The Bookmakers (18 page)

“Why are you doing this to him?”

“I’m just rewarding staff initiative,” said Wolfowitz blandly. “Besides, Bradley has the confidence of our esteemed publisher.”

“What’s the matter, Arthur, has Louise been making eyes at him? Is that what this is all about?”

Wolfowitz regarded her coldly. “You know what, Dorothy? You can be a real bitch sometimes.”

“And occasionally you aren’t a prick,” said Dorothy, walking away. “That makes us both unpredictable.”

Wolfowitz watched her leave. Suddenly he felt a hand on his elbow, turned and saw Douglas Floutie and his father-in-law, old man Fassbinder. Floutie was dressed in tweedy Ivy League fashion, his salt-and-pepper hair carefully tousled, a pair of reading glasses dangling carelessly from a cord around his neck. The getup was intended to convey donnish understatement, but to Wolfowitz’s eye it made Floutie look like a road-company Mr. Chips.

Fassbinder was a different matter. Like masters who come to resemble their pets, he had acquired the wattled neck and beaky features of the poultry he slaughtered by the millions. There was also something roosterish in the mean indignation he radiated. He made no effort to hide his contempt for his son-in-law, especially from Wolfowitz.

Fassbinder gave the editor in chief’s elbow a squeeze just short of a pinch and fixed him with a nearsighted stare. “We gonna make any money this year?” he demanded. It was a rhetorical question; the old man knew Gothic’s earnings to the penny.

“That’s what we’re in business for,” said Wolfowitz.

“Thank God somebody around here knows that,” Fassbinder snorted. “I just asked Floutie what kind of year we’re having and he started telling me about Pulitzer Prizes and National Book Awards.”

“Prizes translate into prestige, and in publishing prestige is a very valuable intangible,” said Floutie defensively.

“Prizes are chickenshit,” squawked Fassbinder, whose conversation leaned heavily on the imagery of the poultry business. “The only prize that matters is what’s under the little line at the bottom. Am I right or wrong on that, Wolfowitz?”

“You’re going to like this year’s numbers,” said Wolfowitz smoothly.

“No thanks to Floutie here. Poems give him goosebumps, but he don’t care about the number under that little line. Well, why should he? It’s my money, after all. Ain’t that so, Floutie?”

“I don’t believe that this is the most auspicious time for a financial discussion,” said Floutie with a forced smile.

“I got a poem for ya,” Fassbinder said. The old man cleared his throat and began to declaim in a loud voice: “ ‘Oh, her lips were pink like a rooster’s dink and her hair was chicken-shit brown. Her titties flopped loose like the nuts of a goose and she come from a hot-shit town.’ ” He stopped abruptly, glared at Floutie, who had reddened at his father-in-law’s vulgarity, and grinned. “Wanna hear the rest?”

“Not particularly.”

“Too bad,” said Fassbinder, and resumed reciting: “ ‘I fucked her once and I fucked her twice and I fucked her once too often. I broke the mainspring in her ass and sent her to her coffin.’ Now, that’s poetry. Know who wrote it?”

Floutie shook his head; Wolfowitz looked on, enjoying the encounter enormously.

“Neither do I,” said the old man. “Don’t matter, either, ’cause you can’t sell it. Nobody buys poems or little books about sensitive bull dykes in London or Christ knows what all. The public wants adventure, gossip books, how-to-do-its. That’s what sells.”

“You ought to write a book yourself,” said Wolfowitz, snapping his fingers to signal a brainstorm. “Practical advice from a hardheaded tycoon. It could be a bestseller. Good advertising for the poultry business, too.”

“Not a bad idea,” said Fassbinder. “Hell, if Iacocca and Perot can do it, why not me? I’ve even got a title.
How to Lay the Golden Egg
. Whaddya think of that one?”

“By Harlan Fassbinder, the Prince of Poultry. I love it,” said Wolfowitz, glancing at Floutie. “If you’re serious I’ll get somebody to work with you on it, do the technical stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, just the writing,” said Wolfowitz.

“Sure, why not? Maybe we’ll get Floutie here to do the scribbling. Save some money that way.”

