The Bookmakers (24 page)

“She should have told you to use a napkin,” said Linda, affectionately wiping mustard off his chin.

Mack let his gaze wander around Buster’s, which was full of high school kids and college students on winter break. “Brings back memories,” he said.

“Nothing brings them back,” said Linda. “Jesus, I feel like a faculty supervisor in here.”

“Anybody ever tell you you’re an unsentimental broad?” said Mack with a smile.

“As a matter of fact, yes. Anybody ever tell you you’re corny? Roller-skating and Buster’s.”

“Our first date.”

“I remember,” she said, taking his hand.

“Don’t you think we’ve been going steady long enough?”

“You mean you want to break up? Date other people? Make sure we’re right for each other?”

“You know what I mean,” said Mack. “Let’s get married for a change.”

“I don’t think so,” said Linda gently. Mack waited for the punchline, but there was none. “That’s it?” he said finally. “Just, I don’t think so?”

“Let’s leave things the way they are,” she said.

“Come on, Linnie, this is a serious proposal.”

“And this is a serious refusal.”

“Because you don’t love me?”

“No, I love you. I’m even in love with you. The problem is, I don’t trust you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Let me ask you a question. Have you been writing about us? In the novel you won’t show me?”

“Sure,” said Mack. “Not literally, but the basic story, yeah. Nobody will recognize you, if that’s what you mean. Any objections?”

“I object to being used.”

“Used? For what?”

“For research, drama, whatever you want to call it. What happens when the Mack Green character meets the high school heartthrob character after twenty years. Isn’t that how it’s going to read?”

“Okay, I’m an author, shoot me,” said Mack. “I use reality to create fiction.”

“I’m not sure what’s real to you and what isn’t,” said Linda, idly pushing her fries around the plate. “I don’t think you know yourself. Everything’s a plot to you, everybody’s a character.”

“That’s not—”

“You said yourself you’re staying with the McClains because it’s a great situation—”

“Yes, but I genuinely—”

“Let me finish, I’m telling you something and I want you to hear it. Remember you told me about that kid mugging you in New York? You thought it was such a great story, but all I could think was, here’s a guy whose life is in danger and he sees it as a scene in a novel. You don’t get more detached from reality than that.”

“It was a momentary thing,” said Mack. “A fluke.”

“No it wasn’t,” said Linda. “You talk about your life like a saga. You’re the Oriole Kid. You call your editor Stealth, your agent is Father Tommy, McClain’s Big John. Nobody’s a person, everyone’s a character. And so am I. I’m Linda Birney, the Beautiful Blond Who Broke the Oriole Kid’s Heart.”

“You’re the one who’s being dramatic,” Mack said. “Sure I see the world in terms of stories, that’s what writers do. But it doesn’t mean I’m, what did you call it? Detached from reality.”

“Really? Just now, when I told you I wouldn’t marry you, didn’t you, in some part of your mind, think about how you would use it in the novel?”

“That’s ridiculous—”

“You should see the look on your face,” said Linda.

“You’re scaring me, Linnie. I don’t want to lose you again. I mean that.”

“Okay. Stay in Oriole, get a real job and I’ll marry you.”

“Maybe you want me to have my nose done while I’m at it,” said Mack.

“Those are my conditions. Take ’em or leave ’em.”

“You’re serious? You want me to live in Oriole?”

“Why not? You grew up here. Where did you think we’d live?”

“In New York.”

“And what would I do there? Besides cooking and cleaning, that is?”

“You could be a lawyer. Or open another record store—”

“In other words, change my life for you. Why shouldn’t you change yours for me?”

“I don’t belong in Oriole,” said Mack. “I’m a New York guy. What would I do here?”

“Go to work for the
News
,” said Linda. “Teach writing at the university. There are plenty of things.”

“You want me to write for
The Oriole News
? Linnie, I’m a major novelist. Okay, I’ve had a bad run, but when this book comes out, I’m going to be back where I belong.”

“That’s fine,” said Linda. “But you’ll be there without me.”

“I’m asking you to give up a record store, you’re asking me to give up my life,” said Mack. “It’s not reasonable.”

“I know that,” Linda said, taking a last sip of her root beer and signaling the waitress for the check.

“I can’t do it,” said Mack. “No matter how much you mean to me.”

“I know that, too.”

“Well, if you know so goddamned much, what else do you know?” said Mack, suddenly furious.

“I know I love you,” she said quietly.

“Jesus, I can’t believe it. I’m getting dumped by you again.”

“Nobody’s dumping you, Mackinac. You want me, you got me. But me, not some fictional character. And the real me lives here now.”

“So if I say no, it’s all over?”

“Hey, you’re the one who brought up marriage, remember? I’m happy the way things are.”

“You really are cold-blooded.”

“What I am is grown-up. And if you want to be with me, you’re going to have to grow up, too.”

Mack came home and retreated to his room, working and drinking more or less continuously for three days. He emerged only to get another bottle or to fix himself an occasional sandwich. McClain cornered him on one of his excursions to the refrigerator.

“I haven’t seen Linda lately,” he observed.

“If you miss her, give her a call,” said Mack morosely.

“Lovers’ quarrel? Hey, it happens, hotshot. You know how many times me and Joyce broke up and got back together?”

“I forget,” said Mack.

“You can’t just sit around here and mope.”

