The Bookmakers (25 page)

“Take the frame over, nobody’s looking,” said a voice from behind him. McClain recognized Buddy Packer’s snide monotone even before he turned and saw him smirking through his granny glasses.

“It’s members only in here,” said McClain.

“The Oriole House of Lords,” said Packer looking around the scruffy bowling alley, deserted at this hour except for McClain and a fat man in a soiled, short-sleeved white shirt who was stacking bags of potato chips at the snack bar. “Very exclusive.”

“What do you want, Packer?”

Buddy stared at McClain with steady deliberation as he fired up a Lucky, took a deep drag and exhaled through his thin, hard lips. “Came to say good-bye,” he said. “I’m on my way out of town.”

McClain went to the rack and picked up his ball. “That’s a damn shame,” he said, looking down the lane at the mocking gap between the seven pin and the ten.

“Could be a while before I get back,” said Packer. “I might even miss Mack’s funeral.”

McClain lowered the black bowling ball and replaced it in the rack. Slowly he walked over to Packer. “What funeral?” he asked in his cop’s voice.

“There’s a contract out on him. Buy me a bag of chips and I’ll tell you about it.”

“What?”

“I said, ‘Buy me some chips.’ ” He gestured toward the refreshment stand. “And a Coke.”

“What are you, nuts?”

“Naw, just hungry. I want a little hospitality, McClain. All those years I let you and your cop buddies booze on the cuff, I figure you can spring for a snack. This is your club, after all.”

McClain looked up into Packer’s hard brown eyes and saw he was serious. “You want barbecue or regular?”

“Jesus, regular. This is breakfast.”

McClain returned to find Buddy sitting at the scorer’s table. “You got a pretty good game going here,” he said sociably, pointing to the score sheet.

McClain handed him the chips and the Coke and sat down next to him. “What about Mack?”

“A guy wants him dead.”

“What guy?”

“Bookie named Herman Reggie. You know the name?”

McClain nodded. “I’ve heard of him. What makes you think he wants Mack dead?”

“I don’t think, I know. He gave me twenty-five thousand bucks to make him that way.”

“Wait a minute,” said McClain, his professional sense of order taking control. “Run this down for me a step at a time. What’s the motive?”

“Beats me,” said Packer. “He didn’t say and I didn’t ask.”

“You’re not a hitman, you’re a fucking bunko artist. Why you?”

Packer shrugged. “I guess he wanted somebody with a little finesse.”

“So he offered you the job?”

“I took it, too,” said Packer easily. “The twenty-five’s upfront money. I get another twenty-five after.”

“Why would he give you so much up front?”

“I talked him into it,” said Packer. “Besides, he said if I stiffed him, he’d be back. He would, too, no doubt about it. That’s why I’m splitting.”

McClain thought about that for a while. “A big-time bookie from New York comes around and hands you twenty-five thousand dollars. You con him because you’re a fucking thief—”

“What do you want me to do, off Mack?” asked Packer indignantly.

“What’d I do, hurt your feelings? Scamming Reggie’s got nothing to do with your so-called friendship with Mack. We both know you don’t have the balls to kill anybody. Okay, I see why you took the money and I see why you’re running. What I don’t see is how come you’re telling me about it.”

“Because I want to come back,” said Packer. “And I can’t until you take care of Reggie.”

“Why would I do that?”

Packer took another deep drag on the cigarette. “The way I see it, if Reggie’s willing to shell out fifty grand to hit Mack, he’s got a fucking great reason. Which means he’ll try again. And you’re not going to let that happen.”

“You got a lot of confidence in me,” said McClain.

“I know you, just like you know me,” said Packer. “You’re not exactly Sherlock Holmes in the brain department, but this is
your town, you got the home-court advantage here. And you got motivation.”

“What motivation?”

“You’re queer for Mack.”

McClain stared at Packer. “What did you say?” he asked in a menacing tone.

“Hey, be cool, I’m not calling you a cocksucker,” said Packer with a nasty smile. “Not that it didn’t cross my mind when you asked him to move in. But I’ve been watching the two of you; the way I figure it, you’ve got a daddy hard-on for him. He’s the son you never had because of your dinky little sperm count.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my sperm count,” said McClain.

