The Bookmakers

by Zev Chafets

  “No, not fighters,” Reggie agreed.

  They ordered drinks and T-bones, Packer sitting in silence while Reggie kidded with the waitress. Then, over lunch, they felt each other out, gossiping about fixed fights, well-known scams and mutual acquaintances. It was professional chatter, an effort to establish common ground, accomplished with a light, noncommittal touch. Reggie noted approvingly that Packer was cagey, getting more information than he gave. By the time coffee arrived he had decided to take the conversation one step further.

  “How would you feel about doing a job for me?” he asked.

  “I’m self-employed,” said Packer.

  “This would be a freelance thing, a one-timer.”

  “Are you getting ready to tell me what it is?” asked Packer. When Reggie nodded, Packer leaned forward, reached a long arm across the table, opened the first three buttons of Reggie’s shirt and ran a hand across his fleshy chest. “Okay, go ahead,” he said.

  “You’re a cautious man,” Reggie said. “I like that. Let me start with a hypothetical question. Is there anything you wouldn’t do for twenty-five thousand dollars?”

  “Jesus,” said Packer, “you get me all the way down here on Christmas to insult me?”

  “I didn’t intend to insult you, not at all,” said Reggie. “I told you it was hypothetical.”

  “Yeah, well that doesn’t make it any better. Let’s say I asked you, hypothetically, if you’d suck my dick for twenty-five grand. Wouldn’t you be insulted?”

  “You’re right and I apologize,” said Reggie. “Would you be willing to kill a man for twenty-five thousand?”

  Packer peered at the bookie through his granny glasses and slowly shook his head.

  “Even if there was no chance of getting caught?”

  “You know there’s no such thing as that,” said Packer.

  “Fair enough. When you say no, do you mean no in principle or no for twenty-five thousand?”

  “I don’t see any principle here,” said Packer.

  “All right then, what would it take?”

  “Depends on who the guy is, how hard it would be. Plus I’d want to know why you came to me. Contracts aren’t my line of work.”

  “I’ll answer the last question first. I need somebody from Oriole and I heard good things about you.”

  “There’s guys in Oriole would off somebody for twenty-five hundred,” said Packer.

  “I need someone smart,” said Reggie. “A local man but not one of the usual suspects. This won’t be hard, but it could be a little tricky. Should I go on?”

  Packer nodded. “Who’s the guy?”

  “I can’t tell you that until I know we have a deal,” said Reggie. “He’s a regular fella, nobody with connections. In fact, I don’t think he’s even got any family. And he won’t be suspecting anything.”

  “Why do you want him dead?”

  “Uh-uh,” said Reggie, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter, so don’t worry about it.”

  “If you say so,” said Packer, sipping his coffee.

  “You still haven’t told me your price,” said Reggie.

  Packer swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his bony throat. “Fifty thousand, cash,” he said. “Half up front.”

  “That’s a lot of money,” said Reggie. “Way out of line.”

  Packer shrugged his thin shoulders. “For a fulltime hitman, maybe. But I told you, I don’t usually do this kind of work. I might not even like it.”

  “But you’d do it? For fifty?”

  Packer nodded. “Who’s the guy?”

  “If I tell you, that’s it, you’re in,” said Reggie. “Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “And one more thing. I don’t mind giving you money up front, but if something goes wrong, I’d be back. You know that.”

  “Yeah, I know that.”

  “So we’ve got a deal?”

  “Yeah, we do. If you ever get around to telling me who’s the guy.”

  “His name’s Mack Green. He’s an author. Know him?”

  “Yeah,” said Packer, struggling to maintain his poker face. “I went to high school with him.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Not for me,” said Packer. He lifted his cup and took another sip of hot coffee. “I graduated high school a long time ago.”

  • • •

  Buddy drove back to Oriole with twenty-five thousand dollars in cash and something new to think about. When Mack had turned up in Oriole, Packer had sensed it was his chance to get out of the sticks and into the big time. The thing was, he hadn’t figured on killing anybody to get there.

