The Bookmakers

by Zev Chafets

  “Allow me to introduce my friend Joyce McClain and Minister Abijamin Malik, my spiritual adviser,” said Mack.

  “Oh-oh,” murmured Carter Lang.

  “Pleased to meet you, Reverend,” said Floutie with an elaborate courtesy that barely masked his sense of glee. Finally, after years of humiliation, Wolfowitz’s departure had put him in a position to demonstrate to his father-in-law that he was capable of running the affairs of Gothic Books.

  “Douglas, I think we ought to take another recess,” said Carter Lang.

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Floutie, with a magisterial wave of his hand. “Ms. Birney, assuming for the moment that what you say is true, permit me to assure you that Gothic Books had no knowledge whatsoever of any irregularities on Mr. Wolfowitz’s part.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Linda. “As far as we’re concerned, Wolfowitz is Gothic Books. The liability belongs to the company.”

  Floutie looked at Lang, who nodded almost imperceptibly. The publisher clasped his hands in a donnish manner and smiled at Mack. “I’m certain that nothing has happened that can’t be rectified,” he said. “After all, ah, Mr. Green is an artist, not some litigious businessman. His paramount concern is, I’m sure, the publication of his new novel.”

  “Don’t say anything, Mack,” cautioned Linda. “Mr. Floutie, do I hear an implied threat in that remark?”

  “Not at all,” said the publisher, glancing once again at his father-in-law to make certain he wasn’t missing this masterful display. “I do, however, want to point out that The Diary of a Dying Man hasn’t yet been accepted for publication. And, as you know, under the contract, Gothic Books has the right to determine its satisfactory delivery.”

  “That’s true,” said Carter Lang, seizing the point.

  “Obviously, we would find it unsatisfactory to publish a book by an author who was, shall we say, hostile to our interests,” Floutie said smoothly.

  This was the gambit Mack had anticipated. With his track record, a rejection by Gothic would be fatal. No matter how good The Diary was, when word got out that it was a turkey—and that would be Gothic’s story—no other publisher in town would want it.

  Mack saw the smug look on Floutie’s face, waited a beat and then nodded slightly to Roy Ray, who abruptly stood, pointed an accusatory finger at the three men on the other side of the table and began emitting loud squawking noises.

  “Is your friend all right?” asked Floutie.

  “Ask him. He speaks English,” said Mack.

  “Are you all right?” Floutie said.

  “When is the black man all right in an America that’s all white?” demanded Roy Ray.

  “Mr. Green’s a white man,” Lang pointed out in a reasonable tone.

  “Yes, but he has a black heart. A black heart and a black soul. He’s got the soul, you’ve got the control.”

  Floutie coughed politely. “This is all very interesting, I’m sure—”

  “White man treat the black man like an animal,” Malik continued, ignoring the interruption. “Worse than an animal—worse than them inferior, overpriced, disease-making, money-taking, flavor-faking, no-good-for-baking, profit-raking chickens that this old white man here sells in the ghettos of our benighted nation.”

  “What the hell’s the matter with my chickens?” demanded Fassbinder, the vein on his wattled neck throbbing.

  “Chickens is nothing to the white man,” proclaimed Malik. “The white man eats filet mignon in his fancy clubs, while the folks up in Harlem got to scrape the meat off the scrawny bones of them low-rent Fassbinder poultry they sell in the store.”

  “Nothing you can do about that, Reverend,” said Mack with a grin.

  “Oh yes there is too,” Malik said. “ ’Bout time somebody put a boycott on them ad-lying, no-frying, bad-buying, baby-dying, race-denying birds old man Fassbinder be peddling to our people.”

  “Baby-dying?” asked Lang, mesmerized by the litany.

  “Them things is pumped full of all manner of nasty chemicals,” Malik said.

  “Race-denying?” said Floutie. “How can a chicken be race-denying, whatever that means?”

  “How many black people work at Fassbinder Poultry?” Malik demanded. “All y’all do is take our cash and sell us trash.”

  “Be interesting to know how many black people work for Gothic Books,” Joyce mused. “I sure didn’t see any today. Might even be a civil rights violation.”

  “Maybe we need to add this here to our boycott,” said Malik, swinging his arm in a wide arc that took in the boardroom. “Or don’t y’all think black people can read?”

  “This is preposterous,” said Floutie. “If you think you can come in here with this extortionary tactic and—”

  “Shut up, Floutie,” said Fassbinder. The vein in his neck was throbbing more powerfully now and his face was red, making him look even more like one of his own roosters. “Carter, get this dumb-cluck professor out of here and these others, too. I want to talk turkey with this little lady.”

  “I stay,” Mack said. “It’s my book and my life.”

  “Fine, but the rest of you, scat,” said Fassbinder. He watched them file out of the room, Floutie with a crestfallen expression, Lang a study in bland uninvolvement, Joyce with a small smile on her face, Malik still loudly denouncing the racial injustice of the poultry business.

  “Jesus on the mountain,” the old man said to Linda, “you’re a pisser, you are. What’s this gonna cost me?”

  Linda reached into her briefcase and produced a list. “It’s all right here,” she said.

