The Bookmakers (17 page)

“I really have to get up early,” she said. “But don’t feel bad, you’re not missing out. I never make it with a guy on the first date, no matter how much I like him. Only tramps do it on numero uno.”

“Yeah, I don’t do it on the first date, either,” said Mack.

“You don’t?” said Debbie, her eyes widening. “Oh, you’re just kidding.” She pinched Mack’s cheek and slid into the driver’s seat. “Give me a call over the weekend. I don’t have any rules about numero dos.”

“Dos?”

“Yeah, like the beer,” she said, pleased with her witticism. “Will you call me?”

“Sure,” said Mack. “Absolute. Like the vodka.”

Mack went inside and rejoined Packer and Jean. “Struck out, eh?,” Buddy said with a nasty grin.

“Nah, we did it in the parking lot,” said Mack.

“Debbie doesn’t sleep around on the first date,” Jean said.

Mack nodded. “She mentioned that.”

“Only tramps do it on the first date,” said Jean loyally.

“What does that make you then?” asked Packer.

“That’s different,” said Jean, flushing. “I meant with a stranger. I already knew who you were.”

Packer looked at his watch. “I’ve got someplace to be,” he said. “Drink up and I’ll drop you both off.”

“You going to see that African friend of yours?” Jean said, losing a little of her genteel manner.

“He’s not an African, he’s just got an African name,” said Packer.

“Everybody you know’s got some kind of weird name,” said Jean. “Present company excepted,” she added, smiling at Mack.

“Roy Ray?” Mack asked Packer.

“Yeah, he’s in town.”

“I’d love to see him. Can I come along?”

“He doesn’t socialize with white people.”

“I don’t want to take him to the prom, I just want to say hello. Besides, who are you, Kunte Kinte?”

“This is business.”

“It’s business for me, too,” said Mack. “Something I could use, maybe.”

Packer thought for a moment and then nodded. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “Maybe we can both get something out of it.”

• • •

Packer dropped Jean at home and then drove through downtown Oriole to a small wooden church only a few blocks from his gym. As they pulled up, a uniformed chauffeur was languidly wiping the dust from a Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud. “This is it,” said Packer, parking behind the Rolls. “Check out the royal chariot.”

Packer led Mack into the building, which smelled of incense and wax, through a long hallway into a large, shelf-lined room filled with exotic-looking merchandise—colorful robes, red-tassled fezzes, wooden masks and African artifacts. There were also books on sale, all written by Abijamin Malik, and cassettes of his recorded sermons. Off the room was a small office where a staid woman in a white robe and turban sat typing at a computer. She greeted Packer with an African salutation and a smile. “You can go right in,” she said. “Minister Malik is expecting you.”

“You wait here,” Packer told Mack. He entered the room without knocking. There, behind a brilliantly polished rosewood desk, sat a large, ebony-colored man wearing a flowing silk robe and a fez.

“You’re late,” he said.

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” said Packer. “A mystery guest.”

Malik scowled. “This is a private meeting.”

“It’ll just take a minute.” Packer leaned out the open doorway and signaled for Mack to join them.

Mack walked into the room with a broad grin on his face. “Hey, Roy Ray,” he said.

Malik’s face lit up in a broad smile. He rose, extended both hands in a gesture of welcome and took Mack by the shoulders. They stood for a moment, beaming at each other, and then Malik took Mack’s right hand and stroked the palm with two fingers. Mack recoiled slightly and Malik gave a deep, full-throated laugh. “That’s our special greeting,” he said. “It means you’re among friends. What on earth are you doing in Oriole?”

“Working on a book,” said Mack. “I’m an author.”

“I know,” said Malik, the slow, formal cadence he lent to the words sounding like it was borrowed from James Earl Jones.

“When Buddy told me who you were, I couldn’t believe it,” said Mack. “Is it all right if I call you Roy Ray?” Malik nodded. “I mean, I’ve been reading about you, I see your signs all over the place and I had no idea it was you. ARCH. I don’t even know what it stands for.”