  Idly, he wondered why Herman Reggie wanted Green dead. The fact that a big-time bookie like Reggie was interested in Mack made Buddy feel a new respect for his old friend. Fifty thousand was a lot of money for a hit; Mack, he figured, must have done something pretty special to command that kind of fee.

  Of course it might not be fifty. Reggie could be thinking that he’d get him to do the job and then stiff him for the other half, or maybe even take back the up-front money—the contract-killing business was an unregulated industry. He was pretty sure that Reggie hadn’t been straight with him, pretending not to know that he and Mack were old friends, or that there was bad blood between them now.

  If Herman hadn’t been straight before, he might not be again. On the other hand, Buddy had a few options of his own. The twenty-five thousand he already had would be enough to buy Irish Willie a shot at the title. Not the real title—maybe one of the off-brand boxing federations, but a win would put Willie on TV and bring in a very tidy sum. Or he could go for the fifty, buy the fight and bet the other twenty-five on Willie losing. He might even get a bonus from Reggie for alerting him to the tank job. It was like one of those TV game shows where you had to decide if you wanted to double your prize or quit while you were ahead. The only difference was, if you made the wrong choice on TV, all you lost was a trip to Hawaii.

  Packer lit a joint and filled his lungs with smoke. Despite his dilemma he felt good, better than he had in years. He had a sense of optimism he recalled from his younger days, the time before he went up to Jackson. He had cash money, he could make a move, do something for himself for a change. And he had something else, too, even more important than money: the elated high that came from knowing he was still his old self, Buddy fucking Packer, a Gamer ready for a dangerous, fuck-the-consequences, good old-fashioned fo-ray.

  Twenty-four

  On New Year’s Eve, Mack took Linda roller-skating at the Huron Rink, and then for chili dogs at Buster’s. He put ten dollars’ worth of Motown on the jukebox, came back to the booth where Linda was devouring a foot-long and sang along with Smokey, “ ‘My mama tole me, you better shop around.’ ”

  “She should have told you to use a napkin,” said Linda, affectionately wiping mustard off his chin.

  Mack let his gaze wander around Buster’s, which was full of high school kids and college students on winter break. “Brings back memories,” he said.

  “Nothing brings them back,” said Linda. “Jesus, I feel like a faculty supervisor in here.”

  “Anybody ever tell you you’re an unsentimental broad?” said Mack with a smile.

  “As a matter of fact, yes. Anybody ever tell you you’re corny? Roller-skating and Buster’s.”

  “Our first date.”

  “I remember,” she said, taking his hand.

  “Don’t you think we’ve been going steady long enough?”

  “You mean you want to break up? Date other people? Make sure we’re right for each other?”

  “You know what I mean,” said Mack. “Let’s get married for a change.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Linda gently. Mack waited for the punchline, but there was none. “That’s it?” he said finally. “Just, I don’t think so?”

  “Let’s leave things the way they are,” she said.

  “Come on, Linnie, this is a serious proposal.”

/>   “And this is a serious refusal.”

  “Because you don’t love me?”

  “No, I love you. I’m even in love with you. The problem is, I don’t trust you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Let me ask you a question. Have you been writing about us? In the novel you won’t show me?”

  “Sure,” said Mack. “Not literally, but the basic story, yeah. Nobody will recognize you, if that’s what you mean. Any objections?”

  “I object to being used.”

  “Used? For what?”

  “For research, drama, whatever you want to call it. What happens when the Mack Green character meets the high school heartthrob character after twenty years. Isn’t that how it’s going to read?”

  “Okay, I’m an author, shoot me,” said Mack. “I use reality to create fiction.”

  “I’m not sure what’s real to you and what isn’t,” said Linda, idly pushing her fries around the plate. “I don’t think you know yourself. Everything’s a plot to you, everybody’s a character.”

