The Bookmakers (7 page)

“What makes you think I could do that?”

“You’d be a natural. You’re a smart guy, likable. And you know when you’re getting bullshitted. Like today at confession.”

“Yeah, but that comes from experience—”

“You’ve got the experience,” said Mack, warming to the idea. “A literary agent’s basically just a middleman, same as a priest. Only instead of making deals for sinners with God, you make ’em with editors who just
think
they’re God. They’d be a pushover for a guy like you who’s used to dealing with the real thing.”

Tommy thought about it for a moment. “What kind of dough do they make?”

“Ten percent of whatever their clients get, usually,” said Mack.

“Sounds like a piece of cake,” said Tommy. “Providing you got clients, that is.”

Mack looked at Tommy and wondered what would happen to a priest who quit and became a literary agent. Turning real people into fictional characters was instinctive to Mack, and when he came across the right ones, professionally profitable. Tommy Russo was one of those people.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “Right now I’ve got a proposal for a new novel called
Light Years
. It’s with my editor at Gothic, Artie Wolfowitz. He’s offering an eighty-thousand-dollar advance.
I want a hundred. Get it for me and I’ll take you on as my agent. How about it?”

“What the hell do you need me for?” asked Tommy. “You already know the guy.”

Mack grinned. “He’s my best friend, which is why I can’t negotiate with him. I don’t want to fight with him over money. You fight with him.”

Tommy returned the grin, but his mind was on the phrase “my best friend.” Earlier Mack had confessed that he was sleeping with his best friend’s wife. “Just out of curiosity, aren’t you worried about this Wolfowitz finding out about you and his old lady?”

“It’s no big thing,” said Mack, frowning. “Just recreational sex, that’s all.”

“Yeah, then why did you pick that particular thing to confess?”

Mack laughed. “I figured it was the kind of thing a priest would consider a sin,” he said. “I didn’t know I’d run into one who gets laid in Poughkeepsie.”

“I’m not so sure you’re right about this Wolfowitz,” said Tommy. “I’m just a wop from Bensonhurst, but where I come from, when a guy buddy-fucks his best friend there’s usually trouble.”

“That’s another reason you’ll make a great agent,” said Mack. “You’ve got primal Sicilian instincts. So, have we got a deal?”

“Yeah, I’ll give it a shot,” said Tommy, extending his hand. For years he had been dreaming of a way out of the priesthood and now a stranger named Mack Green was offering him one. He was drawn to the young author’s careless charm, but it was the money that excited him—10 percent of a hundred thousand bucks seemed like a fortune. If the agent thing didn’t work, he could always go into the insurance business, but for that kind of dough it was worth taking a flyer. Looking back later, Tommy Russo realized that it was at that precise moment that he stopped being a priest and became a player.

As a new husband, Artie Wolfowitz spent his time and money indulging his pregnant wife. He went into debt to rent a place on Central Park West large enough for a nursery and a study for Louise, took her to expensive restaurants and Broadway openings, watered and fed her supercilious artistic friends. She responded with an offhanded affection that more than satisfied him. Louise Frank was a prize, greater than any he had dreamed of attaining, and he never awoke in the morning without a feeling of intense love and amazement at his good fortune.

The birth of Josh, seven months after the wedding, brought changes. Louise, who had passionately wanted a child, now insisted that an English nanny move in to care for him, and she paid the infant what Wolfowitz considered scant attention. She also limited their sex life to an occasional, grudging quickie. And, for the first time in their marriage, Louise began to go out at night on her own.

“I’m a writer, Arthur, not a hausfrau,” she told him. “I need stimulation.”

“Why can’t we be stimulated together?” he asked plaintively.

“You’re such a dominant personality, I don’t feel like myself with you around,” she explained in an appeasing tone. “I need to have my own experiences.”

