The Bookmakers

by Zev Chafets

  “Sorry, I got caught up in some last-minute crap,” Wolfowitz said with an apologetic smile as he slid into a seat across from Russo. “The Secretary of State called. This is between us, okay?”

  Russo nodded gravely. At lunch, Wolfowitz never failed to drop names or pick up the check. It was, as far as Tommy was concerned, good physics.

  “He’s getting ready to resign—apparantly he’s pissed off about Bosnia or something—but he wants to get a book deal first.”

  “Very statesmanlike,” said Russo. “Just out of curiosity, what are you paying him?”

  “Too much,” said Wolfowitz sourly. Actually he was delighted by the Secretary’s book proposal, which was full of nasty gossip about the President, the First Lady and assorted world leaders. He was even happier about his acquisition of a retired secret service agent’s memoirs—he was planning to reveal that the Secretary had engaged in oral sex with a Latin American ambassador at an OAS conference. The books would promote each other nicely. “Speaking of paying too much, let’s eat.” Wolfowitz waved over a waiter and, without consulting Tommy, ordered two hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of lunch.

  “They must love you in this place,” said Russo.

  “Spending money on you is good business. I want to get this Kleinhouse thing done. Ravitsky says you’re asking a million and a half.”

  “It’s a fair price,” said Russo. “The guy’s hot. You cleaned up on his last novel and he knows it. Besides, we’d be tying up three books here, not just one.”

  “Oh, so that’s what a trilogy means,” said Wolfowitz with a wintry smile. “I’ll pay nine hundred thousand. That’s plenty.”

  Russo shook his head. “He won’t go for it, no way. Honest to God, I come back to him with that he’ll switch agents.”

  “Well, what’ll it take? Don’t fool around, just give me the number.”

  “I could swing it for one point two, I think.”

  “Okay, but I’ll tell you frankly, the only reason I’m going that high is because Floutie wants it. Personally, I can’t see a trilogy about the Spanish-American War selling diddly-shit.”

  “If it’s Floutie’s project, let’s make it one and a half,” said Russo. “What the hell, it’s his money.”

  Wolfowitz shook his head. “His father-in-law’s money. And my reputation. One point two.”

  “Your reputation, my commission,” said Tommy. “The difference between 10 percent of one point five and one point two is—”

  “Thirty,” said Wolfowitz. He loved doing business with Tommy Russo. Most agents were willing to bend a little to stay on his good side, but Tommy was ready to flat out break the law. Wolfowitz attributed Russo’s flexibility to his years in the priesthood; he was a man who knew the difference between a mortal sin and simple larceny. “I’ll make sure you get it,” he said.

  “In that case, we’ve got a deal,” said Russo. He reached across the table, exposing two inches of starched white cuff, and took Wolfowitz’s hand. The money would be enough to pay off Herman Reggie and the rest of the sharks and still leave him a nice piece of change.

  Wolfowitz freed his hand and raised his glass, which contained eleven dollars’ worth of sparkling water from Belgium. “To literature,” he toasted.

  “To literature,” said Tommy, and took a gulp of water. “Which reminds me. I’ve got another project I want to talk to you about.”

  “Shoot,” said Wolfowitz, tilting his head slightly to convey attention.

  “It’s Mack. He’s got an idea for a new book.”

  “Sorry,” said Wolfowitz blandly. “He hasn’t earned out an advance in years. He’s washed up.”

  “This is different,” said Russo. “At least give me five minutes to tell you about it.”

  Wolfowitz sighed with resignation. “Five minutes,” he said, consulting his watch.

  Tommy began talking fast, describing Mack’s mugging, his momentary death wish and the book idea it had inspired. As he spoke he saw that Wolfowitz was listening raptly. “You gotta admit, it’s a helluva notion,” Tommy concluded, pressing his advantage.

  “Yeah, not bad. He’s right about one thing—now that the baby boomers are figuring out that exercise and fiber aren’t going to keep them alive forever, death’s going to be big in publishing. But I don’t know if it’s for us—”

  “He wants you,” said Russo. “Says you’re the only editor he trusts. You know how Mack is.”

