The Bookmaker

by Chris Fraser

  “I need a smoke.” I reached into my pocket and found my half-empty pack of Camel Lights, took one out, and before I could find my lighter, a Zippo with a huge skull was shoved in my face. Otto flicked the wheel.

  “You got one for me?” Marcus asked.

  “Big surprise,” I sighed.

  “Look, I left mine in the car; I got Donna out there waiting for me.” I handed him one and Otto begrudgingly lit his too. How a speed freak like Marcus got a girl like Donna was beyond me. He was a pretty good-looking guy, I guess: tall, thin but not skinny, shoulder length black hair, green eyes, and a face that hadn’t been harmed by the speed, yet. I guess it helped that Donna was into the junk too—better loving through chemistry. It angered me that I was jealous of this fuckup. And I wouldn’t mind a crack at Donna regardless of any bad habits she may have. He might be close to putting her on the bargaining table next. I told myself I wouldn’t be that guy.

  “Listen, Trent, are you interested in the story or not? I’m sorry I got no loot for you right now, but this is something, and hell, it’s a way to triple your money.”

  I turned to him, blowing smoke in his face. “So, your grandfather claims he’s killed important people, and he wants to come clean about it to me? I haven’t published anything; he can get any writer he wants if this story is legit.”

  Marcus flicked his nose and blew some smoke back in my direction. “That may be the case, but I told him about you, how you’re my book, just graduated college and want to be a writer. He said he wants someone raw and unknown. Shit, man, who knows why, but he’s willing to talk to you. Look, Trent, I’m no writer, but this sounds like the story of a lifetime to me.”

  “Well, is this shit true?”

  “I don’t know my grandfather that well, and my dad died ten years back, so that kinda shut off all ties with him, but I’ve heard these stories my whole life growing up, and they always sounded on the up and up to me. Hell, you may be right, it could be bullshit. I wouldn’t put it past the old man. I hadn’t talked to him in years when I called to see if he could help me out with your debt. Look at it this way, you go out there, hear his story, and you get $5,000 whether it’s true or not. He’s gonna pay you as soon as you walk through his door and the other $10,000 when you’re done.”

  “So, what if I am interested?”

  “He’ll call you—I’ll give him your number.”

  “Well, shit, I don’t have much to lose, might as well hear the old coot out.”

  “Cool, I gotta run, I’ll tell him to call you.” He finished his pint, put out his Camel, and left.

  Otto walked over. “Well…?”

  “It was same old Marcus. He didn’t have any money. He was looking to make a trade.”

  “Trade what?” Otto asked.

  “It doesn’t matter. It was all bullshit.”

  2

  I chain smoked as I drove through our over-priced pseudo paradise. Slayer blared from my speakers. I turned it up so the sound would envelop me. The violent wall of noise made the hair stand up on the back of my neck while drowning out the smog-strewn scenery. As I drove, I couldn’t help but agree with Marcus—this really would be the story of the century if it were true. Shit, even if it wasn’t, it still might make for some decent fiction. After all, coming up with a great story was half the battle when it came to writing; at least that’s what Professor Lane always said back in my creative writing courses at Long Beach State. It would be far more interesting than writing about the crap we used to fill the Daily 49er with.

  Then reality set it in. There was no way I was going to Mississippi to sit down with some crazy old fucker and hang on his every word. Although, I could use a vacation, at least I could get away. At least it would be somewhere else. I drove on, going back and forth with what I might do about this offer.

  Similar to a lot of houses in Huntington Beach, ours was a cookie cutter 1,500 sq. ft., three bedroom, two bath, 1950s architectural masterpiece built in the same white-stucco style as the rest of the houses in our deteriorating neighborhood. The wood shingle roofs wore thin from neglect and the soft, yet unrelenting, Mediterranean climate. Like most of our neighbors, we were renters and in no hurry to make improvements to someone else’s property. The cars parked in front, of course, were familiar to me. The cars of my roommates, Nate Jarvis and Jay Dresden, were in the driveway as I expected. The unexpected car on the curb was Kendra’s.