“The African Racial Church of Holiness,” said Roy Ray. “ARCH. Incorporated.” Mack thought he detected a slight twitch at the corners of the minister’s mouth. “We’ve got ninety-one congregations across the country. The mother church is in Harlem.”

“And you’re the head? Of all of them?”

“He owns them,” said Packer.

“You own ninety-one churches?”

“Only God owns the church. I merely collect His rent.”

“From the looks of that Rolls out front, you must be collecting heavy duty,” said Mack.

“ ‘The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof,’ ” intoned Malik. “Can I offer you gentlemen some refreshment?”

“I could use a drink,” said Mack. “This is amazing.”

“We don’t indulge in alcoholic beverages,” said Malik with heavy dignity. “Alcoholic beverage, white man’s leverage. Perhaps you’d care for a glass of African carrot juice. We manufacture it ourselves. It’s called Archade.”

“It’s Kool-Aid,” said Packer. “They just change the label. I’d skip it if I were you.”

Malik ignored the remark. “We should get together some time in New York,” he said, handing Mack a gold-embossed business card. “Call me when you get back to the city.”

“Sure,” said Mack. “I’d like to hear you preach some time.”

“I’m afraid not,” said Malik. “Our services are racially exclusive. My people need to be free to express their true selves, especially in church. Bring a white man around and black folks start acting like they’re on
The Cosby Show
.”

Mack shrugged. “Maybe. But I’ve been living with a mixed couple—you remember Derrick Milton? His mother married an Irish ex-cop named John McClain—and I’d say it looks like a pretty good relationship.”

“Race-mixing leads to race-nixing,” said Malik with doctrinal finality.

“You really believe that?”

“It’s one of the four pillars of my Church,” he said. “Racial purity, daily prayer, tithing and economic justice. We’re the Church that takes the ‘boy’ out of boycott.”

“And puts the black in blackmail,” said Packer. “Lookit, Roy Ray, we’ve got to talk. Mack, you wait in the other room, okay?”

Mack sat in the outer office leafing through an ARCH publication he found on the coffee table. He was reading an article about the Nigerian origins of the British royal family when the door to Malik’s private office opened and Packer emerged, a sullen look on his face. He gestured to Mack to follow, and walked out of the church with long, angry strides.

“Problems?” Mack asked.

“Fucking asshole,” snapped Packer.

“What happened?”

“He was going to take a piece of Irish Willie, but he backed out. Says it would be bad for his image if it gets out he’s doing business with a white man.”

“It probably would,” said Mack. He wondered if the piece of Irish Willie Roy Ray had turned down was the same one Packer had offered him, and how many pieces the fighter had been divided into already.

“He was shucking and jiving,” said Packer, “trying to get a bigger slice. Imagine, him trying to bullshit me. Jesus, Macky, it’s not fucking fair. I’m scrambling around for a measly twenty-five thousand bucks and His Holiness in there’s running a five-million-a-year con.”

“Maybe it’s not a con.”

Packer shot Mack a sharp look. “Are you kidding? It’s a scam,
pure and simple. Roy Ray’s a Gamer. The man’s a master fucking humbug, just like the rest of us.”

“The rest of us? You including me?”

“Anybody earns his living making up stories is a bullshit artist,” said Packer. “I mean that as a compliment.”

“I’m sure you do,” said Mack. “So, you don’t think he really hates white people?”

“Naw,” said Packer, cupping his hands against the wind as he lit a Lucky. “Why should he? He’s making a fucking fortune off ’em. Whips up the natives, gets them to boycott some company and then sells ’em out to whitey. Shit, I should have been born black. I’d be a fucking trillionaire by now.”

“Yeah, a tough break,” said Mack, amused and a little surprised. He had never heard Packer feel sorry for himself like this before.

“Listen, Macky, I know you’ve got twenty-five thousand bucks. You don’t want to invest, loan it to me. I’ll pay it back with interest in two, three months.”

“Sorry,” said Mack. “I can manage a couple thousand if you need it—”

“Fuck a couple thousand,” said Packer, walking toward his T-Bird. Suddenly he turned to Mack and thrust a bony finger into his chest. “What about the article?”