“Have it your way. All I’m saying is, I understand this shit. I have paternal feelings myself—”

“Don’t compare me to you, asswipe.”

“Fuck it,” said Buddy, rising. McClain stood, too, annoyed that he had to look up at the giant Packer. “I came by to give you some information and you got it. The hit’s supposed to be soon, Reggie said he’d get back to me on the time. And it’s supposed to look like a suicide.” He walked over to the ball rack, hit the reset button and watched as the metal bar descended and knocked the seven and ten pins on their sides. “Get Reggie first and you save your boy,” he said, walking past McClain. “Otherwise, Mack’s a fucking gutter ball.”

McClain found Mack in his room listening to a “Best of the Contours” CD and leafing through
Sports Illustrated
. A glass of bourbon and half-melted ice sat on the desk and a Winston burned in the ashtray.

“Hard at work, I see,” said McClain.

“Contemplation is part of the writer’s craft,” Mack replied with an off-center smile. “Want a belt?”

“No thanks, I think I better stay sober. I had a visit this morning, over at the Elks. From Buddy Packer.”

“Since when are you and Buddy on speaking terms?”

“It wasn’t a friendly chat. He came by to tell me that somebody offered him fifty thousand dollars to kill you.”

“What for, to impress Jody Foster?”

“I’m not kidding,” said McClain, looking at Mack steadily. “That’s what he said.”

“He was probably wrecked,” said Mack. “Don’t tell me you took him seriously?”

“You think I can’t tell when a guy’s stoned? He was serious, all right.”

Mack laughed. “Who’d pay fifty thousand dollars to kill me? Who’d want to kill me at all?”

“A bookie named Herman Reggie.”

“Never heard of him,” said Mack. “Why would he want to have me killed?”

“Packer doesn’t know.”

“But he agreed to do it anyway? Come on.”

“Packer’s ripping Reggie off,” said McClain. “He’s on his way out of town with the money.”

“Why did he tell you about it?”

“He figures if Reggie’s willing to pay him, he’ll try again. I stop him, Packer keeps the dough.”

“He probably just drove by the Elks, saw your car and decided to mess with you. He’s got a demented sense of humor.”

“It’s no joke,” said McClain stubbornly. “I want you to take a look at this.” He handed Mack a plain manila folder that contained a thick sheaf of papers and photographs.

“What is it?”

“A copy of Herman Reggie’s FBI file. See if you recognize anybody.”

Mack opened the folder and leafed through it. He stared for a while at Reggie’s picture and shook his head. “Weird-looking guy, isn’t he? I’d remember a face like this.”

“How about the others?” said McClain. “Reggie’s associates.”

Mack scanned the photos and shrugged. “Looks like the Addams family.” He turned a page and suddenly brightened. “Hey, here’s Afterbirth Anderson.”

“You know him?”

“No, but I recognize him. I did a piece for
Sports Illustrated
, maybe ten years ago, on the demise of midget wrestling. I saw films of a bunch of his matches.”

“You didn’t happen to slime him in the article?”

“I don’t think I even mentioned him. He was more of an opponent.”

“Well, he’s working for Reggie now. As an enforcer and collector.”

“For guys who come up a little short,” said Mack. “By the way, how did you get this file?”

“I bought it at Doubleday,” said McClain. “Listen, have you still got that pistol you took off the mugger in New York?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“I don’t suppose it’s registered.”

“I doubt it. He didn’t look like the NRA type.”

“Okay, Bret Damon in the detective bureau will fix the paperwork for you and arrange some target practice. From now on I want you to carry it and I want to know where you are at all times. And if you get any telephone calls from strangers, let me—”

“Hey, wait a minute,” said Mack. “I’m not going on Red Alert because of a practical joke.”

“I’m gonna have to insist,” said McClain stiffly.

“And I’m gonna have to say no,” replied Mack. “I’m a big boy, John. I’ll make my own decisions.”

“There’s more than just you involved,” said McClain. “Somebody tries to hit you while you’re here, it could be dangerous for Joyce.”

