The Bookmaker

by Chris Fraser

  I was looking for a man holding a sign with my name, like on TV, when I felt a tap on the shoulder. “Trent Oster? You gotta be him,” said a rugged, yet somehow distinguished-looking grey-haired man.

  “Good guess, call me Trent, and you must be the…Matador?” I said, hesitant to call a man by an obvious nick-name the first time we met.

  A chuckle, “That’s what they call me. Real name is Mattheus Orslavsky, but hell, you can call me Matador, everyone else does, always have.”

  He had a laid-back way about him that I liked right away.

  “How’d you know it was me?” I asked.

  “You looked as I thought you might,” he answered with a smirk.

  “And how’s that?”

  “Like a young man from California very out of place,” he said, glancing around the terminal. I suddenly felt very aware of how I looked compared to everyone else, with my shaved head, plain-white T-shirt, long black shorts, and Doc Martins. Not a popular look among the denizens of the Memphis International Airport. I told myself unconvincingly that I didn’t care.

  “Just having a little fun, Trent…you’re fine,” he said, laughing.

  “It’s cool,” I answered, still feeling out of place.

  “Any bags?”

  “Got it all right here,” I said, holding up my duffel bag.

  “Let’s go.”

  We stepped out of the terminal into the bright late afternoon sunlight and I began to sweat like I never had before. I couldn’t breathe. This was weather I had never known existed—heat like an invisible hand pushing down on you, then wringing you out like sponge.

  “First time in the South?” he asked as he saw my reaction to the heat and humidity.

  “Yeah, is it always like this?”

  “Not always, but this ain’t unusual. You’ll get used to it. Man has a unique ability to adapt to his surroundings, perhaps our most important evolutionary tool.”

  “Okay…” I said, slowly trying to digest what he had just said, then added, “that’s well and good, I just hope your car has AC.”

  Heading south on US 78, Matador drove the black late-model Lincoln Town Car like he just stole it. We were over the state line in no time, speeding past a blue and yellow sign that read “Welcome to Mississippi, It’s like coming home,” with a white flower I later learned was a magnolia. We sped past a little town called Olive Branch.

  “I drive fast, so brace yourself,” he said as he swerved around seemingly parked cars, his life-worn hands barely touching the power-steering as he pushed it past ninety.

  “I see that,” I said, pretending it didn’t faze me.

  “We’re about an hour and a half from Oxford, so sit back and enjoy the scenery.”

  Actually the scenery was nice–a verdant green. At ten-foot offsets from each side of the two-lane highway were rows of trees that had no end, interrupted briefly by neatly rowed crops, then an occasional lake, and then back to the trees. Once we entered Holly Springs National Forest I felt like I was on another planet. The sights were a welcome change from the concrete, graffiti, and trash of California freeways. I eased back into the plush leather seat and drank in the scenery.

  “So, go ahead, ask me…” Matador said, never taking his eyes from the blurred highway.

  “Ask you what?”

  Turning to me, he said, “Ask me the question that’s been on your mind. Ask me why they call me Matador.”

  “Well, now that you mention it.”

  “I grew up in Texas, well Texas half the time and New York the other half. My mother’s family was from west Texas—that’s rodeo country. They had a big ranch outside Odessa. Her family was in the business of supplying the entire Texas rodeo circuit with riding bulls. The bulls were kept penned up on our ranch and loaned out when the rodeos came a-calling. Every now and again, they’d get a real mean sumbitch that had to be isolated from the rest of the bulls.

  “There were usually about fifteen to twenty bulls on hand at any time. We also kept cows, roping calves, and show horses too. Anyways, they get this real mean motherfucker called Zeus; most riders wouldn’t even attempt to give him a go, let alone stay on him for eight seconds. Story out of Amarillo goes he killed a rider out there and gored his last owner, so we got him dirt cheap.

