The Bookmakers (12 page)

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing. I was just bored by this massacre,” said McClain, not at all embarrassed. “Tell me something about this book of
yours. You already have the story or are you just making it up as you go along?”

“Little of both,” said Mack. He was bored with the game, too, but he didn’t feel like discussing
The Diary of a Dying Man
. Ever since the
Light Years
debacle, he had a superstitious reluctance to talk about a work in progress.

“You going to write it in Oriole?”

“Depends,” said Mack. “I’m not sure what I’m looking for yet.”

“How long you figure on staying?”

“Couple weeks, at least. Maybe more.”

McClain knitted his large brow and cleared his throat powerfully. “In that case I’ve got a proposition for you,” he said. “Joyce and I had a talk after you went to bed last night. What we were thinking was, maybe you’d like to stay with us while you’re in town. There’s plenty of room, it’s nice and quiet and nobody’d bother you. Most of the time we’re not even home.”

“I couldn’t do that,” said Green. “I mean, it’s great of you, but—”

“You’d be a hell of a lot more comfortable than at the Hilton.”

“I can’t just move in with you because you happen to be living in the house I grew up in.”

“Bull crap,” boomed McClain jovially. “We wouldn’t ask if we didn’t mean it. This isn’t New York, buster. People say what’s on their minds around here. Especially me.”

“You’re tempting me,” said Mack. If coming back to Oriole had been an inspired literary tactic, living in his old house with characters like John and Joyce McClain would be a gold mine. He had to admit, too, that he was flattered by McClain’s obvious excitement—it had been a long time since he had been treated like a celebrity. And then there was the cozy feeling he had had falling asleep in his own room—he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so comfortably secure. “But I’m not a kid anymore.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I’ve got bad habits. You might not appreciate a houseguest who drinks and smokes and stays out late.”

McClain grunted with amusement. “I ain’t Father Flanagan,” he said. “You want to drink, drink. You want to smoke, do it in your room with the window open or in the basement, same as me. As far as staying out late, you get a key, come and go whenever you feel like it. If you want to get laid, try a hotel.”

“You’ve got this all figured out,” said Mack. “How do you know I’m not an ax-murderer.”

“The Oriole Kid? Besides, I used to be a cop, remember? I know something about people. Joyce does, too. Fact is, she’s a lot smarter than me, but don’t tell her I said that. Another thing I know is that you aren’t going to be comfortable freeloading. A room at the Hilton costs ninety-two fifty a night, I checked. So I figured three hundred bucks a week, room and board, and you won’t feel like a mooch. How’s that sound?”

“Ah, so that’s why you’ve been wining and dining me,” said Mack, laughing. “You’re in it for the money.”

“Money my ass,” snorted McClain. “You want to stay for free, fine, no problem. I was thinking about you, that’s all.”

“I was kidding,” said Mack.

“Well, as long as you brought it up, I do happen to have an ulterior motive. The holidays are rough on Joyce now that Derrick X is boycotting her. For some strange reason she took a shine to you last night. It’d be good for her to have a young guy around the place.”

“I liked her, too,” said Mack. He paused. “Since you’re being honest, I want you to know that the book I’m working on is going to be based on my experiences out here, which means you’ll both probably wind up in it. Of course I wouldn’t use your real names, but—”

“Why the hell not?” demanded McClain. “You could do a lot worse than me for a hero, I’ll tell ya that right now. I’ve got some stories you wouldn’t believe.”

“Seriously, would it be a problem?”

“Depends on what you write, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know yet,” said Mack. “I’m just getting started.”

“Would you let me see what you say about us? I don’t give a damn about myself, but the stuff about Joyce?”

Mack paused, considering, and then slowly shook his head. “I never show anybody what I’m working on until it’s finished,” he said. “When I’m done, if there’s something you really don’t like, we can talk about it. But I can’t promise that I’ll change anything.”