  “Read it to me,” said Fassbinder.

  “All right. First, we want a written commitment that The Diary of a Dying Man will be published on schedule, with an appropriate promotional budget. Appropriate in our view is five hundred thousand dollars.”

  Fassbinder took a small notebook from his pocket and wrote down the figure with a blue ballpoint.

  “Second, we’re asking that Gothic reissue each of Mr. Green’s two previous novels, accompanying each release with a further half million dollar promotional campaign.”

  “Half a million each, or half a million for both of ’em?”

  “Half a million each,” said Linda. “Furthermore—”

  “Just a minute,” said Fassbinder, “I can’t write that fast. Each. Okay, what else?”

  “Third, compensation for personal suffering, loss of income and professional standing. Figuring conservatively, I’d estimate two million dollars.”

  “Two million,” said Fassbinder, writing down the number. “Okay, anything else?”

  “I can’t think of anything,” said Linda. “Mack?”

  “That covers it, more or less.”

  “All rightee,” said Fassbinder. “Let’s see, one million five hundred thousand for publicity, another two million in damages, that comes to, check me on this now, three million, five hundred thousand.”

  “Exactly,” said Linda. “Of course, the money for publicity is really an investment. Mack’s books will make that much and more if they aren’t being intentionally sabotaged. So it’s really considerably less. Chicken feed for a man like you.”

  “Well now,” said Fassbinder. “Supposing I just kick your asses out of here? Then what?”

  “Then things get messy,” said Linda in a matter-of-fact tone. “We go to court, in Oriole, where the demographics pretty much ensure us a black-and-brown jury—if you don’t know what that means, check with Lang—and we’ll see how a group of unemployed auto workers and welfare mothers feel about a big New York company trying to ruin a local boy’s life. Believe me, it’ll cost you a hell of a lot more than what we’re asking.”

  “If you’re so blamed sure, why don’t you take me to court?” asked Fassbinder.

  “Turn me down and I will,” said Linda.

  “What about the goddamn chicken boycott?”

  “I think I might be able to influence Minister Malik to reconsider,” said Mack. “We’
re old friends.”

  “I get the picture,” said Fassbinder. “You two stay right here, I want to talk to Lang.”

  “Take your time,” said Linda, glancing at the bookshelves. “We’ll browse while we wait.”

  Fassbinder was back within five minutes, accompanied by a grim-faced Carter Lang.

  “Okay,” said Fassbinder, “you got a deal. The papers and a check will be ready by the end of the week.”

  “Of course we’ll need a release from further claims,” said Lang. “And a confidentiality agreement.”

  “Of course,” said Linda. “Nobody’s looking for publicity here.”

  “I have one question,” said Mack. “Just out of curiosity, what are you going to do about Wolfowitz?”

  “Don’t worry about him,” said the old man, a look of pure malice on his mottled face. “By the time I get through with him, Arthur Wolfowitz is going to be one dead duck.”

  Thirty

  McClain was waiting at the Waldorf when they returned, anxious to hear an account of the meeting at Gothic. Linda told the story, and when she came to the part about Roy Ray’s tirade, McClain laughed so hard he turned red.

  “Flavor-faking, no-good-for-baking,” he sputtered in his east side accent. “Baby-dying, race-denying. I wish I could have been there. How did Wolfowitz take his ass-kicking?”

  “Not too bad,” said Linda, with a smile. “Considering he’s unemployed and Louise has probably changed the locks already.”

  “You really think she’ll leave him?” asked Joyce.

  “In a minute,” said Linda.

  “A minute would give her time to pack,” said Green. “Losing his career and his wife in one day. I almost feel sorry for him.”

  “The man tried to ruin your life,” said Linda. “In my opinion, he’s getting off easy.”

  McClain stared at his napkin. “A guy like Wolfowitz, you never know what nasty little surprises might still catch up with him.”

  “Speaking of surprises,” said Joyce, “in all the excitement I forgot to give you this.” She took a small package from her purse.

  “It’s from Packer,” said Mack. “I recognize the handwriting.”

  “No return address,” said McClain.

  Mack noticed that the envelope had been opened. It contained an audiocasette.

  “I’ve got a recorder, if you want to hear it,” said Linda.

  Mack slipped the tape into the small machine. After a moment they heard the sound of sharp inhalation, a cough and then Buddy Packer’s flat, sardonic voice. “Hey, Macky, what’s happening? It’s just past noon and I’m still in bed. Here on my right is the lovely Juanita. Next to me on my left is her sister Juanita. It’s Juanita season down here—”

  “Your best friend,” said Linda.

  “—and they’re biting. All you have to do is use the right bait which I’ve got, thanks to Reggie. Not a bad fo-ray, if I do say so myself.” There was the sound of another toke, another cough and then, “I’m getting a toe-lick from one of the Juanitas, so I’ll make this quick. Irish Willie’s got a championship bout in Detroit next month and he needs me in his corner. I figure by now McClain’s taken care of Reggie. I’ll call you on the twenty-third over at Uncle John and Aunt Jemima’s, just to make sure, and then I’ll be back for a few drinks and a few laughs. Viva la Gamers!”