  “Well, one day when I was about two years old, I turn up missing. My parents looked high and low. After searching for about an hour, Mom was nearly hysterical. Pops, running outta places to look, goes out to the bull pens, hoping I ain’t there. Well, legend has it, there I was, sleeping on ole Zeus, who was about to doze off himself, just as placid as a moonlit lake. Pops called for Mom, which was a bad idea ‘cause she fainted on the spot. He got the rest of the hands to distract Zeus while they went and extracted me from the delicate situation.

  “Once Zeus noticed I was safely away, he went ape-shit, kicking, leaping, and goring everything in sight. Tore up his whole pen, then he started on the barn. He was on a rampage like them elephants that go crazy—you know, the one’s you hear about destroying entire African villages? Pops had no choice but to get his shotgun and put him down. They say it took four shotgun blasts to take down the mad beast. Pops was a city boy, not a very good shot.

  “Well, long story short, word spread about the boy who tamed the meanest bull who ever lived, so they started calling me Matador. Even my parents. Hell, I thought it was my name until I was about eight. It didn’t hurt that my name was Mattheus; most people preferred calling me Matador over the commie name my old man gave me anyhow. So, there you go, now you know.”

  “Wow, that’s a hell of a story,” I said, trying to unstick my back from the leather seats.

  “So, you ready to meet Preston?” he asked, with a sly grin.

  “Sure, I guess.”

  “Just remember—Preston has a hell of an imagination. He loves to run on at the mouth, so take what he says with a grain of salt,” he said, adjusting his seat.

  A minute or two later, to break the silence, he asked, “Hey, how about some music?”

  “Sounds good,” I answered, ready for a break in the conversation.

  Sweet Home Alabama came on the classic rock station Matador settled on. Almost perfect Where’s “Mississippi Queen” when you need it? I thought.

  We finally exited the highway onto University Avenue and everything changed.

  “There she is. There’s Ole Miss,” Matador said in a reverent tone.

  The slow drive through the college area displayed leafy walkways and neatly manicured rolling greens with students studying under majestically columned brick and marble buildings. Next was fraternity row, where the equally impressive and columned homes with indecipherable Greek letters adorned the facades along the tree-shaded streets.

  The college gave way to downtown Oxford, which had a small-town feel with mom-and-pop stores lining each side of the street under covered walkways with flowers and vines. All roads led to a town square centered by a massive Romanesque courthouse. At the foot of the marble steps was a large minaret with a confederate soldier on top. To the right was a red brick building with castle-like spires called Ventress Hall.

  This was a lot of architecture and culture for an Orange County boy to take in. Conspicuously absent were the mini-malls filled with yogurt shops, fast food restaurants, nail places, and 7-11s. Oxford seemed to have stores that provided all these things and everything else modern American’s think they need. They just did it with a rustic southern style and a nod to small-town life now mostly faded into nostalgia.

  About two miles outside of town, Matador said, “Here we are, home sweet home.”

  He turned left into a long driveway that circled about a football field’s worth of well-kept lawn surrounded by those trees where the leaves just drip-hang from the branches like a Dali painting. The house looked like something out of Gone with the Wind. The antebellum mansion was adorned with large marble columns supporting the second story. The feature that really stood out to me was what looked to be Civil War-
era cannons. There were two on one side of the deep porch and an even larger one placed directly in front of the house—aiming at anyone who dare step onto the property uninvited. The cannonballs themselves sat patiently nearby in neatly stacked piles on both sides of the porch.

  I grabbed my bag from the trunk and followed Matador up the steps to the porch leading to the front door. We were greeted by a middle-aged, heavy-set black woman with a tow-headed toddler on her lap who couldn’t have been more than two. The boy jumped into Matador’s arms.

  “This here is Preston’s great-grandson Tucker, Corynne’s little boy,” he said, lifting the little guy into the air, making him laugh hysterically.

  Matador put him down and Tucker slowly walked up to me, handed me a little blue wooden train, and said, “Choo choo…choo choo.”

  “That’s right,” the woman said. “Good, good Tuck, yes that is a choo choo train.”

  Matador introduced us. “This here is Delotta Carter. She’s the one who keeps this place running. Her family’s been at the Walker Manor since….well…. since forever.”

