The Bookmaker

by Chris Fraser

  While carefully shaving away, he yelled over the loud buzz of the clippers that he thought going out to Mississippi was a good idea. He had no problem reminding me that I had nothing tying me down here, and this sounded like a great opportunity to get some experience if I really wanted to be a writer.

  “Go on, man, get the fuck out of here. You’ve never been anywhere other than here your whole life. I know, ‘cause neither have I. Shit, I’d go with if business wasn’t so good and I didn’t have Dayla.”

  It was harder to hear with him shaving around my ears, but he went on talking. “Look, man, go out there for a week or so, hear the old guy out, get with some southern belles, and just relax for once. Now this story sounds like bullshit to me, but it could be worth hearing what he has to say. Listen, I’ll hold down the fort and even feed Wade. I promise.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” I said, spitting out clumps of hair onto my lap.

  “…And as far as this bouncer business goes, don’t sweat it—you know I got your back.”

  The clippers turned off, and the Misfits again came blasting. “There you go man, all shaved. You look good for once,” he said, rubbing my head like you might do to a child.

  I looked in a little handheld mirror and liked what I saw. I wouldn’t admit it to him, but I thought it made me look tougher than I really was.

  Jay’s voice broke me from my staring. “You know man, maybe that old dude is speaking the gospel. Maybe he has a monumental story to tell, and you might be the one lucky enough to get it. Either way, you don’t got much to lose by going out there. Me and Wade, we’ll still be here when you get back. Now clean up this shit. Your hair, your mess.” He threw the broom at me and left to answer the pounding door.

  I brushed myself off and followed him back inside. Jay’s visitor was a typical mouth-breather with long, stringy, dirty-blond hair, a sketchy mustache, and sporting a two-tone, black-and-white Iron Maiden shirt from their Powerslave tour back in ‘85.

  The deal was quick and subtle, a work of art in its nonchalance. How anyone can be graceful while selling an eighth of pot was beyond me, but Jay was a pro. After Jay pocketed his sixty bucks, the guy left in a hurry.

  “You gotta get ‘em in and out,” he said. “Pot heads by nature are a loafing and mooching lot, and if you offer the slightest hint of an invite to stick around, then God help ya, they’ll never leave.”

  "I'm going old school for ya right now. I found this old Minor Threat EP in the back of my closet," he said, holding up a vinyl record and then gingerly placing it on our worn-out turntable.

  "Oh shit, I ain’t heard them in years," I said.

  "And this motherfucker right here is rare. I bet it’s worth over five hundred bucks. I heard somewhere that they printed only a thousand blue prints, and the rest were red."

  His was blue, but I doubted his story.

  As I heard the first primal screams of Ian McKay, I asked a question, something that had been festering for some time. "Yo, Jay, you ever feel bad about doing what you do?"

  “Doing what I do? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “You know, slinging the shit.”

  "Where the fuck did that come from, T?”

  “I mean, shit, I break the law with what I do too, I'm just curious if it's ever bothered you?"

  "Look man, the only time it will bother me,” he said, “is if I get caught. Here’s the deal, if they don't buy from me, they gonna get it somewhere else, so it might as well be me. Right?"

  “I suppose.”

  He went on, "And besides, it's not like I'm selling speed, PCP, or heroin, those are killers. I'm just slinging a little weed and that don't hurt a fly.” Jay perked up with revelation, “Hey wait, this is about you huh? What, you getting a conscience about taking all your friends’ money?"

  “Like you said, man…if it wasn't me, it'd be someone else, and that someone else might not be as patient as Otto and me. Nah, I'm just thinking, am I still gonna be taking bets and hustling deadbeats to pay up when I'm fifty?"

  "Ah shit, you know what that is…that's the whole, ‘What am I gonna do with my life?’ question. You getting all introspective on me now, bro?"

  "Nah, but it doesn't seem like a very viable career choice. I don't remember it as an option on career day."