  Mack looked at Joyce. “The twenty-third was the day we left for New York,” he said. “I wonder why he didn’t call.”

  “Oh, he called,” said Joyce. “I talked to him.”

  “You did? Did you tell him the coast was clear?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Well, what did you tell him?”

  “That you had disappeared,” said Joyce sweetly. “And that there was a warrant out for his arrest.”

  • • •

  That night, after a long nap, they all went to the Flying Tiger to celebrate. It was a little before nine when they arrived and the place was almost empty. The jukebox was playing Edwin Starr’s “Agent Double O Soul” and Otto was leaning against the old-fashioned cash register, watching a Knicks game on the silent television. He smiled broadly when he spotted Mack. “Hiya kid, how’d it go?” he said.

  “Great, thanks to you,” said Mack.

  “I never trusted that Russo,” said Otto. “He was in here this afternoon, by the way. Wanted me to tell you he was getting out of the agent business.”

  “Maybe he’s going back to the priesthood.”

  “Chaplain in a casino, maybe,” said Otto.

  “Yeah, well. Say hello to some friends from Michigan.”

  Otto came from behind the bar and shook hands all around. “What about you?” he asked Mack. “You back for good?”

  “Just until tomorrow. Then we’re flying out to Oriole. That’s home now.”

  “In that case, first drink’s on the house,” said Otto without evident emotion. “What’ll it be?”

  McClain and Linda ordered scotch on the rocks, Joyce a Campari-and-soda. “I’ll have a cold Heineken,” Mack said, watching Otto’s eyebrows rise.

  “Turned into a beer drinker out there, eh?”

  “Cutting down on the hard stuff,” Mack said. “Just to give my liver a little rest. And bring us some menus. I want to show these tourists what real New York greasy-spoon fare tastes like.”

  “Drinks and grease coming up,” said Otto.

  “Good man,” observed McClain when the bartender left them. “Not your type, hotshot. He seems like a normal human being.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I like this place,” said Linda, surveying the dingy barroom. “It’s not exactly the Russian Tea Room, but it suits you. Sort of funky.”

  “That’s me, funky,” said Mack. “I’m a blue-collar writer.”

  “Not after today,” said McClain. “You just moved into the upper classes.”

  The food arrived, McClain ordered a second round of drinks and Mack went over to the jukebox and put in a handful of quarters. “See if you remember this one,” he said. The Chantels’ “Maybe” came on and he held out his hand to Linda. She rose, stepped into his arms and they began to dance slowly in the narrow aisle. Behind the bar, Otto Kelly smiled—he hadn’t seen Green dance in years—but Mack didn’t notice. He had his eyes closed as he softly sang the words in Linnie’s ear. “May-ay-be, if I pray, every day, you will come back to me—”

  “Are you trying to seduce me with that crooning?” Linda laughed.

  “I want you back, Linnie,” said Mack.

  “I’m already back,” said Linda. “Did you forget last night? And this morning?”

  “I’m not talking about that. You still haven’t said you’ll marry me.”

  “And live happily ever after? Is that the way this story’s supposed to end?”

  “Aw, Linnie, not that again—”

  “Open your eyes, Mack,” said Linda. When he did, he saw the crooked pirate grin on her face. “I was kidding. Okay, I’ll think about it.”

  “But you’ll probably say yes, right? Eventually?”

  They danced for a while in silence, Linda rubbing her cheek against Mack’s chest. Finally she looked up at him and smiled. “Yeah, maybe, Mackinac,” she sighed. “Maybe.”

  As they were getting ready to leave, just before eleven, Mack saw a group of the young writers come in. They nodded to him and he returned their vague greetings; he recognized a few faces, but didn’t know a single name.

  Mack took out his checkbook and walked over to the bar. “We’re out of here, Otto,” he said. “I’ll come by next time I’m in New York.”

  “Nice to see you looking so happy,” Otto said. “That girlfriend of yours is a beauty.”

  “Yeah, she is, isn’t she?” said Mack. “We’re getting married.”

  “Congratulations,” said Otto.

  “You got a pen?”

  “Does Sam have Dave?” He smiled and produced a ballpoint. Mack took it and wrote Otto a check for five thousand dollars.

 
; “What the hell’s this for? You don’t owe me any money,” said the bartender, staring at the check.

  “It’s a scholarship fund from an old grad,” said Mack. “For writers who are waiting for a great idea. Just tell them to hang in there, something will come up. And that in the meantime, the drinks are on the Oriole Kid.”

  For Lisa, with love

  ALSO BY ZEV CHAFETS

  Double Vision

  Heroes and Hustlers, Hard Hats and Holy Men

  Members of the Tribe

  Devil’s Night: And Other True Tales of Detroit

  Inherit the Mob

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ZEV CHAFETS was born in Pontiac, Michigan, and moved to Israel at the age of twenty in 1967. He is the author of Inherit the Mob; Double Vision; Heroes and Hustlers; Hard Hats and Holy Men; Members of the Tribe; and Devil’s Night: And Other True Tales of Detroit. Chafets currently lives in Tel Aviv, Israel.