  “Welcome to Walker Manor, Trent, we’ve been expecting you. You need anything you come find me, you hear? Now, after you make your introductions to everyone, I’ll show you to the back house where you’ll be staying. I think you’ll be pleased with the accommodations—no complaints yet,” she said with a big smile.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said.

  Little Tucker reached up for me to give him his train back. Once I did, he said, “Up up up,” reaching his arms out to me. I looked to Delotta to see if it was okay. She nodded, so I picked him up and he immediately reached for my sunglasses, pulling them off my face and trying to put them on himself.

  “Tucker, you stop that right now,” came a voice from inside the house.

  Now, the old-timers always claim they remember where they were when they bombed Pearl Harbor. And most of the men of that same generation could tell you exactly what they were doing when Bobby Thompson hit the “Shot Heard Around the World.” Well, this was my moment: when out stepped the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. This was all new territory to me. I felt my knees weaken and my throat dry up. I hoped my face didn’t give me away.

  “I am so sorry. Usually he’s better behaved than that. But he does seem to like you—he can be shy around strangers,” she said with a smile that just about killed me.

  “I’m Corynne, Corynne Walker. We’re so glad to have you here, it’s about all Papa can talk about.”

  Hoping to God I had a straight face, I said, “Oh no problem at all, he actually looks better in them than I do.”

  She was magnificent—her thick brunette hair fell softly to the middle of her back, framing almond-shaped green eyes and pouty down-turned lips. The kicker was the sundress: white with yellow flowers throughout, cut at the knee, teasing the eye into looking at her bronzed legs that still shone even in the dying light. She knew exactly what she was doing, and it worked.

  “Maintain yourself,” I thought, “she obviously has someone with little Tucker running around. But, no ring. Just play it cool.”

  We left Delotta, Corynne, and Tucker out on the porch, and Matador opened up the double doors leading to the foyer. Two arching stairways meeting on the second floor framed a statue of a woman in flowing robes—Greek I think—pouring an amphora of real running water down into her base. The sound of the cascading water echoed throughout the great hall. I followed Matador up the stairs and we made a left. I glanced right and saw endless doors on either side of the long hallway, passing the same on the left. I counted six doors on each side, all closed. We made it to the end of the hallway and were met by a set of closed double doors.

  6

  Matador opened the door to Preston Walker’s office, and when he did, I couldn’t help but feel butterflies like I was being ushered into the principal’s office. His office was huge. It opened up into a living room area complete with black leather furniture beset by mahogany tables. On the right was a massive floor-to-ceiling stone fire place with a two-foot mantle jutting from its core, proudly displaying framed photos and important sundry items. Dominating the space above the mantle was a large round seal, like you’d see behind a judge in a courtroom. Inside the circle was a scene that looked biblical, like Moses parting the Red Sea, sending the pharaoh’s horseman to their watery doom. Outside the picture read the words “Rebellion to Tyrants is Obedience to God” written around the circle. Next to the fireplace was a fully stocked bar made of the same mahogany as the tables. Opposite the bar were three ornate bookcases overflowing with thick, musty hardbacks, some with the deteriorated and well-worn majesty of books that had seen at least the turn of the century.

  Diaphanous crimson curtains allowed in only strands of the dying sunlight, casting a hazy glow throughout the room. In front of the window, a man sat at a desk with thick, elaborately cut column legs achingly holding up the gold-veined black marble surface—a work of art rather than a utilitarian piece of furniture.

  Beside the desk was a weasely little man in annoying spectacles and ebbing wisps of hair neatly plastered to his head. I assumed this to be Jimmy Ray Upshaw, Esquire, lawyer extraordinaire to the man seated behind the marble.

  “I believe you’ve already spoke with both of these men,” Matador said. “This here is the man that keeps our money green and our asses outta prison.”

  I shook his hand.

  “Welcome,” Jimmy Ray said with a hint of disappointment.

  “And the silver-haired fox behind the desk is Preston Walker.”