“As it happens, I’m working. But if you want me to leave, I’ll leave.”

“Sorry I brought it up,” said McClain.

He waited until Mack went back upstairs before going to look for Joyce. “Mack’s all bent out of shape over Linda,” he told her. “We’ve got to do something.”

“Like what?”

“I think maybe I better go over there, have a talk with her.”

“You stay out of their business, John,” she said. “They don’t need any of your po-lice psychology.”

“In that case, you go,” he said. “Talk woman to her. Come on, Joyce, I’m worried again. Either you go or I do.”

“I’ll go,” Joyce said. She didn’t want to alarm her husband, but she was worried about Mack, too.

After supper she drove out to Linda’s place in West Tarryton. It was already dark and she felt uneasy; she didn’t like driving around all-white neighborhoods alone at night. The cops in West Tarryton had a habit of pulling over black drivers and hassling them. “Next time that happens, tell ’em you’re married to me,” John had instructed her, but she refused to do that. Instead she informed them that she had a constitutional right to drive on any damn street she wanted and took their badge numbers. It didn’t do any good, but it made her feel a little less helpless.

The porch light was on when Joyce pulled into the driveway, and Linda appeared in the doorway while she was walking up the front steps.

“Sorry to barge in like this,” said Joyce, handing her coat to Linda. “It was either me or a visit from Cupid McClain.”

“How is old Cupid?”

“Worried about Mack. Actually, I am too.”

“How come nobody ever worries about me?” asked Linda with a smile.

“Well, it’s different,” said Joyce. “You know.”

“Know what?”

“He was doing so well with you and now John’s afraid he might get back to where he was.”

“I’m not sure I get it.”

“His old frame of mind,” said Joyce. “The suicide thing.”

Linda stared at her for a long moment. “What suicide thing?”

Now it was Joyce’s turn to stare. “You mean John never told
you?” She shook her head. “Linda, when Mack came to town, he was thinking about committing suicide.”

“No he wasn’t,” said Linda.

“Yes he was. He was keeping a suicide diary,” said Joyce. “He’s still keeping it.”

“It’s a novel,” said Linda. “Fiction.”

“Honey, I’m sorry, but it’s no novel. I’ve seen it.”

“He showed it to you?”

“John went snooping around his room one night and found it in a desk drawer.”

“And you’ve been worried Mack was going to kill himself? In your house? Poor Joyce.”

“Listen to me, now. John talked to Mack’s editor. This isn’t any novel.”

“He talked to Wolfowitz?”

“Arthur Wolfowitz, yes.”

“And he said it wasn’t a novel?”

Joyce nodded. “He consulted with Mack’s psychiatrist, who says Mack was suicidal before he left New York. That’s why John’s so concerned now. The psychiatrist says that since you two got together there’s been a real improvement.”

“How would he know? Mack’s been here the whole time.”

“John’s been sending him pages from the diary,” Joyce said.

“Behind Mack’s back? He’s been sending Mack’s book to a shrink in New York?”

“To Wolfowitz,” said Joyce. “He’s the go-between.”

“Oh, no.”

“What?”

“John’s been had,” said Linda. “Mack promised to send pages to Wolfowitz, but he didn’t, he’s got some kind of phobia about it. He told me about the novel, but he wouldn’t even show it to me. Obviously this was Wolfowitz’s way of getting his hands on it. When John called, he saw his chance and he took it.”

“He knew all along that Mack wasn’t going to kill himself?”

Linda nodded. “He must have.”

“Then why would he go to all that trouble just to see a manuscript he was going to get anyway?”

“Beats me,” said Linda. “Curiosity, maybe. Or one of those testosterone things. Mack thinks they’re great friends, but from what he’s told me about Wolfowitz, he sounds like a creep.”

“Oh, my,” said Joyce. “We’ve made a mess, looks like.”

Linda nodded. “When you found the diary, why didn’t you just confront Mack with it?”

“John didn’t want him to know he’d been going through his things. And he was afraid, if he mentioned it, he’d scare Mack off.”

“I guess that’s why he didn’t tell me, either,” said Linda. “He was afraid it would scare me off, too.”

“I’m sorry,” said Joyce. “If I’d have known, I would have told you myself. It never occurred to me that he hadn’t.”

“Men,” said Linda.

“Men,” agreed Joyce. “Well, so what do we do?”

“You better tell Mack now,” said Linda. “He’s got a right to know.”

“I can’t,” said Joyce. “John would rather kill himself than have him find out.”

“You think he’ll care? Reality never upsets Mack. He’ll probably put the whole episode in the novel.”

“You may be right about that, but it would make John feel like a fool.”

“Well, you must admit—”

“Hold it, now,” said Joyce. “John’s no fool. He may act foolish now and again, but he’s a smart man and he’s proud. It’s hard enough for him being retired like he is. I won’t have him humiliated.”

“I’m sorry,” said Linda, taken aback by Joyce’s fierce reaction. “I like John, you know that. He did what he thought was best.”

“It’s all right,” said Joyce, softening. “Being married to a man like John can make you protective. Mack’s a lot like him in some ways. You’ll see what I mean.”

“What makes you think I’m going to marry Mack?”

Joyce narrowed her eyes in mock anger. “Don’t even try that stuff on me, girlfriend. Like my mama used to say, I been where you been and you gettin’ to where I am.”

“Well, don’t tell Mack, for God’s sake.” