The Bookmakers (11 page)

“There’s no astronauts around here,” said McClain.

“That’s Tom Wolfe,” said Joyce.

“Whatever,” said McClain, unruffled by the correction. “What I think you should do is a sequel to
The Oriole Kid
. Another baseball story.”

“I believe
The Oriole Kid
was meant to be an American allegory of sports, sex and success, dear,” said Joyce with affectionate irony, a bit of which, Mack realized, was aimed at him; those were the words from the blurb on the paperback edition of
The Oriole Kid
. He remembered them because he had written them himself.

“Allegory? Say it ain’t so, Kid,” said McClain.

“English teacher?” Mack asked Joyce.

“Joyce was principal over at Jackson Junior High until three years ago,” McClain said proudly.

“I knew a kid whose mother was principal there, Derrick Milton. We played ball together.”

“Derrick’s my son,” said Mrs. McClain. “He lives in California now. He’s a computer programmer.”

“He was a good guy,” said Mack. “Good ballplayer, too. How’s he doing?”

“He’s doing just fine,” said Joyce, glancing briefly at her husband.

“Derrick doesn’t approve of his mother being married to a white guy,” said John. “We don’t see much of him.”

Mack recalled that Derrick Milton had had a white girlfriend in high school, but he didn’t mention it. He was amused to recognize his silence as an act of instinctive generational solidarity; never tell parents anything. “Derrick’s father was a minister, wasn’t he?” he said.

“My first husband,” said Mrs. McClain. “He died in 1968.”

Mack remembered the Reverend Booker T. Milton, a flamboyant preacher who wore expensive suits, drove a red Cadillac and sometimes delivered florid invocations at school events. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“I’m not,” said McClain, slipping his arm over his wife’s shoulder. “Meaning no disrespect. You know how I met Joyce?”

Mack shook his head.

“I busted her,” John said with a booming laugh. “Honest to God, at that big busing riot in 1970. She jumped an officer of the law and I had to take her in.”

“That officer of the law was beating one of my students over the head with a club,” said Joyce.

“I remember the first thing she ever said to me,” McClain continued. “She said, ‘Get your hands off me, you racist pig.’ Romantic, huh?”

“It was bad enough getting arrested. I didn’t know the punishment would be a life sentence,” said Joyce dryly.

“In that case you and I have something in common,” Mack said to her. “We’ve both been busted by your husband.”

“I busted you? When? For what? I don’t remember anything like that.”

“The scene of the crime was Jerry’s Liquor Mart. I was in high school and you caught me and a friend of mine, Buddy Packer, buying a bottle of peppermint schnapps with a phony ID.”

“You were friends with Buddy Packer?”

“You know Buddy?”

“Yeah, I know him,” said McClain with an expression Mack couldn’t read.

“Back then you needed three pieces of proof to buy liquor,” Mack said. “One day Buddy, ah, found this guy’s wallet in the theater—”

“Lifted it, you mean,” said McClain.

“—and it had a driver’s license and a draft card in it. Buddy went down to Jacobson’s Army-Navy and came back with a Red Cross card from World War II, granting safe passage across enemy lines. I remember it had stamped signatures—Roosevelt, Churchill, Stalin, Mussolini, even Hitler. Buddy typed in the name of the guy with the wallet and presto—three pieces of proof.”

McClain smiled broadly. “It’s starting to come back to me,” he said.

“The next day we decided to try it out, over at Jerry’s. Buddy sticks the schnapps on the checkout counter and the lady gives us this suspicious look and says, ‘You boys got some ID?’ Packer says, ‘Hell yeah,’ real confident, and drops the stuff on the counter. She looks at it and holds up the Red Cross card. ‘According to your driver’s license you were three years old when this card was issued,’ she says. And Buddy, never missing a beat, says: ‘Lady, we’re talking wartime. They weren’t taking no chances.’ ”

Joyce laughed, the loudest sound she had made all day.

“At which point,” said Mack, “an off-duty policeman who was standing behind us put a hand on my shoulder and said”—he made his voice go gruff—“ ‘Boys, your asses are under arrest.’ ”

“And that was me,” said McClain. “Hell yes, I remember it now.”

