The Bookmakers

by Zev Chafets

  “Linnie, honest to God—” Mack said. Then he saw her crooked grin and pulled her down on the bed.

  They split up after lunch. Joyce and John took a cab up to Harlem. Linda walked over to the Gothic Building on Fifth Avenue to see Carter Lang, Gothic’s in-house attorney, about setting up a meeting. And Mack went to the Flying Tiger, were he met Otto and Walter T. Horton for a drink. Then he went to see Tommy Russo.

  Mack brushed past Russo’s secretary and found the agent in his office, talking into a speaker phone. When he saw Green he smiled and frowned at the same time.

  “Mack!” he called, shutting off the machine, leaping from behind his desk and bustling toward him. Green plopped down on the sofa, leaving Russo in the middle of the room with his plump arms outstretched and a tentative expression on his dark face.

  “Tommy!” said Mack, in a sour imitation of the agent’s greeting.

  “Hey, something the matter?”

  “You could say that. I had a visit from my agent the other day,” said Mack. “Herman Reggie.”

  Russo went back and sat behind his desk. “I guess I better explain what happened,” he said.

  “Herman already explained,” said Mack. “Just after he tried to have me killed.”

  “Wha’?”

  “He figured my diary would make a better movie if it was nonfiction. He was right, too. I’m surprised you didn’t think of it yourself—you could have sold me for more than eighteen thousand bucks.”

  “Mack, this is crazy. Honest to God, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I mean, yeah, I gave your contract to Herman, it was either that or get beat to death, but the rest of it, him trying to kill you, on my mother’s eyes, I had no idea.”

  “I guess you had no idea about Wolfowitz, either.”

  “What about Wolfowitz?” said Tommy. He was sweating now, and he shifted uneasily in his chair.

  “I was just over at the Tiger. Otto and Horton told me about Walter T.’s new book. They say he told you all about it Christmas Day.”

  “I didn’t think he was serious,” said Tommy. “I mean, the guy was dead drunk.”

  “What did Wolfowitz say when you asked him about it?”

  “I, ah, never talked to Wolfowitz,” Tommy said. “I didn’t see any reason to. I mean, what was I gonna say, ya know?”

  “You think if you keep talking long enough I’m going to start believing this bullshit? Wolfowitz has been screwing up my books all along, hasn’t he, Tommy?”

  “You’re the one who wanted him,” said Russo. “Remember, I told you you’d be better off someplace else.”

  “But you didn’t tell me why. Just like you didn’t tell me about Horton. Wolfowitz was setting me up for a plagiarism thing, wasn’t he?”

  “I don’t know that.”

  Mack stared at him, holding his eyes until the little agent sighed and looked away. “You don’t know because you didn’t want to know,” Mack said. “You sold me and you sold me out.”

  “I had to do business with him,” said Tommy. “I never meant for you to get hurt, honest to God. I thought after all this time Wolfowitz had gotten over it.”

  “Gotten over what?” asked Mack.

  “I told you the first time we ever met, a guy screws another guy’s wife, there’s trouble.”

  Mack stared at Tommy. “Another guy’s wife? You mean Louise?”

  “Yeah, Louise.”

  “Jesus, that was more than twenty years ago. Even then it didn’t mean anything.”

  “It meant something to him, Mack.”

  “And you just sat there all this time and said nothing. How could you have done that to me?”

  The mildness of the rebuke caught Russo off guard; he felt tears well up in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Mack,” he said. “I’m ashamed. If I could make it right I would, but it’s too late. I can’t even ask you to forgive me.”

  “I’m not doing one of those ‘te absolvo’ scenes, if that’s what you’ve got in mind, but I’m not looking for any revenge, either. What I want from you is a written statement, everything you know or even suspect about what Wolfowitz has been doing to my books. Have it at the Waldorf by five.”

  “I’d feel better if you kicked my ass. I deserve it.”

  Mack rose, walked to the door and paused. “Don’t worry, Father Tomas, you’ll pay for this,” he said.

  “My Catholic conscience,” said Tommy.

  “No, your Catholic bankbook. You may not know it, but you owe Herman Reggie a hundred and eighteen thousand dollars.”