  “That’s not—”

  “You said yourself you’re staying with the McClains because it’s a great situation—”

  “Yes, but I genuinely—”

  “Let me finish, I’m telling you something and I want you to hear it. Remember you told me about that kid mugging you in New York? You thought it was such a great story, but all I could think was, here’s a guy whose life is in danger and he sees it as a scene in a novel. You don’t get more detached from reality than that.”

  “It was a momentary thing,” said Mack. “A fluke.”

  “No it wasn’t,” said Linda. “You talk about your life like a saga. You’re the Oriole Kid. You call your editor Stealth, your agent is Father Tommy, McClain’s Big John. Nobody’s a person, everyone’s a character. And so am I. I’m Linda Birney, the Beautiful Blond Who Broke the Oriole Kid’s Heart.”

  “You’re the one who’s being dramatic,” Mack said. “Sure I see the world in terms of stories, that’s what writers do. But it doesn’t mean I’m, what did you call it? Detached from reality.”

  “Really? Just now, when I told you I wouldn’t marry you, didn’t you, in some part of your mind, think about how you would use it in the novel?”

  “That’s ridiculous—”

  “You should see the look on your face,” said Linda.

  “You’re scaring me, Linnie. I don’t want to lose you again. I mean that.”

  “Okay. Stay in Oriole, get a real job and I’ll marry you.”

  “Maybe you want me to have my nose done while I’m at it,” said Mack.

  “Those are my conditions. Take ’em or leave ’em.”

  “You’re serious? You want me to live in Oriole?”

  “Why not? You grew up here. Where did you think we’d live?”

  “In New York.”

  “And what would I do there? Besides cooking and cleaning, that is?”

  “You could be a lawyer. Or open another record store—”

  “In other words, change my life for you. Why shouldn’t you change yours for me?”

  “I don’t belong in Oriole,” said Mack. “I’m a New York guy. What would I do here?”

  “Go to work for the News,” said Linda. “Teach writing at the university. There are plenty of things.”

  “You want me to write for The Oriole News? Linnie, I’m a major novelist. Okay, I’ve had a bad run, but when this book comes out, I’m going to be back where I belong.”

  “That’s fine,” said Linda. “But you’ll be there without me.”

  “I’m asking you to give up a record store, you’re asking me to give up my life,” said Mack. “It’s not reasonable.”

  “I know that,” Linda said, taking a last sip of her root beer and signaling the waitress for the check.

  “I can’t do it,” said Mack. “No matter how much you mean to me.”

  “I know that, too.”

  “Well, if you know so goddamned much, what else do you know?” said Mack, suddenly furious.

  “I know I love you,” she said quietly.

  “Jesus, I can’t believe it. I’m getting dumped by you again.”

  “Nobody’s dumping you, Mackinac. You want me, you got me. But me, not some fictional character. And the real me lives here now.”

  “So if I say no, it’s all over?”

  “Hey, you’re the one who brought up marriage, remember? I’m happy the way things are.”

  “You really are cold-blooded.”

  “What I am is grown-up. And if you want to be with me, you’re going to have to grow up, too.”

  Twenty-five

  Mack came home and retreated to his room, working and drinking more or less continuously for three days. He emerged only to get another bottle or to fix himself an occasional sandwich. McClain cornered him on one of his excursions to the refrigerator.

  “I haven’t seen Linda lately,” he observed.

  “If you miss her, give her a call,” said Mack morosely.

  “Lovers’ quarrel? Hey, it happens, hotshot. You know how many times me and Joyce broke up and got back together?”

  “I forget,” said Mack.

  “You can’t just sit around here and mope.”

  “As it happens, I’m working. But if you want me to leave, I’ll leave.”

  “Sorry I brought it up,” said McClain.

  He waited until Mack went back upstairs before going to look for Joyce. “Mack’s all bent out of shape over Linda,” he told her. “We’ve got to do something.”

  “Like what?”

  “I think maybe I better go over there, have a talk with her.”

  “You stay out of their business, John,” she said. “They don’t need any of your po-lice psychology.”