McClain let his gaze wander back to the court, saw a rookie guard throw a pass into the seats, winced and turned back to Mack. “Yeah, all right, it’s a deal,” he said, extending his hand. “That’s the cop in me, snap judgments. Make a note of that, hotshot; you gonna write about Big John McClain, you got to start paying attention.”

The McClain household was an orderly place, dominated by routine and habit. Breakfast was served at 8:30. By 9:00, Joyce was already on her way to her various volunteer activities, while John headed to the Elks for a day of bowling, poker, pool and shooting the breeze. Joyce returned at 4:30 and began cooking; John got home by five. They chatted over cocktails (John, two large scotch-and-waters, Joyce, two weak Campari-and-sodas), then sat down to dinner, which Joyce called supper and which was never less than superb, at 6:00. Afterward they watched television in the living room. At 11:00, McClain rose and announced that he was going to lock up and by 11:15 they were in bed.

Weekends were equally predictable. Saturday mornings John did odd jobs around the house while Joyce prepared elaborate dishes to be defrosted during the week. In the afternoon they took a drive into the countryside and walked for an hour or so. Saturday
nights, Mack was pretty sure, they made love. His room was just down the hall from theirs, and he overheard the sounds of their passion with the same slightly prurient fascination he had once derived from eavesdropping on his parents.

On Sunday mornings, Joyce attended a Holiness church on the east side. McClain, a lapsed Catholic, stayed home and read the papers. After lunch John watched sports on TV while Joyce took a nap. Supper was cold cuts. Sunday night they went to the movies, came home, went to bed and then began the cycle all over again the following day.

The McClains were relaxed hosts who let Mack know that he was welcome to join them when he chose and to keep to himself if he liked. Under their influence he adopted an uncharacteristically settled routine of his own. He slept late, drank his morning coffee alone and then spent days in his room, working on the
Diary
.

“How’s it coming?” McClain asked at dinner one night, a week or so after Mack moved in.

“Not bad,” said Mack happily; it had been years since he had written so confidently, so easily. “I’ve already got the first three chapters finished.”

“That’s exciting,” said Joyce, passing him a platter of fried chicken.

“Probably a lot of stuff in there about me,” said McClain, missing casual by an octave.

“Oh, I don’t know, there might be a mention or two, I forget.”

“How about a little peek? Just to make sure you’re capturing the real me—”

“Nope,” Mack said. “I’m not even showing it to my editor, and I promised him I would.”

“Why not?” asked Joyce. “I mean, if you promised—”

“I once made the mistake of showing him an unfinished book and it threw me off for years. Besides, this isn’t the kind of thing that benefits from other people’s input. It’s too personal.”

“Well, you keep on keeping on, young man,” said Joyce. “Detective McClain will restrain his curiosity. Won’t you, dear?”

“Yes, dear,” said McClain.

Joyce winked at Mack and he smiled. Lately he had begun to imagine himself as a teenager again, and the conceit was finding its way into the
Diary
—the hero as a suicidal middle-aged author improbably adopted by a pair of affectionate strangers.

“By the way, I’m going out tonight,” he said.

“Hot date?” asked McClain, who had already wondered aloud several times in the past few days why a young guy like Mack would want to hang around the house when he could be out on the town.

“Not exactly. I’m meeting Buddy Packer. I called him this afternoon.”

“Packer,” McClain said, scowling. He seemed poised to add something more, but Joyce interrupted.

“You have a good time and don’t pay John any mind; nobody appointed him social director around here.”

“Packer’s trouble,” said McClain. “That’s all I’m saying.”

“That’s the whole point,” said Mack with a broad smile. “I’m looking for trouble.”

When Mack had called Packer, earlier that day, a woman had answered with a three-syllable hello, like a telephone operator in an old-time movie.

“Hi,” said Green, “is Buddy Packer there?”

“No, he is not,” she said with wary formality.

Although it was a weekday, it had never occurred to Mack that Buddy might be at work. “Any idea when he’ll be back? I’m an old friend of his, Mack Green? I’m here in town and I wanted to say hello.”