  “Look here,” he said, getting serious, “I’m gonna let you in on a little something you’re missing. The big picture you’re obviously too blind to see. You…you are genius, and I'll tell you why. You have found a way to get your friends and strangers to hand you their hard-earned money with a smile and they receive nothing tangible in return. And the only reason they pay up is an implied trust between you and them based on outcomes of games played hundreds of miles away. It's funny, it’s like some fool watches a Gilligan’s Island re-run and they don’t make it off the island like he wanted them to so he hands you a hundred bucks."

  “I'm hardly a genius,” I said, laughing. “I'm not the first person to come up with this, plus there is always a chance I could lose money.”

  Jay scoffed at this, "Man the house always wins. Someone might have a good week or two, but in the end, we all know the outcome. And your genius is making it work. You got the…I don't know how to say it…the people skills, I guess, to pull it off. Not everyone could do it. I couldn't do it. Not patient enough, too high strung. Nate couldn't do it, he's an idiot. I love the guy, but if his dad didn't hook him up with a gig with his construction company, he'd be virtually unemployable."

  "C'mon, man, it's not rocket science."

  “No, no it's not, but if it's so easy, why don't Otto do it all himself? He goes fifty-fifty with you, and he's the only one taking the risk—it's his money on the line."

  "Good point man, maybe I am a genius," I joked.

  "Don't get a big fucking head. I'm just trying to get you to not sell yourself short. What you do is real and a lot more honest than some legit careers. If you can do what you do, then hell, you can do most things. You deal with people and that's what life is…dealing with people."

  “You know, man, I always did like your logic and perspective on things, now change the record, it's skipping." I said.

  "Oh shit, my record!" Jay said, running to the turntable.

  Dayla Devin had almost as many tattoos as Jay. She stood tall yet curvy, with straight black hair cut sharply above a porcelain-pale face. Dayla grew up on our block too. She and Jay have been inseparable for over ten years. She and I were also close, which could be awkward when she wanted to talk about their relationship. I’d never take sides but was often a moderator.

  She was four years older than I was, and that doesn’t seem like a lot in your mid-twenties, but growing up, it was a world of difference. She often treated me as a little brother when we were kids, and it carried over into the present.

  "When you gonna find a nice girl, Trenty? You need someone that’ll put you in your place, get you on the straight and narrow," she said, throwing a pound of marijuana at Jay and telling him to, "Break this shit up."

  Jay obediently headed back to his room and his scales. Dayla lit up a smoke and went on, "Let me hook you up with one of my friends—they'd love a cutie like you.”

  "No thanks,"

  "Why not?”

  "I'm afraid one of your friends would tear me apart."

  "Yeah, you might be right, honey,” she said with a mischievous flash in her dark, overly made up eyes.

  "Plus, I'm thinking of taking a little vacation."

  “Good, you need one,” she said, not bothering to ask where I might be going.

  With Dayla here, Jay would be out of commission for awhile, so I went back in my room to check out the day’s action and wait for someone to call—knowing no one would. It was August, baseball was the only play, and baseball was not designed for gambling; not enough scoring. Hell, they didn’t even use a point spread. So I turned on the History Channel and Wade and I settled into a fascinating program about UFOs.

  4

 
The phone’s ringing snapped me out of my fog.

  “Yeah,” I answered without thinking.

  “Trent Oster, is this Trent Oster?” The voice said, another southern drawl—not as strong as yesterday’s caller, yet still there.

  “The one and only,” I answered.

  “This is Preston Walker. I believe you spoke with my tight-ass lawyer yesterday. I just wanted call to break the formality. Unfortunately, when it comes to business, I like to have my lawyer make first contact. For legal reasons, you understand?”

  Wow, the man himself, I thought. “Yes Mr. Walker, I spoke with Mr. Upshaw yesterday and he explained your offer to me, and I am considering it.”

  “Oh he did, did he? Well forget it. Forget everything he told you, it’s off the table.”