Mack thought about that while he lit a cigarette. “In that case, if you’re really worried about this nonsense, I’ll move out,” he said.

“That’s not what I’m saying at all,” protested McClain. “I want you to stay. But you’ve got to let me protect you.”

“Nope,” said Mack, finishing his drink and pouring another. “I’ve imposed on you long enough as it is. We both know I can’t stay forever. I’ll check into the Hilton until I’m ready to go back to New York.”

“Wait a minute,” said McClain. He pulled a ring of keys from his pocket, detached one and handed it to Mack. “I’ve got a condo over on Newbery. It’s free, it’s quiet and it’s yours for as long as you need it.”

Mack looked at the key. “Don’t tell me you’re leading a double life.”

“Naw, nothing like that, hotshot,” said McClain. “I had it before I met Joyce and I held on to it as a rental place. Right now it happens to be vacant.”

“Okay, thanks,” said Mack, taking the key. “I’ll be happy to pay you rent, whatever the going price is.”

“Forget the rent, just do me one favor,” said McClain.

“Sure, what?”

“Somebody comes by to shoot you, go outside. I got new carpeting.”

Joyce received the news of Mack’s departure with a rare flash of anger. “The boy’s in trouble and you just put him out,” she said accusingly. “That’s not like you, John.”

“Come on, honey, that’s not the way it was,” McClain said.

“Well, you better explain how it was, then, because that’s sure how it sounds.”

“I did it for his own good. He’s got to take this seriously, but he won’t. He acted like it was a big joke.”

“That’s just his way of trying to control reality,” said Joyce. “It’s a good thing you po-lice got fingerprints and lie detectors or you’d never figure out a damn thing.”

“I may not be a deep thinker, but I know a threat when I see
one, and if Mack won’t face it, he’s better off at the condo. There’s half a dozen cops living in the complex I can get to keep an eye on him.”

“That makes sense,” Joyce conceded. “What about this Reggie? Can’t you have him arrested?”

“Come on, Joyce, you know better than that. Packer’s gone, and even if he wasn’t, all I’ve got is his word. Which is basically worthless.”

“So we’re just going to wait for somebody to try to kill Mack and hope that one of the neighbors stops him? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Oriole’s a small town, honey; it won’t be so easy for an outside hit man to show up without somebody knowing about it. That’s probably why Reggie chose Packer in the first place.”

“Maybe he’ll try somebody local again.”

“I doubt it. Next time he’ll use a guy he’s sure won’t walk with the money.”

“Okay, then what? When the guy he’s sure of shows up?”

McClain squared his big shoulders. “Then I’ll take care of business,” he said.

“You’re retired,” said Joyce. “I don’t want you doing anything stupid.”

McClain reached out and pulled Joyce to him. “Sorry, honey,” he said, stroking her soft brown cheek. “You should have thought of that before you married me.”

It took Herman Reggie a month to realize that he was out twenty-five thousand dollars. He discovered it when his cousin Jeff phoned from California.

“Green called Ligget this morning.”

“Who?”

“Andy Ligget, the Hollywood front man. Green told him the book will be finished in ten days. Oh, and he told him he moved—he’s not living with the cop anymore.”

Reggie called Packer’s house, and a woman answered. “May I speak with Mr. Packer please?” he said.

“No, you may not,” trilled the woman. “He no longer resides at this residence.”

“Can you tell me where I can reach him?”

“No I cannot.”

“My name is Mr. Reggie. Did he leave a message for me?”

“He didn’t leave a thing, except a couple of half-paid-for electrical appliances.”

“Didn’t say when he’d be back?”

“Mister, one morning he got in his car and drove away from home. That’s all I know.”

“He owes me money,” said Reggie.

“Me, too,” said Jean sadly. “You find him, call me back.”

Reggie phoned Arlen Nashua. “Buddy Packer’s missing,” he said. “Any idea where he might be?”

“I could find out,” Nashua wheezed.

“Do that. Oh, and get me Mack Green’s new address in Oriole and some details about when he’s likely to be at home alone.”