Bookmaker, The (3 page)

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.”

“We
ll, 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 flig
ht 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.

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.

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.