  “In that case, you go,” he said. “Talk woman to her. Come on, Joyce, I’m worried again. Either you go or I do.”

  “I’ll go,” Joyce said. She didn’t want to alarm her husband, but she was worried about Mack, too.

  After supper she drove out to Linda’s place in West Tarryton. It was already dark and she felt uneasy; she didn’t like driving around all-white neighborhoods alone at night. The cops in West Tarryton had a habit of pulling over black drivers and hassling them. “Next time that happens, tell ’em you’re married to me,” John had instructed her, but she refused to do that. Instead she informed them that she had a constitutional right to drive on any damn street she wanted and took their badge numbers. It didn’t do any good, but it made her feel a little less helpless.

  The porch light was on when Joyce pulled into the driveway, and Linda appeared in the doorway while she was walking up the front steps.

  “Sorry to barge in like this,” said Joyce, handing her coat to Linda. “It was either me or a visit from Cupid McClain.”

  “How is old Cupid?”

  “Worried about Mack. Actually, I am too.”

  “How come nobody ever worries about me?” asked Linda with a smile.

  “Well, it’s different,” said Joyce. “You know.”

  “Know what?”

  “He was doing so well with you and now John’s afraid he might get back to where he was.”

  “I’m not sure I get it.”

  “His old frame of mind,” said Joyce. “The suicide thing.”

  Linda stared at her for a long moment. “What suicide thing?”

  Now it was Joyce’s turn to stare. “You mean John never told you?” She shook her head. “Linda, when Mack came to town, he was thinking about committing suicide.”

  “No he wasn’t,” said Linda.

  “Yes he was. He was keeping a suicide diary,” said Joyce. “He’s still keeping it.”

  “It’s a novel,” said Linda. “Fiction.”

  “Honey, I’m sorry, but it’s no novel. I’ve seen it.”

  “He showed it to you?”

  “John went snooping around his room one night and found it in a desk drawer.”


  “And you’ve been worried Mack was going to kill himself? In your house? Poor Joyce.”

  “Listen to me, now. John talked to Mack’s editor. This isn’t any novel.”

  “He talked to Wolfowitz?”

  “Arthur Wolfowitz, yes.”

  “And he said it wasn’t a novel?”

  Joyce nodded. “He consulted with Mack’s psychiatrist, who says Mack was suicidal before he left New York. That’s why John’s so concerned now. The psychiatrist says that since you two got together there’s been a real improvement.”

  “How would he know? Mack’s been here the whole time.”

  “John’s been sending him pages from the diary,” Joyce said.

  “Behind Mack’s back? He’s been sending Mack’s book to a shrink in New York?”

  “To Wolfowitz,” said Joyce. “He’s the go-between.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “What?”

  “John’s been had,” said Linda. “Mack promised to send pages to Wolfowitz, but he didn’t, he’s got some kind of phobia about it. He told me about the novel, but he wouldn’t even show it to me. Obviously this was Wolfowitz’s way of getting his hands on it. When John called, he saw his chance and he took it.”

  “He knew all along that Mack wasn’t going to kill himself?”

  Linda nodded. “He must have.”

  “Then why would he go to all that trouble just to see a manuscript he was going to get anyway?”

  “Beats me,” said Linda. “Curiosity, maybe. Or one of those testosterone things. Mack thinks they’re great friends, but from what he’s told me about Wolfowitz, he sounds like a creep.”

  “Oh, my,” said Joyce. “We’ve made a mess, looks like.”

  Linda nodded. “When you found the diary, why didn’t you just confront Mack with it?”

  “John didn’t want him to know he’d been going through his things. And he was afraid, if he mentioned it, he’d scare Mack off.”

  “I guess that’s why he didn’t tell me, either,” said Linda. “He was afraid it would scare me off, too.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Joyce. “If I’d have known, I would have told you myself. It never occurred to me that he hadn’t.”

  “Men,” said Linda.