The publisher flushed and glared at Wolfowitz. “I think we’ll find another ghostwriter, if you don’t mind,” he said. “I have a few other duties—”

“Duties my ass,” said Fassbinder. “Your duty is to keep my daughter smiling and not fuck up while I go on laying golden eggs. Ain’t that so, Wolfowitz?”

“You’ll have to excuse me,” said Floutie, in a voice choked with anger. “I have guests to attend to.”

“Go, go,” said Fassbinder, waving a veiny hand. “Go mingle, professor. Me and Wolfowitz got things to talk about.”

Floutie organized his features into a semblance of a smile. “Happy Thanksgiving, Harlan. Arthur,” he said, walking off into the crowd.

“Think I was too hard on the boy?” asked Fassbinder with a malicious grin. “Think I hurt Douggie’s feelings?”

“I wouldn’t presume to say, sir,” said Wolfowitz, imitating the publisher’s rounded diction.

“Goddamnit, you’re a pisser, Wolfowitz.” Fassbinder laughed. “Are you serious about that book or were you just pulling Floutie’s wee-wee?”

“Little of both,” said Wolfowitz. “Frankly, I think writing a book would be a waste of your time. Even a bestseller would be chicken feed by your standards.”

“Chicken feed, eh? You’re sounding more like a poultry man every day. You ever get sick of fooling around with authors and
such, you come down to Little Rock and make some real money. Eventually somebody’s got to take over, and it sure as hell ain’t gonna be Floutie.”

“It’s an interesting idea,” said Wolfowitz noncommittally.

“Well, think on it,” said Fassbinder. “There’s a lot of satisfaction in the poultry business. Hell’s bells, they call Thanksgiving Turkey Day, don’t they? You never heard of a holiday called Book Day. See my point?”

“Must give you a lot of pleasure, knowing how many Americans are eating birds you slaughtered,” said Wolfowitz dryly.

“Pleasure don’t begin to cover it,” said the old man, his eyes glinting and his nostrils flaring with pride. “This kind of power makes a man feel like fucking Joe Stalin.”

Fassbinder walked away, chortling audibly. Wolfowitz turned to look for Louise and bumped into Tommy Russo, who extended a pudgy hand. “Congratulations,” he said.

“Congratulations?” For a moment he thought Tommy had overheard Fassbinder’s offer about the poultry business.

“To all of us. On Mack’s novel.”

“What about it?”

“Andy Ligget called me this morning. He offered me a hundred thou for the movie rights.”

“Who the hell’s Andy Ligget?”

“An indie out in California. I’ve sold him a couple of things before.”

“How the hell did he know about the
Diary
? The book’s only half finished. From what Mack tells me,” he added quickly.

“Yeah, well, I got the word around,” Russo lied. “That’s what I get paid for. Anyway, it looks like we’ve got a winner.”

“You do,” said Wolfowitz. “We don’t own a piece of the movie rights, you know that. You’re the one who should be happy.”

“I am happy,” Russo lied again. When Ligget had called, Tommy had immediately understood that Herman Reggie was
behind the deal; it would be the bookie, not he, who collected the commission. Still, he certainly wasn’t going to tell Wolfowitz that. He didn’t want it getting back to Mack that he was being represented by a gangster—a gangster with heavy Hollywood connections, evidently. Probably Ligget was paying back a gambling debt, too, Russo thought, giving Reggie a double-dip on what should have been his project. If word of the arrangement ever leaked out, Tommy knew he’d be the laughingstock of the entertainment industry.

“How’s Mack taking it?” Wolfowitz asked.

“He doesn’t know yet. I called out there earlier, but he wasn’t home. I can’t wait to tell him, though—he’s gonna go crazy.”

“That’s for sure,” said Wolfowitz. “Are they paying up front?”

“The whole amount. Those Hollywood guys throw money around like dirt.”

“Wonder what he’s going to do with it?”

Russo shrugged. “You know how Mack is with money. He’ll probably blow it.”

“Well, like you said, he deserves some success after all these years,” said Wolfowitz. With any luck, Green would wind up not only humiliated and discredited, but in debt to a Hollywood studio that would certainly sue him when his plagiarism was discovered. The thought made him chuckle. “You know what this proves?” he asked.