  Twenty-nine

  When Mack and Linda arrived at Gothic, they were greeted in the reception area by an effusive Stealth Wolfowitz. “The book’s great,” he said. “You’ve really got your old touch back.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” Mack said noncommittally.

  “Is everyone here?” asked Linda.

  “Floutie and Carter Lang are in the conference room,” said Wolfowitz. “And Fassbinder. Jesus, Mack, I don’t know why you insisted on him being here. This better be important.”

  “It is,” said Linda.

  “Before we go in, would you please tell me what’s going on?” said Wolfowitz to Mack.

  “It’s a surprise,” Linda replied.

  Wolfowitz gave Linda a wintry smile. “I see you’ve got a new spokeswoman,” he said to Mack.

  “Sorry. This is my lawyer, Linda Birney.”

  “I hope you’re not here to renegotiate Mack’s contract,” said Wolfowitz. “The book is terrific, but we’ve got a deal.”

  “Oh, nothing as painless as that,” said Linda breezily, returning the editor’s false smile. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

  They followed Wolfowitz down the long hall to the book-lined conference room where Floutie, Fassbinder and Carter Lang, Gothic’s chief legal counsel, were seated on one side of the big mahogany table. Floutie and Lang rose graciously, but Fassbinder remained seated, glowering at them.

  “Well now,” said Linda briskly.

  “I wonder if you’d be good enough to begin with an explanation of why we’re here,” said Floutie. “The purpose of this meeting is rather obscure.”

  “I’ll see if I can’t clarify it for you,” said Linda, catching the rhythm of Floutie’s fake Oxbridge tone. It was hard for Mack to repress a grin as he recalled how, only a few hours before, this self-possessed attorney in her severe black silk suit had been tumbling around with him, wild eyed and panting, in her king-sized bed at the Waldorf. “There are several items on the agenda. Let’s begin with Mr. Wolfowitz’s criminal bad faith.”

  “Bad faith?” asked Wolfowitz, spreading his hands in a gesture of innocent confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about your arrangement with Walter T. Horton.”

  Wolfowitz stared at her and shook his head. “Sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Well, I thought you might not remember, so I’ve gone to the trouble of getting a notarized statement from Mr. Horton.” She snapped open her briefcase and slid copies across the table to Lang and the others. “Why don’t you all take a minute and read it. It’s not too long. Or too complicated.”

  The men bent their heads over the paper. Lang was the first to finish. “According to this, Mr. Wolfowitz asked Horton to write an alternative version of The Diary of a Dying Man,” he said to Linda in his Virginia drawl. “Is that correct?”

  “What do you mean, ‘correct’? It’s a crock,” Wolfowitz interrupted hotly. “This guy Horton’s a psycho. He’s dying from AIDS for Christ’s sake, he was probably zonked on some kind of medicine when he signed this. If he even did.”

  “He signed it,” said Linda calmly. “And he wasn’t, in your empathetic phrase, zonked on anything.”

  “Why would Wolfowitz make such a deal?” asked Floutie. “Particularly for another publishing house?”

  “Because he owns a part of the house,” said Linda. “As to why—maybe Mr. Wolfowitz would like t
o answer that.”

  “I’m not answering a goddamn thing,” said Wolfowitz. “I’m not on trial here.”

  “Very well, then I’ll answer for him,” said Linda. “It was part of a personal vendetta against Mr. Green. He also undermined my client’s last two books for the same reason.”

  “Now I know you’re nuts,” said Wolfowitz, throwing up his hands in outrage. “Vendetta! What am I, the Cosa Nostra? Green’s books don’t sell and I’m responsible?”

  “Not you, Gothic. After all, you are the editor in chief,” said Linda.

  “I get it now,” said Wolfowitz, looking past Floutie to Fassbinder. “This is some kind of shakedown. Jesus, Mack, I’m disappointed, I really am.”

  Green cleared his throat, but Linda placed a restraining hand on his arm. “Let’s cut the crap. Who’s actually in charge here?”

  “I am the publisher of Gothic Books,” said Floutie, with heavy dignity.

  “That’s right,” said Fassbinder ominously. “Floutie here’s the head rooster. Anybody gets it in the neck, it’s him.”

