The Bookmakers (23 page)

“And what am I supposed to call you? Big John?”

“No, baby,” said McClain, kissing her exuberantly on the lips. “From now on, you can call me Doctor Feelgood.”

Wolfowitz sat alone in his study, listening to Louise and the maid fussing over last-minute arrangements for Christmas lunch. In a few minutes Josh and his young wife Steffie would arrive; he had just enough time to give himself a little Christmas cheer. He opened his safe, took out the list of options he had drawn up after receiving Conlon’s report and privately contemplated Mack Green’s demise.

The list, written on yellow legal paper in Wolfowitz’s precise script, was headed “Contingencies.” A list followed:

As much as Wolfowitz regretted being relegated to passivity, there was no denying that logic dictated plan three. Even from a business standpoint, letting Reggie go ahead made sense. Mack’s pages, which continued to arrive on schedule, were terrific; much better than Walter Horton’s version, which he had delivered earlier that week. There had been a small scene when Wolfowitz had informed Horton that his book was being held and that he would receive no money unless it was actually published. Walter T. had pleaded, cajoled and eventually stormed out cursing, but Wolfowitz didn’t care. At this point the Horton diary was insurance, nothing more. If something went wrong with Reggie’s plan, Horton would get his money; if not—well, that was his problem. Nobody had told him to go out and get AIDS.

Wolfowitz heard the front door open and the sound of loud, cheerful voices in the hall. It wouldn’t be long now, he reflected; Mack’s novel was almost finished. He carefully replaced his options list in the safe, glanced briefly at the photo of Louise on his desk and felt a brief, sharp pang of emptiness. The renewal of his vendetta had given him a sense of purpose and satisfaction he hadn’t known for years; losing Mack permanently would leave a void. As he left the room to greet his guests, Arthur Wolfowitz wondered, a bit sadly, what he would have to celebrate next Christmas.

“How about the book?” Tommy Russo asked Joey Byrne. Like Russo, Bryne was an ex-priest. Every year they met at Antonelli’s
for Christmas lunch, and every year Tommy began their meal with the same question.

“I’m still working on it,” said Byrne with a wide grin. He was a heavyset redhead around Tommy’s age, with a broad boyish face set off by flaming ginger eyebrows that rose halfway up his forehead when he was amused. The pretense that he was writing a novel—writing anything, in fact—amused him greatly, especially since it enabled Tommy to write off their lunch as a business expense.

“Well, keep at it,” Russo said, returning the grin. “What else you up to?”

“Still coaching,” said Joey. “We’re fourteen and one right now. What’d you, stop following sports?”

“I don’t usually bet junior high,” said Russo. “Why don’t you get a high school team, a junior college maybe? We could both make some money.”

“Gambling’s your vice, not mine,” said Byrne. They both knew what Byrne’s vice was—and that it was the reason he liked coaching thirteen-year-old boys.

“Well,” said Tommy, raising his glass, “Merry Christmas, Father Joseph.”

“Merry Christmas to you, Father Tomas,” said Byrne, sipping his wine. “How you feeling this year?”

It was another ritual question; Christmas was hard on ex-priests. Byrne and Russo were not close friends, not really friends at all. They met only once a year, on Christmas Day, to share a meal and a mood that others couldn’t understand. And, although neither one had ever actually articulated it, to act as each other’s confessors, one spoiled priest to another.

“Not bad,” said Tommy. All morning he had been planning to tell Joey about his sellout of Mack Green and what he suspected might be happening. Now that they were here, though, he found it hard to talk about. It wasn’t that he was afraid—he had absolute confidence in Joey’s discretion. It was more a superstitious feeling that putting his suspicions into words would make them real.

“That’s it? Not bad?” asked Joey after a moment.

“Well, you know, middle age. I drink too much, I curse, I screw hoo-ers. And in my business, you have to cut a few corners—”

“That’s true of most businesses,” said Joey, leaving Tommy plenty of room.

“I guess. But there’s this one situation. You remember Mack Green? I’ve mentioned him to you before.”

“Sure,” said Joey. “What about him?”

“Well, he’s got this book I’m representing and—shit, that’s my phone,” said Tommy, removing the ringing cellular phone from his jacket pocket. “Who the hell calls on Christmas Day at lunch-time?” He hit the “on” button and said: “Russo.”

“Russo?”

“Yeah, I just said that.” Tommy snapped. “Who’s this?”

“Otto Kelly, at the Flying Tiger.”

“Kelly?” he said, immediately alert; Otto Kelly had never called him before in his life. “What’s the matter?”

“You know a writer named Walter Horton?”

“Walter T,” said Russo. “What about him?”

“He’s in here right now, sitting at the bar drunk. Came in that way. Says Artie Wolfowitz screwed him on a new book he was writing.”

“So what?” said Tommy. “He’s not my client.”

“No, but Mack is,” said Otto. “You happen to have his number out in Michigan?”

“No,” lied Russo. “What’s this got to do with Mack?”

“I’m not sure,” Otto said, “but I think you better get over here and talk to Horton. Sounds to me like there’s two authors writing the same book.”

“I’ll be over in a little while,” said Tommy. He clicked off the phone and put it back in his pocket.

“Problem?” asked Joey Byrne.

“Only if I make it one,” said Russo. All the years he had refrained
from warning Mack about Wolfowitz, he had consoled himself with the excuse that, at worst, it was no more than a sin of omission. But if he went to the Tiger, learned what Wolfowitz was up to, he would have to call Mack or be guilty of a sin of commission. The word rattled in his brain. A 10 percent commission, right off the top. That’s what all his dealings with Wolfowitz amounted to: sins of commission.

“Are you going to? Make it a problem?” asked Byrne.

Russo shrugged and rose to his feet. “Listen, Jerry, something’s come up. You stay and finish your lunch.”

“On Christmas? Can’t it wait?”

“Nah,” said Tommy. “Believe it or not, I gotta go hear a confession.”

Buddy Packer arrived at Carl’s ten minutes early and found Herman Reggie in the bar. He walked up behind him, tapped him on the shoulder with a bony finger and said, “I believe you’re waiting for me.”

“How’d you know me?” asked Reggie.

“Your name’s come up from time to time,” said Packer in his sardonic monotone. “Somebody in the joint once told me you’ve got a head like an Easter egg.”

Reggie nodded at the justice of the description. “Let’s get a table,” he said. “I want to talk to you about something.”

“Not fighters,” said Packer, making it a flat statement.

“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.

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.’ ”