“So then what happened?” asked Joyce. “I hope this isn’t a story about po-lice brutality.”

“Actually, he was pretty nice about it,” Mack said. “He gave us a lecture and impounded the wallet. Nothing ever happened. I wonder where Buddy is these days?”

“He’s around,” said McClain, glancing at Joyce.

“His name’s not in the book,” said Mack. “You know how to find him?”

McClain shrugged. “If I had to,” he said.

“I think the gumbo’s just about ready,” said Joyce, rising. “Mack, you probably want to wash up before supper; you know where it is. Dick Tracy here can give me a hand setting the table.”

Dinner, from spinach salad to the homemade pecan pie, was as good as McClain had promised. Mack, famished, would have been embarrassed about eating so much if his appetite hadn’t given Joyce such obvious pleasure. “No more, I can’t,” he groaned when she
offered him a third helping of pecan pie. “God, I think this is the best meal I’ve ever had.”

“I done married my wife for her cookin’,” said McClain. “She the baddest soulfood specialiss in O-ree-O.” Mack was startled—McClain’s black accent and inflection, even the expression on his face, were uncannily accurate.

“John thinks he’s Redd Foxx,” said Joyce fondly. “Just ignore him when he gets like that. I do.”

“You’ve got a good ear,” Mack said.

“Spend twenty years working on the east side, you learn to talk like an eastsider.”

“Why don’t you sing ‘Ole Man Ribbuh’ for our guest, dear?” said Joyce.

“I only sings Motown,” McClain said. “Anyway, I told you Joyce can cook.”

“That’s all I do these days, cook and keep house.”

“Yeah, and volunteer three days a week at the daycare center. And direct the church choir. And play tennis every morning. Now she’s thinking about running for city council.” McClain leaned over and kissed his wife on the cheek. “She’s really something, this woman.”

“Do you have any kids?” Mack asked. “I mean, of your own? Together?”

McClain shook his head. “It’s something I missed out on. I was married once before, but it didn’t take. I always figured I’d get around to kids the next time. But then I met Joyce, and—”

“Forty-year-old women didn’t have babies in those days,” she said. “I already had a grown son. And, to be honest, I’m not sure I would have wanted to raise a mixed child in this town.”

“Ah, well,” said McClain. There was a long pause and then he asked. “How about you?”

“Nope,” said Mack. “I was married once too, but I escaped. Not unscathed,” he added, thinking of the settlement.

“Maybe you’ll find a girl around here,” said McClain. “Or
maybe that’s the reason you came back. Returning to the scene of the crime.”

“John, you leave this young man alone with your romantic po-liceman notions,” said Joyce with mock severity.

“That’s all right,” Mack said. “It’s been a while since I was cross-examined about girls in this room. Brings back old times.”

“Everybody’s got some girl in his old hometown,” said McClain. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“As a matter of fact, you’re right, in a way,” said Mack. “There was a girl—”

“And?”

“And she didn’t think I was good enough for her,” Mack said lightly. “She married an all-American quarterback instead.”

“No kidding?” said McClain. “Who?”

“Guy named Gregg Flanders.”

“Gregg Flanders? From Vanderbilt? He won the Heisman Trophy. No wonder she didn’t think you were good enough for her.”

“Thanks. Anyway, it was a long time ago.”

“She from around here?”

“West Tarryton.”

“I know people over there,” said McClain. “What’s her name?”

“Linda Birney. I guess now it’s Linda Flanders.”

“Birney, Birney,” mused McClain, searching his cop’s memory. “Nope, doesn’t ring any bells. You’d think I’d remember, a local girl marries a Heisman winner.”

“Where is she now?” asked Joyce gently.

Mack shrugged. “Last I heard she was living in California.”

“Well, it’s her loss,” said Joyce. “Are you fellas ready for some coffee?”

“Ah, would it be all right if I smoked?” asked Mack.

“How about a cee-gar?” said John. “I’ve got me some tasty Cubanos.”

“John, you smoke those illegal stogies of yours in the basement,” said Joyce. “I’ll get the dishes cleared away and bring your coffee down.”