Even in his love-besotted state, Wolfowitz understood that these experiences might include other men. He reminded himself that he had agreed to allow her an independent life, told himself that he was a bigtime New York editor now, and should be sufficiently sophisticated to accept his wife’s liberated lifestyle. And then he went out and hired a private investigator named Edgar Conlon to find out what Louise was doing in her spare time.

Conlon’s report took six weeks to compile and it was worse than anything Wolfowitz had imagined. It included dates, times and the names of five men. Four of those names meant nothing to Wolfowitz. The fifth was Mack Green.

“Are you absolutely sure?” Wolfowitz asked the detective.

Conlon, a retired New York detective with a large nose and bad dentures, nodded. “I got pictures,” he said, with the impersonal cheer of a man selling hot dogs at a ballpark.

“I don’t want to see any pictures,” said Wolfowitz, feeling numb.

“They don’t cost that much, especially when you consider what they could save you in a divorce settlement,” said Conlon. “And you wouldn’t need the entire gallery. Probably just one or two guys would be plenty.”

“There’s not going to be a divorce,” said Wolfowitz, more to himself than to the detective. His numbness was thawing, replaced by a humiliated rage. At that moment he made two irrevocable decisions. He would forgive Louise because he loved her too much to lose her. And he would take his revenge by ruining Mack Green’s life.

• • •

Wolfowitz’s strategy for keeping his wife was to make himself indispensable to her. As an anniversary gift he published her collection of short stories,
Village Idiots
, lavishing on it the ingenuity, attention and money he had once given
The Oriole Kid
. The book sold well despite lukewarm reviews and Louise was astute enough to see that its success was due to her husband’s efforts. That realization altered the balance of power between them.

“You’ve given me a wonderful anniversary present,” she told him one night in bed. “I wonder what you’d like from me.”

“I’d like for you to stop going out alone so much,” he said. “I worry about you. Besides, I don’t think so much socializing is good for your career.”

“I wouldn’t want you to worry,” said Louise, aware that a transaction was taking place. She snuggled against him and kissed his neck. “I’ll stay home more at night if you want me to.”

Wolfowitz noted the “at night” but decided to let it pass; he didn’t want to make life intolerable for Louise. He knew that there was something perverse about the overpowering passion he felt for her, but he didn’t care. In a way he even took pride in it, the pride of a square man in his secret kinkiness.

Wolfowitz’s campaign against Mack Green was more surreptitious. Since his marriage, the two men no longer spent their evenings together but they still met for lunch at least once a week. Wolfowitz was careful not to display any outward signs of hostility, and Mack’s obliviousness to impending disaster sharpened the pleasure of anticipation; Artie knew it was only a matter of time before he got his chance to get even.

Opportunity arrived in the rotund form of Tommy Russo. “I wanna talk to you about Mack’s new book,” he said. “See if we can come to some arrangement.”

“I don’t see why not,” said Wolfowitz genially. He was aware that Mack had recently picked Russo up the same way
he
had once been chosen and for the same purpose, as a combination servant-sidekick.
He also knew that the little ex-priest didn’t know a thing about the book business.

“Mack told me what you want to pay. It’s not enough,” Russo said.

“How much did you have in mind?”

“A hundred,” said Tommy, as if he dealt with six figures every day.

“I’m not going to give you a hundred,” said Wolfowitz. “I’m going to write my offer on this piece of paper and let you read it.” He scribbled a number, handed it to Russo and watched his face melt into greedy amazement.

The number Russo saw was $250,000.

“It’s a two-book deal. A quarter of a million dollars for each of the next two Mack Green novels. Fair enough?”

“Jeez,” Russo said, fingering his shirt where his clerical collar had been. Wolfowitz could see his dark eyes calculating his $25,000 commission. “Jeez, I dunno.”