Russo shook his head. “What?”

“That sometimes good things really do happen to good people.”

When Mack came down to breakfast the next morning, he found McClain sitting in the kitchen. “It’s past ten,” he said. “What’d they do, close the Elks?”

“I’m going out to the mall today,” said McClain. “Buy Joyce a Christmas present.”

“Little early for that, isn’t it?”

“I like to shop early, before all the good merchandise gets snapped up,” said McClain. “How about coming along for the ride? I could use a second opinion.”

“Well—”

“Good. Drink your coffee and let’s get going. We finish early, I’ll have time for a few lanes this afternoon.”

They drove out to Four Corners, a huge, confusing warren of upscale shops and chain boutiques in West Tarryton. McClain hummed “It’s a Grand Old Flag” over and over as he led Mack
through the labyrinth, going in and out of jewelry stores and clothing shops, examining dozens of potential gifts and rejecting them all.

“Jesus, buy something. We’re running out of stores,” said Mack.

“What’s the matter, hotshot, you getting tired?”

“Aren’t you?”

McClain consulted his watch. “It’s 11:45,” he said.

“So?”

“Time for a bite to eat. Go over to the food court, get us some refreshments and I’ll save a table.”

Mack went to one of the counters, picked up two large plastic cups of beer and two slices of pizza, and brought them over to the round metal table McClain was guarding. “Budweiser all right?” he asked.

“King of beers,” said McClain, taking a swig. “So, hotshot, how’s your love life?”

“What?”

“You heard me. It’s a simple question. What’s the matter, you embarrassed to admit you’re not making any headway with the local chicks?”

“Hey, just last night I had drinks with a model who plays the harmonica and does it on the second date.” Mack laughed.

McClain snorted. “You know how many ditzy beauty queens I went out with in my life? Before I met Joyce?”

“Is it an odd or even number?”

“My fair share, wise guy. More than my fair share, ask anybody. It was fun, too, until I found the real thing.” He shot Mack a look of such bald significance that he laughed out loud.

“Is this when we discuss the birds and the bees? ’Cause if it is, I want to take some notes.”

“I’m talking love here, not sex. Something you don’t know diddly-squat about.”

“And you do?”

“Goddamn right,” said McClain. “The Queen of Sheba comes along, you’d still want something better.”

“So I’m choosy, so what?”

“Here’s so what: see that cotton-candy stand over there?” Green followed McClain’s finger with his eyes and nodded. “Okay, now look to your left, the Ward’s sign?” Mack nodded again. “Good. There’s about thirty feet between them, right?”

“About that.”

“Okay, that’s your field of vision, Ward’s and the booth. Don’t look beyond them in either direction.”

Mack swung around in his seat, positioning himself for an unobstructed view. “Now what?”

“Now I’m going to teach you a game. What you do is, start counting the women who walk by. Look ’em over good because you have to choose one of the next ten females to spend the rest of your life with.”

“I don’t get it,” said Mack.

“When I was about your age a guy I know, Maury Steiner, he’s dead now, heart attack right in the middle of a bowling tournament, he taught me this game. Called it the Game of Life. Just look at the women as they pass by, and when you see the one you want, say
stop
. Then go on counting until you get to ten. That way you see what you missed.”

“What if I don’t want any of them?”

“In that case you wind up with number ten,” said McClain. He gestured to a gangly teenager in a Tigers’ cap who skipped by holding the hand of a pimply boy. “There’s number one.”

“Hey, she’s just a kid, she doesn’t count,” Mack protested.

McClain shook his head decisively. “All females with jugs count,” he said.

“Is that what it says in the official rule book? Jugs?”

“Just concentrate, hotshot. The next Mrs. Green could be by any time.”

A tall, well-built woman in her late twenties walked past pushing
a baby stroller. Mack examined her closely. She had curly dark hair and a full, rounded figure, but her complexion was spotted and she wore a vacant expression. He was tempted, but decided to wait for something better. “Pass,” he said.

“She looked pretty good to me,” said McClain.

“I’ve got eight more to go,” said Mack, enjoying himself.

“Six,” said McClain, pointing in the direction of two very fat women who looked like sisters. “Unless you’re into plush upholstery.”