  Oh well, I thought, I guess I’m not going to Mississippi. No great loss, but why would he call personally if the deal was off, Upshaw could have done that.

  “So you don’t want me to come out?”

  “On the contrary Mr. Oster, I’m upping the offer—$10,000 to come out and another $10,000 when you finish the book. And of course you’ll have all publishing rights, and I’ll tell you what… when the public gets a hold of what I got to say, you’ll be on the New York Times Bestseller list in no time.”

  “That’s very generous, Mr. Walker. You make a tempting offer, and please, call me Trent,” I said, putting my best business face on, trying to hide the building excitement his offer evoked.

  “Well all right…and you call me Preston. Let’s leave that formal shit for the Jimmy Ray Upshaw’s of the world.”

  “I do have a couple questions….”

  “Shoot.”

  “Well, I have to ask, why do you want me to write your book? I don’t have any real experience to speak of.”

  “Well, Trent, what I don’t want is a been-there-done-that writer. My story needs a raw, young voice, unsullied and with an open mind. That’s you. Besides, I checked some of your work in that college newspaper of yours, and I have to say, I like what I saw. Looks like you boys got a damn fine baseball team out there, what do they call ‘em…the Dirtbags?”

  “Yep, the Dirtbags.”

  “Well, that’s all right, I think I can recall seeing them in that College World Series they got up in Nebraska.”

  “Yeah, they’re perennial contenders.”

  “You a big sports fan, Trent? Well, I guess you’d have to be in your line of work.”

  “Sure, but like anything else, when it becomes your job it loses some of its charm.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Now Preston, another question, this is in regards to the subject matter of this book you want written. Now are you saying—?”

  I was cut off. “Let’s go ahead and discuss that when you get here. You ever been to a college football game?”

  I was a little taken aback by the abrupt subject change, but answered, “Yeah, USC, the Coliseum a few times”

  “Those pansies. Ever been to an SEC game?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what, Ole Miss has got LSU in a week, the season opener. We’ll go; you ain’t seen nothing like it.”

  “Sounds like fun,” I said, and it actually did. Those SEC games are nuts, at least from what I’d seen on TV.

  Then a brief pause on his end.

  “Trent, you got a problem with niggers?”

  I was left speechless, not by the question or the word, but by how easily he slipped it into our conversation. “Can’t say that I do,” was the first response I could come up with, not knowing whether he wanted me to have a problem with them or not.

  “Well, good, neither do we; although, we do have our fair share out here, just so long as you’re prepared. On that subject, Ole Miss has got this great young runner, Deuce McAllister, best they had in years. You gotta see him live.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of him, actually Ole Miss looks pretty good this year.”

  “Goddamn right they do! So you coming out, or what? I promise we’ll show you the time of your life. You’ll get to meet Matador, my granddaughter Corynne, and Delotta is the best southern cook in all of Oxford.”

  “Well, like I said, Preston, you make a tempting offer and paint a pretty picture. Let’s just say I’m seriously considering it. Will you let me sleep on it?”

  “Of course, but as you know, unfortunately time is an issue. Yeah, sleep on it. I understand a man just can’t drop everything without considering his affairs—how about you give me a jingle in the morning?”

  “Sounds fair, I’ll call you tomorrow. Nice talking to ya, Preston.”

  “You too, Trent, I look forward to hearing from you.”

  I hung up with my mind made up—I was going to Mississippi.

  After a good night’s sleep, my mind hadn’t changed, so I phoned Preston Walker first thing in the morning and told him I’d take him up on his offer. My flight would be first class and I could stay in his guest house for as long as I liked. When I asked how long he figured it would take to handle our business, he guessed no longer than a couple weeks. He went on to emphasize how I had to stay long enough to really appreciate Oxford.

  His final words still hung in the air. “Son…I hope you’re prepared to step into another world rather another time. You come out to Oxford, and I’ll show you how things used to be, how they should be.”

  This was his final attempt to sell me on something he already sold, but it sounded nice. In my head I was already there. But I had to take care of a few things on the home front first.

