.”
“Everybody knew Linda,” said Browning.
“I’m not sure I like the way that sounds,” Linda said with a smile.
“Don’t confuse me,” Karen said, writing out name tags for them. “I’m confused enough tonight.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial giggle. “And I’m stoned, too. Isn’t that wild?”
In the ballroom, decorated with Oriole Central High blue and white balloons and streamers, people sat at large round tables, drinking and chatting. On the dance floor, couples moved to the Motown music of a band composed of elderly black men in white tuxedos and a young woman singer dressed in red. When they walked in the band was playing “Dancing in the Streets.” Within eight bars Mack felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, turned and found himself looking into the tanned, vacant face of Randy Jamison, the class president.
“Unbelievable,” Jamison boomed. “The great Mack Green in person. Accompanied by the queen, Linda Birney. What an unexpected honor.” There was scotch on his breath and malice in his voice as he pumped Mack’s hand in a strenuous salesman’s grip. “Recognize me, or are you too famous to remember old friends?”
“Too famous,” Linda deadpanned. Mack squeezed her hand in appreciation. “Hello, Randy,” he said. He let his gaze wander around the room. “Great decorations.”
“You’ve never been to a reunion before,” said Jamison.
“I live in New York.”
“Freddy Kinsella lives in Honolulu, and he comes every year. Freddy’s one of the biggest dental surgeons in Hawaii.”
“All the way from Honolulu,” said Mack, trying to edge away.
“Damn straight,” said Jamison emphatically. He shot Mack a resentful look. “You’re not the only success story in the class of sixty-seven. Not by a long shot.”
The band shifted into “Two Lovers.” “Our song,” Linda said to Randy, leading Mack toward the dance floor.
“Since when is this our song?” asked Mack, holding her in a t
ight high-school embrace as they swayed to the music.
“Ooh, I’m so confused,” said Linda, mimicking Karen Duff. “I guess this was my song with Freddy Kinsella, the world-famous dental practitioner.”
“One of the thousands who knew you in high school,” Mack said, laughing. He held her even closer. “I feel like we’re in a bubble together, you know what I mean? Like everybody else is a prop, and we’re the only real people—”
“Mack! Mack Green!” a man called from behind him.
“Pop,” said Linda.
“Pop?”
“The sound of the bubble,” she said, looking over his shoulder. “It’s what’s-his-name, Jerry Campbell.”
Mack spun Linda around and saw Campbell bearing down on him with a wide grin and comically outstretched arms.
“Mack! Linda! We saw you guys come in. I’ve been deputized to bring you over to the table. Everybody wants to see you. The gang’s all here—Tuffy, Len, Billy Dartmouth—”
Mack looked at Linda who shrugged almost imperceptibly. “Great,” he said, without enthusiasm, and followed Campbell through the crowd.
At the table the men boisterously shook Mack’s hand and kissed Linda on the cheek, while the wives, none of whom Mack knew, regarded them both with frank interest. “They’ve been telling Mack-and-Linda stories since you walked in the door,” said Amy Dartmouth.
“They were the Liz and Richard of Oriole Central High,” said Campbell.
“The who and who?” asked Amy. She was young, no older than thirty, and she was wearing a low-cut dress. She saw Mack sneaking a look and winked. Linda saw it too, and when she caught Amy’s eye she winked back at her, making the younger woman blush.
Mack and Linda sat down at the round table. “It’s good to see you guys,” he said.
“There have been rumors around town of Mack Green sightings, but we didn’t take them seriously,” said Billy Dartmouth. “I guess they were true.”
“I’ve been keeping a low profile,” said Mack. “Trying to get some work done.” Sitting here surrounded by old friends, with Linda at his side, he felt a warm glow of connectedness and belonging. “Billy, I should know this, but what do you do?”
“I’m a lawyer. Mellman, Saperstein, Dartmouth and Levine. I’m Dartmouth. We do personal injury, mostly.”
“You should see his ads on TV,” said Campbell. “He’s the Crazy Eddie of litigation—his prices are in-sane.” Everybody laughed.
“I’m not complaining,” said Dartmouth. “I’m not in Len’s league, but I make a pretty fair living.”
“What league is Len in?”
“The big leagues,” said Dartmouth. “He owns Angelo, Mickey and Bruce.”
“What’s that, a gay takeout service?” asked Mack. Linda snickered, the others looked blank.
“Barbers,” said Leonard. “A chain. It’s an idea I came up with a few years ago in Chicago. I was at a sales convention and I went into the hotel barbershop for a trim. The barber was this terrific Italian named Angelo, real old-world, handlebar mustache, smelled of rose water, hummed Vivaldi, right out of The Godfather.”
“You’re lucky he didn’t cut your throat,” said Linda sweetly.
“Nah, he was a nice old guy,” Leonard said. “So was the barber in the next chair, this wisecracking Irish type named Mickey. And next to him was another barber, Bruce, a kid with long hair who talked a blue streak about movies and rock stars and what concerts were coming to town. But what was great about it was the banter between the three of them—they had a real routine, joking with one another, involving the customers. I was sitting there, getting my hair cut and having the time of my life.”
Len paused and looked around; it was obviously a story he enjoyed recounting. “And then it came to me. Why not get three barbers, give each of them a character, and set them up here? So I went out and found myself an Angelo, a Mickey and a Bruce and started a shop in West Tarryton.”
“It sounded nuts to me at first,” said Campbell. “But it worked. To put it mildly.”
“We’ve got twenty-three shops now in Michigan, Ohio and Indiana,” Leonard said. “You can walk into any one and get your hair cut by an Angelo, a Mickey or a Bruce.”
