The Bookmakers (14 page)

“Double bourbon on the rocks,” said Mack, lighting a Winston.

“Well, at least you haven’t turned into a health nut,” said Packer approvingly.

“It’s a funny thing,” said Mack. “When we were kids we
drank and smoked to seem older. Now I don’t quit because I don’t want to feel like I’m getting old.”

“You were always coming up with fake philosophical shit like that,” said Packer.

“Ah, so you do remember me? Back at the gym I thought you were having a hard time figuring out who I was.”

“I remember,” said Packer. “I’ve thought about you over the years.”

“Yeah, I noticed from all your calls and letters.”

“You could have called yourself,” said Packer.

“I didn’t know where you were,” said Mack. “You’re not in the phone book.”

“Every fucking bill collector in Michigan finds me, I figured you’d be smart enough to get my number if you wanted it.”

They sipped their drinks in silence. “You ever see any of the old crowd?” Mack asked after a while.

“The old crowd? What crowd would that be, old bean?”

“Ba-ba, Roy Ray, Mayes—the Gamers.”

“They’re around,” said Packer indifferently. “Ba-ba’s a lawyer, J. Brian Lifton. He specializes in child abuse cases, if you can believe that.”

“Where’s Mayes?”

“Came back from ’Nam dumber than when he left. He was working as a security guard at the airport last I heard.”

“What about Roy Ray?”

“You mean his Holiness, Minister Malik.”

“Huh?”

“That’s what he calls himself these days, Abijamin Fucking Malik. He’s in New York, too; I’m surprised you haven’t run into him.”

“Roy Ray is Abijamin Malik? He’s famous. Christ, my agent was bitching about some demonstration of his a few weeks ago.”

“Your agent?” said Packer, arching an eyebrow and extending his pinky. “He any relation to your butler?”

“No, seriously. Malik is Roy Ray? I’ve seen his picture in the paper but I never recognized him.”

“He probably doesn’t even recognize himself. He’s got a beard these days, and a fucked-up looking African hat,” said Packer.

“Put that in a novel, nobody’d believe it,” said Mack. “Roy Ray, militant minister.”

“Minister my ass, he’s a con artist,” said Packer. “Doing good, too, I’ll say that for him.”

“You ever see him?”

“He’s in town once in a while, we get together. In private. He doesn’t like to be seen with white people. Says it’s bad for his image.”

“So much for the Gamers,” said Mack wistfully. All these years he had imagined them together, under Buddy’s imperious leadership, the way they had been when he left.

“What’d you think, I’d still be running around with my high school buddies, playing softball on the weekends? Life ain’t a Beach Boys tune, Mack. Things change around here, just like in the big city.” Packer pushed up his jacket sleeve, revealing a tattooed blue snake slithering through a heart on his thin forearm. “Ever seen one of these?”

“A tattoo? Yeah, I believe I have,” Mack said. “Matter of fact, I got the idea for my first novel from a guy with tattoos. Lot of guys who work in the kitchens of Greek restaurants have them, too.”

“Well this one ain’t from Greektown, it’s from Jackson.”

“Jackson? Prison?”

Packer nodded and blew some smoke rings. “Yep.”

“What were you doing in prison?”

“Some bullshit arson thing,” said Packer.

“I’m surprised you got a license to manage fighters, with a record,” Mack said.

“I didn’t. Melvin Hudson, the guy in the boating hat, he’s my partner. He was a guard in Jackson. Tell me something, you got any serious money?”

“What’s serious money?”

“Say twenty-five thousand. For that you could buy a piece of one of my kids. You were always a sports fan. This would be like owning a big-league baseball team.”

“No thanks,” said Mack, signaling the waiter for refills. “I hear the fights are fixed.”

“That’s the whole point,” said Packer. “Well, fuck it, I was just being sociable.”

Mack could tell that Packer was angry, but he decided to let it ride; twenty-five thousand dollars was too much to invest in nostalgia. “Tell me something,” he said. “Was it rough up there?”

“Up where?”

“In the joint.”

“The joint? You sound like those fuckwits in high school who used to talk about ‘the Nam.’ Lemme tell you something, prison ain’t glamorous, no matter what Norman Mailer thinks.” He tossed down his tequila, wiped his thin lips with a napkin and grinned. “What’s the matter, Macky, you surprised I know who Norman Mailer is? I read some of his books. I even read a couple of yours. Just to kill time, you know?”

“Mine and Mailer’s.”

“Yeah,” said Packer. “His are better, but yours were okay, too. I liked the baseball one.”

“Thanks. I’ll tell Norman you’re a fan, next time I bump into him.”

“Yeah, do that,” he said. They sat in silence again and then Packer said, “You gonna tell me what brings you back to town?”

“Business,” said Mack. “I’m writing a book set here.”

“In Oriole? Shakespeare couldn’t write a book about this shit-hole.”

“I don’t know,” said Mack. “We had some memorable times.”

“Kid stuff,” said Packer. “Small-time fun and games.”

“You trying to tell me you sit around the house these days watching the tube? The great Buddy Packer grounded?”

“Well, I get out every once in a while,” said Packer, flattered by Mack’s image of him. “I still go on an occasional fo-ray.”

“Next time, give me a call. This book I’m working on could use a few good Buddy Packer stories.”

“Okay,” said Packer. “Since you brought up favors, here’s what I was thinking. How about a story on Irish Willie for
Sports Illustrated
?”

“What?”