  “I do,” said Wolfowitz in a neutral tone. “I also know he hasn’t written anything bigger than a Sports Illustrated piece in years. He spends all his time chasing girls and getting loaded at the Tiger like it’s still 1975. I don’t care how good the idea is, it’s worthless if he doesn’t produce.”

  “He’ll produce,” promised Tommy. “Look, I’m asking you as a favor. I’ll give it to you for seventy-five thousand—”

  “Plus how much for you?”

  “Nothing,” said Tommy waving his hand. “Just the regular 10 percent commission.”

  “Nothing?” said Wolfowitz. “This must mean a lot to you.”

  “It means a lot to him. He won’t admit it, but he’s desperate. He knows this is his last chance.”

  “He said that?”

  “Not in so many words, but yeah, basically that’s what he said.”

  Wolfowitz stared down at the snowy white tablecloth, lost in thought. “If I agree,” he finally said, “it’s on two conditions. First, I want to see his pages as he goes along, make sure he’s actually working.”

  “Mack doesn’t like to show his work until it’s finished,” said Tommy. “You know that.”

  “In that case—”

  “No, no,” said Russo quickly. “He’ll agree this time. What else?”

  “I don’t want him telling anyone what he’s working on.”

  “He probably wouldn’t anyway, but why not?”

  “Because I want to do it as a surprise. The return of Mack Green. Great media. Besides, if it’s no good and we decide not to publish it, I don’t want him humiliated.”

  Russo looked at Wolfowitz and saw a tight smile on his lips. He thought he knew the editor’s full repertoire of fake expressions, but the hungry satisfaction he saw now was new and disconcertingly authentic. Tommy chose to interpret it as the look of a man happy to help out an old friend.

  “I’m glad you’re doing this,” he said to Wolfowitz. “When you come down to it, neither one of us would be here if it wasn’t for Mack. I owe him, you owe him. It’s sort of our chance to pay Mack back.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” said Wolfowitz, taking a sip of water and wiping his mouth daintily with his crisp napkin. “Now I think about it, that’s exactly what it is.”

  Four

  One sweltering August afternoon in the summer of 1959, when Artie Wolfowitz was fifteen years old, he walked into Mike’s Corner Grocery and asked Mike Stanislaw, a grumpy old immigrant in a dirty white apron that smelled of herring, for a vanilla Drumstick.

  Mike thrust his left arm into the freezer and came out with a paper-wrapped Drumstick. “Cost you ten cents,” he said, his right hand outstretched. The store was just down the street from the tiny clapboard house where Artie lived with his widowed mother; he had been shopping there ever since he was a small boy, but the old guy didn’t care—he had an inflexible policy of holding on to the goods until he was paid.

  Artie dug into his jeans, came up with a dime, all the money he had on him, and tossed it on the Formica counter. He took the Drumstick, began unwrapping it and saw that it was solid ice cream.

  “Hey, Mike, there’s no cone,” he said, as the Drumstick began melting on his hand.

  Mike shrugged. “That’s the way it come,” he said.

  “There’s supposed to be a cone. Look, I can’t even hold it this way,” said Artie. “Give me a different one.”

  “Another ten cents,” said Mike, watching impassively as the ice cream dripped through Artie’s fingers. “You got a problem, write to the
factory, they give you the money back.”

  Artie stood facing the grocer, literally speechless with anger and frustration. Then he tossed the glob of ice cream on the counter and ran out of the store. He tried to tell himself it was only an ice-cream cone, but as the day wore on he grew more and more enraged that Mike, whom he had known all his life, would cheat and humiliate him for a dime.

  The next day Artie got a small brown notebook and began a private boycott. He walked blocks out of his way to the Woolworth’s in the shopping center to buy what he needed. When he passed Mike’s, looked through the dirty windowpane and saw Mike inside, it warmed him to realize that the old bastard had no idea that he was the subject of a vendetta. He would find out, but only when Artie was ready.