McClain led Green to the wood-paneled basement rec room, where he produced two green coronas and a bottle of Hennessy. “Thought we might have us a postprandial libation,” he said.

The two men sat puffing, chatting about the Pistons, who were still off their championship form, and the Tigers, McClain’s special love, who he predicted would be in the thick of the pennant race next season. When Joyce joined them with coffee, Mack looked at his watch and saw it was past eleven.

“I didn’t realize how late it was,” he said. “I’ve got to get over to the hotel.”

“Where you staying?” asked McClain.

“The Hilton. I hope they held my reservation.”

“Forget the Hilton,” said McClain. “Stay here tonight.”

“Here?”

“Yeah, here, in your old room. Nobody’s using it.”

“I couldn’t do that.”

“Why not?” asked Joyce. “It might be fun for you. And it’s no trouble at all.”

“No, really …”

McClain laid a heavy hand on Green’s arm. “It’s a twenty-minute drive to the Hilton,” he said, “and at the risk of sounding like a cop, you
have
had a few drinks.”

Mack realized that McClain was right. He had forgotten he wasn’t getting around by cab.

“John, maybe Mack would rather go to the hotel,” said Joyce. “Why don’t you run him over there and tomorrow we can arrange for him to come by for the car.”

“No, I’d like to stay,” Mack said, surprising himself. Suddenly he wanted very much to spend the night. In the morning he would justify it as an interesting experience to use in the
Diary
, but right now he was tired enough and drunk enough to admit that he
felt an unaccustomed warmth and safety in this house, with these people.

“I’ll go up and get your bed ready,” said Joyce, already on her feet. “It’s not your old bed, mind, but it’s comfortable.”

McClain grunted and rose. “Take Mack with you, honey. I’ll lock up.” He put an arm over Green’s shoulder and squeezed. “By the way,” he said. “Gregg Flanders? He never made it big in the pros. You did.”

Mack awoke to pale sunlight streaming through the windows and the aroma of bacon in the air. Feeling clearheaded and a little sheepish, he climbed into his clothes, washed up in the bathroom down the hall and then went downstairs to the kitchen. There he found McClain, dressed in a flannel shirt and khakis, sitting at the table eating scrambled eggs and reading
The Oriole News
.

“ ’Morning, Big Mack,” he said cheerfully. “How’d you sleep?”

“Slept great, but when I woke up I panicked. Thought I’d be late for school.”

McClain laughed. “You forgot it’s Sunday. Joyce’s gone to church, but she left breakfast. There’s coffee on the stove. Help yourself.”

“Coffee’s plenty,” said Mack, pouring himself a cup. “I’m still stuffed from last night.”

“Know what you mean,” McClain said, patting his massive belly with satisfaction. He extracted a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to Mack. “Your friend Packer’s phone number. He lives on Greenfield, other side of Melodie Highway.”

“How’d you get the number? He’s not in the book.”

“Depends which book you’re talking about,” said McClain. “Mind if I ask you something?”

“Ask away,” said Mack, sipping the steaming coffee.

“Packer. He owe you money or something?”

“Money? No, I told you last night, we’re old friends. I haven’t seen him for years. Is there something I should know about him?”

“Nothing you won’t find out for yourself,” said McClain. “Listen, what are your plans for today?”

“Get over to the hotel, check in. Then I thought maybe I’d take a drive around town, have a look. That’s about it.”

“I’ve got a better idea. The Pistons are at home against the Celtics and I happen to have a pal in security at the Palace who can get us great seats. You interested?”

“The last time I saw the Pistons they were playing at Cobo Hall.”

“Then you should see the Palace, it’s something else. Afterward we can stop by Joe Muer’s, get us a lobster. And just to make you feel good, I’ll let you pick up the check.”

“Joe Muer’s,” said Mack. “I used to go there with my father.”

“Then it’ll be like old times,” said McClain.

McClain was an enthusiastic host, ordering hot dogs and beer and expertly briefing Mack on the decline of the Pistons. But by the third quarter, with the home team trailing by eighteen, Mack began to sense that the ex-cop was sneaking glances at him. Finally he caught him in the act.