  Once again Linda reached into her briefcase, produced a thick sheaf of papers and handed them to Floutie. “This is a copy of Walter T. Horton’s manuscript. It’s based on Mack’s idea and patterned on the pages Mr. Wolfowitz obtained under false pretenses from John McClain of Oriole, Michigan. Mr. McClain, by the way, is not a psycho or even an AIDS patient. He’s a retired police detective.” She looked at Lang. “I have his statement right here if you’d care to see it. And another from Tomas Russo, Mack’s agent.”

  “Please,” said Lang, taking a copy of the documents.

  “So,” said Linda sweetly, “allow me to summarize the situation. The editor in chief of Gothic Books has been engaged in a conspiracy to defraud my client, and he has engaged in a similar conspiracy on at least two previous occasions.”

  “These alleged previous instances, would you care to be more specific?” asked Lang.

  “Not really,” said Linda. “Mr. Wolfowitz knows what I’m talking about, he can fill you in. Naturally, you’ll get all the details during discovery.”

  Wolfowitz rose so suddenly that his chair tumbled backward. “I’ve heard all I’m going to listen to,” he snapped. “Carter, you’re a lawyer, tell this bitch she can’t come waltzing in here making wild accusations. There are libel laws, slander laws—”

  “I don’t care for your language, Arthur,” said Floutie. “I apologize, Ms. Birney.”

  “Who gives a shit what you care for?” snapped Wolfowitz.

  “Calm down,” said Lang in a surprisingly strong tone. He leaned over to Floutie and cupped his hand to the publisher’s ear. “Douglas, as Gothic’s counsel it is my duty to tell you that our interests may now be in conflict with Wolfowitz’s,” he whispered.

  Wolfowitz overheard the remark. “You’re selling me out, is that it? Harlan, tell these Ivy League faggots what’s what—”

  Fassbinder ignored the demand. “This thing gonna cost me money?” he asked Lang.

  “There’s no need to discuss that here,” said Lang.

  “Big money,” said Linda, who had listened to the byplay in silence. “And that’s the least of your problems.”

  “I’m not taking any more of this crap,” shouted Wolfowitz, stalking to the door. “I’ll get myself a real lawyer and sue you for slander and defamation of character.”

  “I can’t even remember what she was like,” said Mack quietly. It was the first time he had spoken, and it brought Wolfowitz up short.

  “What?”

  “I can’t remember what Louise was like in bed. All this trouble and I can’t even remember.”

  Wolfowitz stared at Mack, threw open the door and stormed out. There was a moment’s silence and then Carter Lang said, “I think it would be a good idea if we took a fifteen-minute recess.”

  “We’ve got ’em running scared,” Mack whispered to Linda and squeezed her hand.

  She returned the pressure and chuckled. “You think they’re scared now, wait till they see what’s coming next.”

  By the time Wolfowitz reached his corner office he was already calm enough to begin analyzing his situation. Things weren’t nearly as bad as he had first thought. The legal threat was bogus—all they had was Horton’s statement, the word of an alcoholic on medication. Besides, with luck Horton would be dead in a few months, making him a poor witness. As far as McClain was concerned, well, it was McClain who had contacted him. How was he to know that Mack wasn’t really thinking about killing himself?

  He might have to leave Gothic, although he had a chance to talk Fassbinder around after the others were gone. But even if he couldn’t, he had plenty of money and a company to run—the small house that was going to publish Horton’s novel.

  The more Wolfowitz thought about it, the better things looked. He’d bring out Horton’s novel anyway, and if Mack or Gothic made a stink, well, there was nothing like a literary scandal to stir sales. In fact, he could blackmail Walter T. by telling him that he wouldn’t publish his book unless he dropped his statement. Then, with the right publicity, Wolfowitz could still make it look like Mack had stolen Horton’s idea and cooked up an implausible story about a vendetta to save his own skin.

  Wolfowitz gathered some private papers, put them in his briefcase and glanced lovingly at the picture of Louise on his desk. He wasn’t finished with Mack yet, not by a long shot. He walked down the corridor to the exit with a light step. He was a man with a mission, a happy man. He would have whistled if there had been anyone around to hear him.

  McClain met Reggie on the northwest corner of Park and Sixty-fifth, only a few blocks from Gothic headquarters. They shook hands and McClain said, “We’re the two biggest men on the street.”