  The moment came in mid-October, when Artie walked into Mike’s Corner Grocery for the first time in more than two months. He took out his notebook, laid it on the counter and looked the old man in the eye. “Remember that Drumstick you sold me? The one without the cone? You said to take it back to the factory.”

  Mike shrugged his fat shoulders, but it was clear from the look on his face that he hadn’t forgotten.

  “I decided not to shop here anymore,” said Artie. “Maybe you noticed.”

  “Big deal,” said Mike. “Who cares?”

  Artie opened his notebook, where long columns of figures were neatly printed, a date alongside each amount. “Every time I buy something someplace else, I write it down in here,” he said. “It’s a record, like, of what it’s costing you. Want to know how much?”

  Mike peered at the notebook, trying to read upside down. Artie spun it around to make it easier. “Twenty-eight dollars and forty-six cents so far,” he said, pointing to the bottom line. “Minus the dime you rooked me out of, that makes twenty-eight dollars and thirty-six cents.”

  “Big deal,” Mike repeated.

  “It will be,” said Artie. He picked up his notebook and walked to the door. “I’ll be back.”

  From then on Artie Wolfowitz made a practice of stopping by Mike’s Corner Grocery on the first of each month to announce his updated total. At first, Mike displayed an exaggerated apathy, but as the amount began to grow he became visibly upset. In March, when the figure passed one hundred dollars, he lost control and chased Artie out of the store. “I’ll be back next month, you dumb Polack,” the boy yelled over his shoulder. “That Drumstick’s going to cost you millions.”

  A few days later Artie was walking home from school when a blue Chevy pulled alongside and honked. He peered into the car and saw Mike’s son, Stanley, behind the wheel. “Get in for a minute, I want to talk to you,” he said.

  Artie knew Stan, a pudgy, nearsighted guy in his mid-twenties, from around the neighborhood. “I’m here for a truce,” he said. “This boycott of yours is driving my old man nuts.”

  “He asked for it,” said Artie. “He screwed me out of a Drumstick.”

  “Jesus.” Stan laughed. “A Drumstick costs a dime.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a five-dollar bill. “Here, that ought to make up for it, okay?”

  Artie looked at the bill and shook his head. “First, let him apologize,” he said, although he didn’t really want an apology. The vendetta had become the most important thing in his life, and he had no intention of calling it off for five bucks.

  “He’s stubborn,” said Stan, waving the money at Artie. “He won’t apologize to a kid.”

  “Then fuck him,” said Artie, reaching for the handle.

  Stan put a soft, restraining hand on the boy’s shoulder. His genial expression was replaced by a look of nearsighted concern. “He’s an old man and you’re making him sick,” he said imploringly. “On the days you come in he can’t even sleep. The doctor says it’s bad for his blood pressure. What do you want to do, kill him?”

  “I don’t want anything,” said Artie, pulling open the door and climbing out. “Tell him his Drumstick has cost him around a hundred and twenty bucks so far. I’ll be in next week to give him the exact amount.”

  “Don’t do this,” said Stan, but Wolfowitz was already out of the car and running down the street, filled with a sense of triumph.

  The following September, shortly after one of Artie’s visits, Mike Stanislaw keeled over in the store: “Dead,” in Gert Wolfowitz’s hushed phrase, “before the poor man’s head hit the meat counter.” Artie was surprised to see that Mike’s death deeply affected his widowed mother. “He was a good man,” she said tearfully. “Despite his manner, he was always a gentleman.”

  “He was always a prick,” Artie muttered under his breath so his mother wouldn’t hear. He never used profanity in front of women, especially not her.

  “I hope you’ll come with me to the funeral,” said Mrs. Wolfowitz. “We’ve known him for so long—”

  “I need to take a walk,” said Artie. He bounded out of the house, ran all the way to the park and collapsed on a bench near the baseball diamond. He knew he ought to feel remorse, but he didn’t; in truth he was elated. Mike Stanislaw had humiliated and cheated him, and he, Artie Wolfowitz, had exacted justice. The fact that the war had started over an ice-cream cone meant nothing. Artie sat on the wooden bench feeling the cool September breeze on his face and experienced the exquisite satisfaction of total revenge.