“I know you don’t,” said Wolfowitz. “You’re probably thinking that if I’m willing to pay this much, I might pay more, that maybe you asked for too little.” He raised his eyebrows in a gesture that invited confirmation, peered at Tommy and saw that he had guessed right. “It’s not too little, it’s too much, but offering too much this time is smart business, for two reasons. Since you’re just starting out, and because we’re both friends of Mack’s, I’m going to explain why. Don’t worry, I won’t bullshit you, you can believe me. All right?”

Russo nodded, watching Wolfowitz’s face closely. His years in the priesthood had taught him to be wary of people who said “believe me.”

“First, I’ve got a huge investment in Mack and I want to keep him here at Gothic. The book business is changing, authors are starting to get big money. If I sign Mack for too little this time, he’ll feel like he can do better someplace else. I wouldn’t want that to happen.”

“Makes sense,” said Tommy. “What’s the second reason?”

“The second reason is you,” said Wolfowitz. “I want to do you a favor.”

“What for? If you don’t mind my asking?”

“Because I want you to owe me,” said Wolfowitz. “When word of this deal gets around town, you’re going to be a hot agent. I want to see your best books first, to negotiate with you in the spirit of mutual understanding.”

“Mutual understanding meaning?” The phrase reminded Russo of the oily euphemisms of the Bensonhurst wise guys.

“Just that,” Wolfowitz said smoothly. “I’m sure as you get to know the business, you’ll see the value of a good relationship with a publisher like Gothic.”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand,” said Tommy, his eyes drawn back to the number on the paper.

Wolfowitz arranged his face in a friendly smile. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll get my money’s worth.”

There were many ways that Wolfowitz could have killed Mack Green’s career, but he opted for slow strangulation. He brought out
Light Years
the same week that Norman Mailer and John Updike published their new novels, guaranteeing it secondary reviews. He allowed the PR department to do a slovenly job, booking Mack on second-rate shows and locking him into a long, pointless book tour. And he discreetly hinted to several friendly journalists that the book, if not exactly a turkey, was not the masterpiece Mack’s fans had expected. Predictably, the bad word-of-mouth and Gothic’s indifferent effort made an impression. The bookstore chains, for example, halved their initial orders. Wolfowitz made sure this fact leaked out, along with a rumor, which he strenuously denied, that Gothic was thinking about canceling the second half of Green’s contract.

Despite Wolfowitz’s assurance that the recession was to blame, Mack was taken aback by the poor showing of
Light Years
. Outwardly
he maintained his usual self-confidence, but he had never experienced failure before and he didn’t quite know what to make of it. For months he did little but hang around the Tiger, drinking too much and trying to get up the energy to write.

A year or so after the
Light Years
debacle, Mack met Wolfowitz for lunch at Antonelli’s. “I’ve got some great news,” he said. “I started work on the new book,
Three to Get Ready
. It’s about three buddies who go off to Vietnam, come back to their hometown and kill the members of the draft board one by one. What do you think?”

“A murder mystery?”

“Come on, Stealth, since when do I write mysteries?” Mack demanded. “It’s a Mack Green novel. I’ve got ten thousand words already and it’s the best thing I’ve ever done. You’re going to make back what you lost on the last one and then some. I’ll send over what I’ve got, let you take a look at it. Maybe you can come up with some brilliant marketing ideas.”

“I can’t wait to get my hands on it,” said Wolfowitz.

When the uncompleted manuscript arrived, Wolfowitz saw that Mack was right—it was terrific, funny and scary at the same time, full of improbable characters and vividly written scenes. He put it in his desk drawer and waited three days for Green to call.

“You read it?” he demanded in an exuberant tone.

“Yes,” said Wolfowitz flatly. “I did.”

“Well?”

Wolfowitz let the question hang in the air for a long moment and then cleared his throat. “I, ah, think we might have a problem. I’m no literary expert, you know that better than anybody, but the thing just doesn’t seem to flow. It’s kind of ponderous.”

“Ponderous? That’s not one of your words. Did you show it to somebody by any chance?”

“To tell you the truth,” lied Wolfowitz, “I did show it to a couple of people and they thought—”