  “Trent, it’s an honor and a pleasure,” Preston said, reaching his hand across the table but not getting up. “I can’t thank you enough for a coming all this way to pay us a visit. Please, please, have a seat, make yourself comfortable.” He turned to Matador and said, “Looky here, Matador, and such a handsome boy, if you can get past the get-up.”

  He couldn’t have been a day under seventy—grey-white hair hid the few scattered remains of the dark survivors. His sun-worn face reminded me of an aging Marlboro Man, his squinting blue eyes giving away nothing more than what he would allow.

  “Nice to meet you, thanks for having me,” I said nervously, settling into the soft leather desk chair.

  Preston scanned me over then turned to Jimmy Ray. “I hope you don’t mind. I thought we’d just get some of the business out of the way before we get you settled in. Is this okay with you?”

  “Sure, sure, it’s fine with me,” I said, already wanting out of the room.

  Jimmy Ray dropped a one-page contract in front of me. “This is simply a contract that states the arrangement between you and Mr. Walker for the task of writing Mr. Walker’s memoirs to his specifications and acceptance. Now, Mr. Walker’s offer consists of $10,000 upon arrival,” he then handed me a cashier’s check for that amount. “Now of that amount, $5,000 is non-refundable, that’s yours, the other $5,000 must be returned if specifications of said contract are not met. Non-performance of said actions will render the contract abrogated.”

  I looked at Jimmy Ray, then to Preston, as this was news to me, but I kept quiet and let Jimmy Ray go on.

  “Upon completion of the contract, you are to receive the subsequent $10,000 also in a cashiers’ check. Please sign on the dotted line if you concur with this arrangement.”

  I had come this far and that was the deal I was promised, so I signed.

  He then slid the contract back to Preston. “Mr. Walker, if this arrangement is to your satisfaction as well, please sign here.”

  Preston quickly signed and pushed the papers back to Jimmy Ray, then slowly stood up.

  “Now that’s enough of that bullshit. Trent, I apologize about all the formality. We just need to cover all the bases on our end…and on yours too—never can be too careful.”

  “I understand,” I said as some of the stiffness left the room, but not all of it, as Upshaw was still sifting through his papers.

  “Well, gentleman, I believe everything
is in order. Trent, welcome to Mississippi. Preston, I’ll have these for you by tomorrow. Good day.”

  I think we were both glad to see him go.

  Preston suggested we go out to the back balcony for a cocktail. I was surprised at how well he moved, especially for someone I thought would be in a wheelchair. He did have a cane he tried not to use, although he deferred to at times. But all in all, he seemed fit and energetic, not at all as I’d imagined.

  The balcony stretched about twenty feet from the house and was closed off by an intricately designed iron railing capped with fleurs de lis. The smell of the woods behind his house was strong, almost overwhelming. A pungent dying-plant smell was strangely familiar, although I didn’t know where I would have been exposed to anything like that before.

  “How about a smoke with our drinks?”

  “Sure,” I said, realizing I hadn‘t had a Camel since I got on the plane this morning, and I hadn’t even noticed. He handed me a cigar, lit his, then mine. This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, but when in Rome. Then, as if on cue, Delotta appeared with our cocktails.

  “I hope you like a good scotch, I know I do,” he said with a smile, clinking his glass with mine. “Here’s to a great partnership and a productive working relationship.”

  “Cheers,” I added as I took a sip of the caustic liquid. I’d never had scotch before, but I didn’t want to show my naivety to Preston. I was determined to act like I capped off each day with a scotch to settle my nerves.

  Leaning over the railing and admiring the vast expanse of green lawn that stretched out to a tree line thick with oaks, I asked through a burning throatful of scotch, “All this land yours?”

  “Got about fifty acres now, used to be about four hundred back in the planting days,” he answered, having no problem with his drink, which was now more than half-empty.

  “It’s an amazing house. How old is it?” I asked, pretending to enjoy my cigar.

  “Over one hundred fifty now, but of course there have been numerous renovations to keep it in the condition you see today.”