  Otto was pissed.

  “Who the fuck is gonna answer the phones, let alone collect the shit we got coming to us? You know this is when the money trickles in!”

  “Look, man, I can still take all the calls,” I said, trying to calm him down from my seat at the end of the bar. “I can do the phones from anywhere, and I can still hound for the money. I’m gonna have Jay do some collecting for me while I’m gone. It should only be a week or two. You gotta chill out.”

  “Yeah, whatever, make sure you’re back by September. You gotta be here for opening day kickoff.”

  “No problem. Plus, I’m doing this for us, we’re gonna get twice the money Marcus owes. That was dead money, we never thought we’d see that cash.”

  “Fine, just hurry back, and as far as the money for writing the old man’s memoirs, of course that’s all yours,” Otto said, then turned and went over to the taps and poured two schooners, slid one to me, and we bumped our glasses.

  “You know T…I remember when your scrawny ass first came in this place. I had to throw you out. What, were you seventeen, with that cheesy fake Iowa driver’s license?”

  I lit up a Camel. “Yeah, not only did you throw me out, but you cut up that fake ID I paid a hundred bucks for. But I kept coming back.”

  “Yes you did…yes, you did, like a turd that don’t flush, and I kept throwing you out.”

  “Eventually I wore you down.”

  “That you did. I didn’t have the energy, so I just let you stick around.”

  “And the rest, as they say…is history.”

  “One week…and don’t fuck around down there. I’ve been to the South, it ain’t like here.”

  We went back to sipping our beers in silence.

  Jay came into my room puffing on a joint and sat at the edge of my bed as I was packing up the limited amount of clothing I owned. When most people travel, they pack for the climate of their destination, but all I had was warm weather clothes, which I imagined would work well for the depths of the south in the summer. I didn’t even own a heavy coat and had never known weather below 40 degrees.

  “Good for you, man, you’re really doing it,” he said, exhaling smoke, trying not to cough.

  “Yeah, and you gotta feed Wade, just make sure his food and his water bowl are always full. I put three bags of Whiskas on the counter—that’s the only stuff he likes, and that should be more than enough.”

  “Yeah, yeah,
I’m gonna feed the little shit.”

  Jay pretended he didn’t like Wade, but at moments when he thought no one was looking, I caught him talking to Wade and even saw him scratching his head once or twice. I handed him $500 for rent just in case I wasn’t around on the first and a list of names, numbers, and amounts owed for people who might come by to drop off money.

  “Remember,” I said, “we got to leave here at 7:00 sharp. I don’t wanna miss my flight.”

  “Goddamn, I ain’t seen the world that early in ten years. You owe me.”

  “I’ll bring you back a souvenir.”

  “How about one of them Confederate flags? I bet they got a shitload of them down there.”

  My flight was set to leave at 9:00 am—Continental Flight #1388 from John Wayne with a connection in Houston and then on to Memphis International Airport. The flight would take nearly seven hours with the stop. I was told Matador would be there to pick me up at 5:00. I was curious what this Matador business was all about. Jay dropped me off just in time to make the flight, and I was about to get on an airplane for the first time at age twenty-five.

  5

  The flight was rather uneventful. I had never flown before, first class or not, so I had no basis for comparison. The in-flight movie was Out of Sight with George Clooney; it was pretty good. I did enjoy the novelty of watching a movie, and even the thrill of going to the bathroom, at 30,000 feet. I walked past the coach seating on my way back to first class from the toilet and noticed how they were packed in.

  The connecting flight in Houston was a bit confusing. Eventually I broke down and had to ask for help. I figured it out and arrived for my next flight right on time. I stepped off the ramp into Memphis International Airport, looked out into the bleached-white terminal rife with humanity, moved past the hugging family members, past reunited friends, and past those with anticipation in their longing eyes. None of that was for me…I was looking for Matador. I still didn’t have any other name for him, and even more vexing, I had no idea what he looked like.