  Reggie looked around at the other pedestrians and nodded in agreement. “We’ve got a lot in common,” he said. “A certain kind of chemistry. I sensed that in Detroit. You did, too, didn’t you? I could tell.”

  “Yeah, I did,” said McClain. “Look, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  “Let’s walk while we talk,” said Herman, taking McClain’s arm and guiding him in the direction of Central Park. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Wolfowitz,” said McClain. “Mack’s editor. And a guy named Walter T. Horton.”

  “I’ve never heard of Walter T. Horton,” said Reggie.

  “He’s a guy Wolfowitz hired to copy Mack’s book. When his comes out, it’s supposed to look like Mack plagiarized him.”

  “Why would Wolfowitz do that?”

  “It’s complicated, but what it comes down to is, he’s jealous ’cause Mack screwed his wife.”

  “Not much of a reason,” said Reggie. “Not that I approve of adultery. But what’s it got to do with me?”

  “I figured you’d want to know. I mean, after all, you still own 10 percent of Mack’s book. And if Wolfowitz doesn’t screw it up, that’ll be worth a lot of money.”

  “What makes you think so? Aside from loyalty?”

  “Inside information,” said McClain. “Gothic’s going to put a lot of money behind it, make it a bestseller.”

  “I thought you said Wolfowitz was going to publish this other one instead.”

  “With a different company. Unless somebody stops him.”

  Reggie led McClain across Fifth Avenue and into the park.

  “He might not be easy to stop,” said Reggie. “He sounds like a determined man.”

  “If it was going to be easy, I wouldn’t be here right now,” said McClain.

  “I see,” said Reggie. They walked in silence for a while and then he said, “Mack might not like the idea of having me stay on as his agent.”

  “He’s the one who suggested it,” said McClain. “He said, ‘if I’m going to be represented by a crook, at least I want one who’s on my side.’ ”

  “And he figured I could take care of Wolfowitz for him?” said Reggie.

  “No, that’s my idea. Mack thinks that getting
him fired will stop him. He’s a great kid, but when it comes to dealing with bad men, he’s a little naïve.”

  “I admire that in him,” said Reggie. “There’s such a thing as being too cynical.”

  “Yeah, you wouldn’t call him cynical,” McClain said. “So, are you interested?”

  Reggie stopped and extended his hand. “Tell Mack I’ll do my best for him,” he said.

  “I’ve got Wolfowitz’s address in case you need it,” said McClain.

  “No, I’d rather see him away from home,” said Reggie. “He’s a married man, and Afterbirth tends to have an upsetting effect on wives. Don’t worry, though; I’ll catch up to him.”

  “Speaking of which, I almost forgot. Packer’s not going to be back,” said McClain.

  “More inside information?”

  McClain nodded.

  “Do you happen to know where he is?”

  “Someplace they speak Spanish,” said McClain. “If I were you, I’d write him off.”

  “No offense, but I don’t write anyone off. Would you like a hot dog?”

  “Sure,” said McClain. “My treat.”

  “No, it’s on me,” said Reggie. He walked over to the Sabrett vendor and came back with four hot dogs smothered in onions. “Two each,” he said. “The big man’s order.”

  “Good dog,” said McClain, taking a large bite. “I wish they made ’em like this at the Elks. That’s my hangout these days.”

  “How old a man are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Mid-sixties,” McClain said.

  “And that’s what you do? Hang out at the Elks?”

  “I told you, I’m retired.”

  “A man reaches his prime and they discard him,” said Reggie, shaking his big bald head. “It’s a criminal waste of talent.”

  “I can’t disagree with you there.”

  “I wonder if you’d consider coming to work for me? I could use a vigorous senior citizen in my operation.”

  “Naw, my wife would kill me,” said McClain, unable to suppress a grin. “I appreciate the offer, though. It’s nice to feel wanted.”

  The meeting at Gothic was reconvened by Douglas Floutie. He had just begun to explain his position on the question of corporate liability when the door flew open and Joyce came in, accompanied by a very large, very dark man, dressed in a jeweled turban and a flowing African robe. He took a seat next to Linda and nodded amicably to Mack. Fassbinder glowered at him, and he returned the look with an intensity that obviously disconcerted the old man. “Who the hell are you supposed to be?” he snapped. “Mau-Mau home delivery?”