  The smell of marijuana was like a punch in the face when I came through the door. The acrid smoke hung a foot from the ceiling like a thick fog, then fell softly onto our second-hand furniture and soiled carpet. Nate and Jay were hung-over too—it was Sunday. They were playing Madden on the big screen and looked extremely loaded. Taking bong rips was the only way we knew how to deal with our hangovers, unless we could get our hands on Vicodin or something like it. The weed didn’t kill the hangover but rather numbed it, along with everything else.

  “Where’d you go this morning?” Jay asked.

  “Otto’s...had to meet with Walker.”

  “Oh man, that tweaker? He don’t have a pot to piss in, did he have anything for you?”

  “Not really, pretty much a waste of time.”

  “Hey, I think Wade’s hungry, he’s been bugging us all morning,” Nate added while feverishly clicking away on his controller.

  “Well God forbid you guys feed his ass,” I said, frustrated.

  Wade Boggs just showed up one day, and since I have a soft spot for strays, I fed him, once. And of course he never left, so I named him after the greatest pure hitter of our era, and he became mine whether I liked it or not.

  “Oh, and Kendra’s in your room,” Jay said. “She been here an hour already, she was pulling some through with us earlier so she’s probably napping.”

  “Dammit,” I sighed, prompting Nate to chime in. “What’s your problem man? She’s hot and obviously willing; you better get in there before I do.”

  “Screw you, Nate,” I said.

  I sat down, grabbed the two-foot glass bong off the coffee table, took a big hit, and held it in too long, then coughed up a lung.

  The kitchen was filthy and smelled like stale beer and rotting dishes, but Wade didn’t seem to mind. He just purred and brushed his body up against my bare leg as I filled his bowl with Whiskas, spilling some on to the worn yellow linoleum, not bothering to clean it up.

  Since I paid $100 a month more than Jay and Nate, I got the master bedroom with the master bath included. A pretty sweet deal I thought, and it gave me a sanctuary from the rest of the house when I needed it. And I needed it.

  I found myself hiding out in my room more and more lately, becoming less enthusiastic about life and thinking way too much, finding my waking hours disappointing. I once heard a word—melancholy. I liked the way it sounded, how it felt rolling off the tongue. But I couldn’t help but feel the word was a fraud, a misrepresentation of its meaning. The word’s sound made me think it belonged in a more whimsical category of words, like serendipity or lollapalooza or hullabaloo. When I learned its true definition, I knew it was me. Not because I’m depressed, it’s just that real life—adult life, with its responsibilities, shortcomings, disappointments, and limitations—never ceases to let me down and leaves me longing for the dream world of sleep, never wanting to get out of bed.

  But I do get out of bed—it’s what we have to do right? We painfully wake up to an annoying alarm and get ready in a hurry to rush somewhere we don’t want to go. We muddle through our daily existence and the mindless minutia that each day brings: from eating and sleeping, to working and waiting, to pissing and shitting—all ubiquitous tasks to keep us alive, yet ultimately revealing our frailty and the waste of time that is the human condition.

  Kendra looked great as she slept on my king size bed. We met a month or so ago when Jay and I headed up to Fritz’s in Bellflower. I was celebrating a rather profitable day after a few dogs hit in the NBA playoffs. I got drunk and succumbed to rule number one at a titty
bar: don’t think you’re special, don’t think they really like you, ‘cause you’re just dollar signs to the girls. It’s their job to make you think that the rest of the guys in here are horny losers, but not you, you’re special—only you can take me away from all this. I dropped over $300 on her for table dances before Jay could drag me out of there, but she gave me her number, and it wasn’t fake. This was the third time she dropped in unannounced, but I didn’t mind for obvious reasons. She liked to keep our little rendezvous quiet and I preferred it that way too. I didn’t bother to wake her. I fell on the bed and was quickly asleep myself.

  I awoke with a tugging on my shirt, “Trent…I wanna screw,” she cooed.

  “I’m sleeping,” I said, without opening my eyes.