“Where do you find them? The barbers?” asked Mack.
“Easy,” said Leonard. “We’ve set up our own training college. There’s even a drama coach.”
“Unbelievable,” said Mack.
Jerry Campbell raised his gin and tonic. “To the entrepreneurial spirit,” he toasted.
“To the class of sixty-seven,” said Tuffy.
“To the ladies’ room,” said Linda, rising. “Mack, when I get back you better be ready to dance.”
They watched her wind her way through the crowd. “God, it’s great to see you two together,” said Campbell. “Just like old times.”
“She’s got quite a sense of humor,” said Amy Dartmouth.
“Quite a body, too,” said Billy Dartmouth.
“Here’s a toast. To old loves,” said Tuffy Franklin, raising his glass again.
“And good bodies,” added Dartmouth, slurring his words.
“And loose shoes and a warm place to shit,” said a flat, sardonic voice from behind Mack. He looked up and saw Buddy Packer towering over him. The others stared coldly; no one said hello.
“What are you doing here?” asked Mack. They hadn’t spoken since Packer had left him stranded in front of Roy Ray’s church.
“Displaying my school spirit,” said Packer. “Let’s go over to the bar, get a drink.”
“So you can apologize for ditching me?”
“Yeah, okay,” said Packer. “You pissed me off is all.”
“I had that much figured out,” said Mack. “Fuck it, I’m in too good a mood to hold a grudge. I’m in love, Packy. Linda and I are back together.”
“In love, eh? That’s great. Seriously, I want to talk to you about something.”
“Not right now,” said Mack. “Linda wants to dance. She’ll be back from the ladies’ room in a minute.”
“I only need a minute,” said Packer. “Come on.”
Reluctantly, Mack rose and accompanied Packer to the bar. He ordered a bourbon, and kept a close eye on the table, watching for Linda.
“I see you’re hobnobbing with the cream of Oriole society,” Buddy said.
“I’m just catching up,” said Mack. “I was friends with those guys in school.”
“Right, I forgot,” said Buddy. “Your respectable side. I can catch you up in twenty seconds. Leonard’s a glorified hairdresser. Dartmouth’s the front man for a bunch of Jew-boy shysters. Campbell sells life insurance to little old ladies and that cocksucker Franklin is the judge who sent me to Jackson. They all have two-and-a-half kids, screw each others’ wives and brush after every meal. What else you want to know?”
“I didn’t know Tuffy Franklin was a judge.”
“Fuck him,” said Packer decisively. “The other day, you said you could let me have a few thousand bucks, remember?”
Mack nodded.
“I need ten, can you swing that?”
“Ten’s a lot of money.”
“What’s the matter, Macky, you don’t trust me? I’ll get it back to you in a week, guaranteed. With fucking interest if you want.”
“You knew Linda was in town,” said Mack suddenly, realizing it for the first time. “Didn’t you?”
Packer shrugged. “Must have slipped my mind.”
“Bullshit. Why didn’t you say something when I asked you?”
“Tell you the truth, I thought it would be better for you if you didn’t get mixed up with her,” said Packer. “She’s a cunt.”
“Everybody’s a cunt to you,” said Mack. “Roy Ray. John McClain. Tuffy Franklin. Linda—”
“Yeah, I’ve got a real bad attitude. I’ll work on it. What about the money?”
“When we were kids I thought you were the coolest guy I ever met,” said Mack, looking at his old friend with professional de
tachment. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Like I told you that night at Stanley’s, I grew up,” said Packer. “Are you going to loan me the ten or not?”
“Uh-uh,” said Mack, shaking his head. “I can let you have two, if it helps.”
Packer peered down at Mack through his granny glasses. “Save your money,” he said. “I don’t need a fucking handout.”
“I’m sorry,” said Mack.
“Yeah, you are,” said Packer, his thin lips forming a nasty sneer. “You’re a sorry motherfucking cunt.”
Packer stalked out of the ballroom, stopped in the men’s room, where he did six quick lines of coke and stepped outside into the clear, cold Michigan night. He was pissed at himself for mishandling Mack—not telling him about Linda had been a stupid mistake—but it was too late to do anything about that now. As he walked through the quiet parking lot he recognized Mack’s rented black LeBaron. On an impulse he stopped, reared his leg back and kicked a good-sized dent into the right front door with his cowboy boot. Then he went over to his T-Bird, removed a six-inch knife from the glove compartment and walked back to the LeBaron. He took a quick look around, saw that no one was watching, and gouged a heart into the paint on the left front door. Under it he scratched the words, “Mack and Linda Forever.” He walked around the side and added “Pussy Wagon” in big letters on the other door. Then, in a frenzy of angry creativity, he slashed all four tires. There, he thought, let Green explain that to the fucking Rent-a-Car people.
Packer went back to his own car, lit a joint and peeled out of the lot. A row away, sitting in his blue Mitsubishi, Arlen Nashua watched him drive off. He wasn’t sure, but he had a feeling that he had found what Herman Reggie was looking for.
Twenty-three
Long before it became a familiar term in pop psychology, Herman Reggie considered himself a people person. He was in a business founded on understanding human nature and it was this that gave him his greatest satisfaction. There were other bookies who thought only of odds and numbers, who boiled everything down to a mechanical conjuring of sums, but Reggie pitied their soulless arithmetic. He cared about his clients, rejoiced with the winners and, if they paid up, sympathized with the losers. And so, the first time he had heard the phrase, on a radio talk show, he had recognized himself and thought: “That’s what I am. I’m a people person.”