“What article?”

“The one you said you’d do on Irish Willie for
Sports Illustrated
. You forget?”

“I didn’t forget,” lied Mack. “I pitched it to an editor and he said he’d get back to me on it.”

“Yeah, get back to you,” said Packer. “Everybody’s bullshitting me today.” He unlocked the car with an angry twist of the key, climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition. Mack stood on the curb, waiting for him to open the door on the passenger side. Packer cracked the window an inch or two and said, “You and Roy Ray were made for each other, you know that? You’re a couple of ungrateful front-runners.”

“Come on, Packy, open up,” said Mack, trying the locked door.

Packer peered at him through his granny glasses and put the car into gear. “Walk home, front-runner,” he said and peeled out, leaving Mack alone on the curb.

“Hey, come back here,” he called out. Roy Ray’s chauffeur turned and stared at him for a moment and then went back to wiping dust off the Silver Cloud. Mack headed up the block, right past the blue Mitsubishi parked farther down the street. There was a man sitting in the car, but Mack was too mad to notice. Even if he had, it wouldn’t have mattered. He had never seen Arlen Nashua in his life.

Douglas Floutie liked to think of Gothic Books as a publishing house with rich traditions; and none, in his view, was richer than the annual Thanksgiving party. It was held on the Tuesday before the holiday, and its guest list included editors, authors, literary agents and other members of what Floutie referred to as “our creative family.” Refreshments were, inflexibly, sherry, rum punch and Stilton cheese; entertainment consisted of an oration-length greeting by Floutie; and attendance, at least for the Gothic editorial staff, was mandatory.

Wolfowitz didn’t usually enjoy social gatherings, but he eagerly anticipated each Thanksgiving reception. It gave him an annual opportunity to witness several hundred of the most influential people in American publishing squirm as Douglas Floutie made an ass of himself—thereby buttressing the generally held opinion that credit for Gothic’s prosperity belonged to its editor in chief rather than to its pompous publisher.

This year Wolfowitz was in an especially good mood. Earlier that day Horton had agreed to write his own version of
Diary of a Dying Man
, based on the outline Wolfowitz had prepared—an outline culled from the chapters McClain had been sending him. “Of course this isn’t my usual way of working,” Horton said, “but these aren’t usual circumstances, I’m afraid.”

“I’m afraid not,” Wolfowitz agreed. Eventually Horton would realize that the book he had written had been based on Mack Green’s novelized diary, but it didn’t matter. He owned Walter T. Horton. “Listen, take good care of yourself,” he said.

“Why, thank you, Arthur,” said Horton, smiling wanly.

Wolfowitz didn’t return the smile. “I want the book finished on time,” he said. “Make sure it is.”

It had been a good morning’s work, thought Wolfowitz as he scanned the crowd, catching sight of Louise talking animatedly to several of the younger editors. He felt no pangs of jealousy or suspicion: Louise was still a beautiful woman, but time had dampened her appetite for sexual adventure. What she hungered for now was fame and professional esteem. Since
Village Idiots
, she had written (and Gothic had published) five novels and two volumes of short stories. The books all sold well, and the Gothic PR people saw to it that she got more than her share of talk-show appearances and interviews. The Thanksgiving party, where Louise could see influential critics and editors sucking up to her husband, served as a useful reminder of how crucial he had been, and still was, to her ambitions.

“Surveying your empire, Arthur? Or just counting the house?”

“Hello, Dorothy,” said Wolfowitz. He didn’t bother smiling or opening his hands in his usual gesture of warmth; Dorothy Ravitsky had long since decoded his ersatz body language and was annoyingly immune to it.

“Brad Knox told me you’re enthusiastic about his idea for promoting
The Big Book of Smiths
,” she said.

“A brilliant gimmick,” said Wolfowitz. “One that I might not have thought of, but—”

“Jesus, Arthur, a launch party in Smith City, Kansas?”

“The exact geographical center of the United States,” said Wolfowitz in a fair imitation of Bradley Knox’s pedantic tone.