  After high school, Artie attended the local branch of the state university, near Buffalo, where he got an accounting degree. He was the first Wolfowitz to go to college, the first professional man in the family, and after graduating he took a job with a local firm, lived at home and supported his mother. It was a boring life but he didn’t expect more.

  Then, in the summer of 1972, Gert Wolfowitz discovered a lump under her left arm and eight weeks later she was dead. With nothing to hold him, Artie Wolfowitz moved to New York City, where he found a job monitoring sales figures in the marketing department of Gothic Books. He wasn’t a reader, but the idea of working for a glamorous New York publisher appealed to him. He was especially drawn to the junior editors—graceful young men with carelessly elegant clothes and easy Ivy League manners, quick, good-looking women who dressed stylishly and joked about sex—but they made it clear with a cool politeness that they had no interest in socializing with a plain, unsophisticated bookkeeper from upstate nowhere.

  One warm June evening after work, Artie wandered into the Flying Tiger, ordered a scotch-and-soda and sat self-consciously sipping his drink as he wistfully surveyed the scene. From his place at the bar, the Tiger seemed more like a clubhouse than a cocktail lounge. Everyone appeared to know one another, friendly insults were called from table to table and new arrivals got noisy, demonstrative greetings. From time to time Artie glanced at his watch to give the impression that he was waiting for someone, but nobody seemed to notice.

  For something to do, Artie walked over to the jukebox and peered at the selections. His musical taste ran to Neil Diamond and Bobbie Gentry, and the songs, mostly by artists with names like Gatemouth and T-Bone, were unfamiliar. Randomly he hit some buttons and returned to the bar as a falsetto wail filled the room.

  “All right! ‘Mind Over Matter’ by Nolan Strong and the Diablos!” he heard someone call with the exaggerated enunciation of a radio disc jockey. Artie turned and saw a tall, athletic young man with longish sandy hair and even, handsome features leap from his chair, pull the young woman next to him to her feet and begin dancing in the aisle. He was graceful and completely self-assured, singing along with the record so infectiously that several other couples rose to join him. He seemed different from the young sophisticates at Gothic, less Ivy League, more energetic and aggressive, like a high school homecoming king or the president of the student body.

  When the song ended, the sandy-haired guy sauntered over to the bar, called out for a double bourbon on the rocks, climbed onto the stool next to Wolfowitz and slapped him lightly on the back. “Man, I love that song,” he said in an easy, conversational way. “You must be from Detroit, right?”

  “Upstate New York,
” said Wolfowitz. “A hick town you never heard of. What makes you say Detroit?”

  “It’s a Detroit song,” he said. “An oldie. Most people around here don’t know it, so I figured you might be from out there. I’m from a little hick town, too. Oriole, Michigan.”

  “Michigan,” Wolfowitz repeated, unable to think of anything interesting to add. He was flattered by the guy’s friendliness, but disconcerted and a little distrustful, too. It occurred to him that he might be getting hustled or, worse, laughed at.

  “Otto, give this man a drink,” the sandy-haired guy told the bartender. “Anybody who appreciates Nolan Strong and the Diablos deserves a drink.” He extended his hand. “My name’s Mack Green, by the way.”

  “Artie Wolfowitz. Are you Mack Green the writer?”

  “Yep,” said Mack without affectation. “That’s me. What do you do?”

  “I work at Gothic Books,” said Wolfowitz, hoping that Green would mistake him for an editor.

  “Ah, so that’s how you know my name,” said Mack. Wolfowitz took it for false modesty; Bragging Rights and its young author were the talk of the publishing world. “What do you do over there?”

  “I’m on the, ah, business side,” said Wolfowitz. “Actually, I’m an accountant.” He expected a dismissive reaction but Mack surprised him by slapping him on the back once more.

  “The only people I know in this town are editors and writers,” he said. “And girls. I never get a chance to talk to anybody normal. An accountant. That means you know where the ninety cents goes.”

  “What ninety cents?”

  “The ninety cents out of every dollar I earn that the publisher keeps.”

  “You only get 10 percent?”