  “I brought a surprise for you,” she giggled. “Something I’m sure will wake you up, wake your little guy up too.”

  I heard her rustling for a few minutes and then she cleared her throat to get my attention. I looked up and she was in her full stripper regalia: a skimpy bikini and five-inch lucite heels.

  “This is a pleasant surprise,” I said reaching into the nightstand drawer for a condom.

  I was jarred from my post-coital sedation when Kendra blurted, “You know, Bruce wants to kick your ass.”

  “Who’s Bruce?”

  “Bruce, honey, is my boyfriend. See, you don’t know anything about me.”

  “I know your real name is Julie and you live in Lakewood with you parents,” I answered, lighting up a Camel.

  “Well aren’t you clever?” she said, taking a smoke from my pack.

  “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend, and how did he find out about us anyways?” I said, lighting her up.

  “He was bouncing at Fritz’s the night you came in, and he saw us together—he can tell when I like someone for real. He just got it out of me. He’s very smart you know, he wants to go back to school and become a detective.”

  “A bouncer…that’s fucking fantastic, those guys are huge!”

  “Yeah he’s a big boy, the jealous type too. I can’t tell you how many times—”

  “Okay, stop right there, what does he know about me? Does he know where I live?”

  “I don’t think so, but if I were you I’d lay low for a while.”

  “That’s just great, you can go now.”

  “That’s fine with me. I got what I came for.”

  I lit up another Camel with the one I was still smoking and watched her pack up her stuff, thinking about which of those bouncers at Fritz’s was Bruce. I remembered four of them that night and they were all monsters.

  “Please, no more pop-ins, you’re gonna get me killed,” I said as she was leaving through the sliding glass door leading to the side yard.

  “Can’t promise you anything,” she said as she slammed the door.

  My bedroom dimmed as the sun dipped behind the trees out back. Wade Boggs purred and kneaded his claws into my lap as we watched a documentary about salt mines on the History Channel. I was smoking a bowl and assessing my predicament with Kendra when my cell phone rang. I checked the caller ID—unknown. I didn’t answer. Same number called again a minute later, this time curiosity got the best of me and I picked-up.

  “Yeah,” I said impatiently.

  “I’m calling for a Mr. Trent Oster,” said a pompous voice with a thick southern drawl.

  Deduction told me this had something to do with Marcus Walker and the Mississippi story nonsense.

  “This is Trent,” I answered, pushing Wade off my lap.

  “My name is Jimmy Ray Upshaw, Esquire, and I am in the employ of Mr. Preston Walker of Oxford, Mississippi. I was told to contact you and extend an offer for you to come out to the estate, as Mr. Walker has requested your services.”

  “How’d you get this number?”

  “Mr. Walker claims you were referred to him by his grandson Marcus.”

  “How come Mr. Walker’s not calling me himself?”

  “As I said earlier Mr. Oster, I am in Mr. Walker’s employ, this is my job.”

  “Okay, but call me Trent.”

  “Very well, Trent. Mr. Walker is offering you a business proposal. From what I understand, you are some sort of writer. Mr. Walker would like for you to hear, document, and record what he has to say. Then write his story under his specifications and guidelines, of course.”

  “Is that so,” I said, “and what’s in it for me?”

  “Mr. Walker is prepared to offer you $5,000 on arrival and $10,000 upon completion. And of course, if what you write is published, you will receive all literary compensation gained from any book sales, etcetera.”

  “This story…I’ve heard it has something to do with some murders?”

  “Please Mr. Oster; do not discuss this matter over the phone or with anyone for that matter. Discretion is part of the arrangement. You will be given every necessary detail upon your arrival and in your dealings with Mr. Walker.”

  “Just for the sake of argument and if I was interested, when would you need me to come out there? It’s no quick trip from Southern California.”

  “Of course, we would prefer for you to arrive as soon as possible. As far as the transportation is concerned, we are prepared to fly you to Mississippi and back at our expense. Mr. Walker will take care of all your living arrangements during the duration of your visit,” he cleared his throat and went on. “Now, as far as your credentials…might there be anything you can provide us with to assess writing acumen?”