“Aw shit, was I speaking in Latin again? I gotta quit that. I’ll say it in English this time—how about writing up a story on Irish Willie Torres?”

“What kind of story?”

“Fuck if I know, you’re the writer, I see your stuff in there from time to time. Something that’ll help him get a title shot, make me some dough.”

“Has he ever beaten anybody? Is he ranked?”

“If he was ranked I wouldn’t need you, would I? It wouldn’t be a favor.”

“I’d like to help, but—”

“But,” said Packer, dragging on his cigarette and looking at Mack through narrowed eyes. “But.”

“Hey, it’s not my magazine. Besides, I’ve got a book to work on. I didn’t come out here to write articles.”

“Yeah, well, call me in another twenty years,” said Packer, raising a bony hand for the check. “Maybe you won’t be so busy.”

“Come on, man, I didn’t mean it like that. Look, if it’s that important to you, I’ll get in touch with an editor I know, see if I can pitch him something. Maybe we can hang a story on fighters with strange names or something. But I can’t promise.”

“I don’t accept promises anyway,” said Packer, taking the check from the waiter and handing it directly to Mack. “I don’t need some cutesy-pooh bullshit about nicknames, I need a piece says that Irish Willie deserves a shot at the title. He gets it, I’ll give you ten thousand bucks. How’s that?”

“I’ll do my best,” said Mack. He had no intention of calling
Sports Illustrated
, but he didn’t want to argue with Packer. He needed him too much for that.

It was just after eleven when they left Stanley’s. On the way out to the car Mack turned to Packer. “You ever hear anything about Linda? Where she is, what she’s doing?”

“What Linda?” asked Packer, although he knew exactly who Mack meant.

“Linda Birney.”

“Linda Birney? Don’t tell me you still got a thing for that stuck-up bitch.”

“I haven’t seen her in years,” said Mack. “I was just wondering where she might be, that’s all.”

“Can’t help you,” said Packer. Just like you can’t help me with twenty-five thousand, he thought to himself. He saw the disappointed look on Mack’s face and made a mental note that, big-time author or not, Mack Green was still somebody he could lie to.

At eleven, Joyce went up to bed. McClain locked the front door, leaving the porch light on for Mack, and joined her. By 11:15 Joyce was asleep. At 11:20 McClain, dressed in pyjamas decorated with little brown bears, climbed gingerly out of bed and padded barefoot down the hall to Mack’s empty room.

It took approximately forty seconds to jimmy the lock on the desk drawer where Mack kept his manuscript. McClain looked at the title page,
The Diary of a Dying Man
, felt a flutter in his large belly and began to read.

McClain stood frozen, the manuscript in his hand, remembering Mack’s story about his mugging in New York. “Holy Mother of God,” he breathed to himself and turned the pages. When he saw his name he began reading again:

McClain nodded assent and read on for about twenty minutes. Then he carefully replaced the manuscript, relocked the drawer and went back to his bedroom. “Joyce,” he said, shaking his wife’s shoulder gently. “Joyce, wake up.”

“What’s the matter, baby?” she asked. “Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m all right,” said McClain. “It’s Mack. He’s in worse trouble than I thought.”

“What happened?” asked Joyce, her eyes widening with concern.

“It’s not what’s happened, it’s what’s going to happen.”

“What do you mean, John? Stop talking in riddles.”

“His book is a suicide diary.”

“A what?”

“You heard me,” said McClain. “He didn’t come to Oriole to write a novel. He came home to kill himself.”

On the flight back from Detroit, Wolfowitz eased off his loafers, sipped a Bloody Mary and took his time rereading the pages of
Diary of a Dying Man
. He was impressed. The concept was brilliant and the writing was vintage Mack—funny, touching and morbid. He wasn’t surprised that a dolt like McClain had mistaken it for the real thing.

Thank God for McClain. Until his call, Wolfowitz had no idea where Mack was or what he was up to. Then, yesterday, Claire had buzzed him and said, “There’s a man on the line who says he’s a friend of Mack Green’s and it’s urgent that he talk to you—”

Wolfowitz signaled the stewardess for another Bloody Mary and idly hefted the purloined chapters of Mack’s novel. He could see that the McClains were another Mack Green pickup, sidekicks like Tommy Russo, like himself, people for Mack to charm, to use and eventually to betray. This time, though, thanks to John McClain, it wasn’t going to work out that way.

They had met that morning in the coffee shop of the Pontchartrain Hotel in downtown Detroit. “Thanks for flying out here on such short notice,” McClain said.

“Mack’s more than an author to me,” said Wolfowitz. “He’s a friend.”

“I know. He’s told me a lot about you.”

“Some of it good I hope,” said Wolfowitz, the hick expression coming easily to him; back in upstate New York, he had known a lot of dummies like McClain.

“I brought a copy of the diary,” said the big ex-cop. He handed it to Wolfowitz gingerly, as if he were afraid the words might spill off the page onto the floor.

Wolfowitz raced through the first entries, making sure to furrow his brow and occasionally grunt with concern. “Thank God you called me,” he said finally. “It looks like Dr. Ephron was right.”

“Who’s Dr. Ephron?”

“Mack’s shrink. After you phoned yesterday I got in touch with him. Naturally he didn’t want to say much—”

“Naturally,” said McClain. “Those guys never want to talk for free.”

“But between the lines he let me know that he’s been expecting something like this. Apparently Mack’s been sounding suicidal for months. Ephron wants to see these”—he tapped the papers in front of him—“and whatever else Mack writes from now on. Can you get it?”