“Mack Green?
The
Mack Green? Just a minute, I think he may have just come in.” Mack heard her muffled voice and then Buddy Packer came on the line.

“Yeah?” he said in an expressionless tone.

“Yeah yourself. It’s me, Mack.”

“You gotta be shittin’ me. Where the hell are you?”

“Fifty-two Berkley Street, top floor, corner room.”

“What is this, some kind of time-warp thing, like on
Twilight Zone
?”

“Hey, you sound just like yourself,” said Mack.

“Who’d you think I’d sound like, William F. Buckley? Come on, where are you?”

“Like I said, Oriole, at my folks’ old place. It’s a long story. I’ll explain when I see you.”

“How long you been in town?”

“A while. The guy I’m staying with, an ex-cop named McClain—he’s the one who busted us that night with the Red Cross card, remember?—he got me your number.”

“You’re staying with John McClain?” Buddy’s voice was flat, giving nothing away.

“Yeah. You know him?”

“We’ve had some dealings,” said Packer. Mack waited, but Buddy didn’t add an explanation. “Who answered the phone?” Mack asked.

“Name’s Jean,” said Packer.

“Your wife?”

“Nope. Squeeze. No big thing.”

“Jesus, Packy, there’s so much I want to catch up on. Can you get out, meet me someplace?”

“Yeah, I can get out,” said Packer dryly. “Why don’t you drop by my office tonight around nine. Seventy-six Larimore, off Monroe on the east side. Think you can find it?”

“Found tougher places,” said Mack, lapsing into the terse rhythm of Buddy Packer’s speech.

“Fine,” said Packer, hanging up without saying good-bye.

Now, on the way over to Buddy’s place, navigating instinctively through streets he hadn’t driven since boyhood, Mack vividly
recalled the last time he had heard from Packer. It had been almost ten years ago, when an unlabeled cassette had turned up in his mail in New York. Mack put it on and immediately recognized Buddy’s fuck-you monotone.

“It’s Monday morning, the sun is shining, the birds are shitting and I’m gunning my T-bird down the driveway,” said Packer without preamble. This was followed by the sharp hiss of a joint being inhaled, twenty seconds of silence and the sound of exhaling. “I’m driving up the street to the corner and taking a left past the Texaco station. Now I’m heading east, driving in the right lane. On my right is a Burger King. Coming up is a Roy Fucking Rogers …”

The entire first side of the tape had gone that way, a travelogue in real time of Buddy Packer’s trip to someplace. Mack had flipped the tape to find out what it was all about, heard the sound of another giant toke and then: “It’s five o’clock and I’m heading home,” followed by a forty-five-minute account of the drive back. There had been no explanation, but Mack had understood; Buddy was telling him that he was still alive and still cool which, for him, amounted to the same thing.

Their friendship had begun one Tuesday afternoon in the winter of Mack’s junior year in high school, when Packer had accosted him at his locker. “I’ve been wondering about you, Green,” he said in his flat, nasal voice.

“Wondering about me?” said Mack. Packer had never even spoken to him before. He was a dark legend, the leader of the Gamers, a collection of misfits not popular enough to be in a fraternity, not square enough to be in a car club and far too weird to belong to a conventional gang. Mack, an honors student, varsity basketball star and son of one of Oriole’s best families, had long been fascinated by Packer; it had never occurred to him that the interest might be mutual.

“Yeah,” said Packer. “Wondering if you’re game. I think you might be.”

“Game as the next guy,” said Mack, at once flattered and intimidated.

“Let’s find out,” said Packer. “Meet me on your corner tomorrow morning at seven.”

“Seven in the morning? What for?”

“I got a fo-ray coming up,” said Packer, walking off in his odd, camellike slope.

At seven Mack had been on the corner, shivering in the cold January air, when Packer drove up in his red Impala. A Lucky Strike was clasped between his thin lips, and dark glasses hid his eyes. Mack climbed in the car, coughed away the smoke fumes and held on tight as Packer peeled rubber down Berkley Street.