  “The only thing I can think of is back issues of the Daily 49er. That was my college paper; I was the head sports writer.”

  “Sounds impressive,” he muttered. “So are you interested Mr. Oster? Mr. Walker is not a patient man.”

  “Let me think about it.”

  “How long do you anticipate this to take, if I may ask?”

  “I should have an answer for you by tomorrow night.”

  “Very well, good day Mr. Oster.”

  I hung up the phone, and, shaking my head, I looked down at Wade, who was still purring away on the bed and said to him, “What the hell was that?”

  3

  Sleep didn’t come easily that night—too much to think about. Was I seriously thinking about going to Mississippi? I had my reasons to go. For one, I really didn’t want to be around when Bouncer Bruce finally came calling, but mainly the thought of getting away for awhile was becoming very tempting. I needed to get away from Huntington Beach, have a change of scenery and step into the unknown. I’d been in a rut for what seemed like my entire life, and even if this Mississippi business was bullshit, at least I’d be doing something different for once.

  It was hunger that brought me out of my room and into the smoke and noise. I rummaged around our kitchen looking for something to eat, Wade brushed up beside me, purring his reminder that he needed to eat too. I poured his food, filled his water bowl, and continued my search.

  “Hey, there’s some leftover pizza in the fridge,” Jay yelled over the sounds of the Misfits blasting from the stereo.

  I grabbed a couple cold slices and joined him on the couch. He was slowly nodding his shaved head to the beat while furiously working the controller.

  Jay was a few years older than me, and I’d known him for what seemed like my whole life. We grew up on the same street in Section 8 housing, both the only children living with our divorced, alcoholic mothers. Jay looked out for me, a big brother type in a neighborhood where one was needed.

  He pushed pause, dropped the controller, and said, “Hey man what’s been your deal lately? You’re always hiding out in your room, and yesterday, you just disappeared, leaving me alone with Nate. You too fucking cool to hang out with your old crew now that you’re a college grad?”

  “Got a lot going on lately,” was the only answer I could offer.

  “Well, shit, talk to me, man. We got nothing but time, it’s not like we got jobs to go to.”

  Since he was in a chatty mood, I told him about Marcus’s offer, the
phone call from Jimmy Ray Upshaw, Esquire, and then about Kendra and Bouncer Bruce.

  “Sounds like you got a lot on your plate,” he said, scratching his head.

  Watching him scratch his head gave me the sudden urge to shave mine. It was so hot and the thought of having no hair became overwhelmingly tempting. I hadn’t done it yet because I didn’t want to be thought of as a skinhead—a popular movement in our area. I hadn’t wanted to deal with any stares from my classmates, but now I was done with school and didn’t want a real job, so why not?

  Jay, on the other hand, would be considered the epitome of a Huntington Beach skinhead to anyone who didn’t know him: closely shaved head, sleeved with tats, sporting a wife beater with long Dickies shorts. However, in all my years of knowing him, I’d never heard him say one disparaging remark about any race. That was just his look, his way.

  When it came to tattoos, I always joked that Jay went with quantity while I went with quality. Rather than cover my body with many different designs, I went with one huge one. On my back, stretching from one shoulder blade to the other, meeting at the back of my neck, and then down to my waist, was a giant letter “T” in thick and intricately designed three-inch Old English script. I also had a Misfit skull on my right upper arm. Jay had the same. We got them together—the first tattoos for both us. I stopped, he didn’t.

  I told Jay about my new desire and he was excited. “Fuck yeah, it’s about time little brother. I’ll take care of you right now. I got the clippers in my room.”

  He went over to the stereo and pulled out the Walk Among Us CD, then slid in Legacy of Brutality, the last of the original Misfit albums. We moved out to the backyard. I sat on our tattered weight bench and Jay hovered over me with the clippers and all the attachments.

  “Not too short, man,” I warned.

  “I’ll use the number three attachment.”

  “What do you use?”

  “I use the one,” he said proudly, then started shearing my head like an overgrown sheep.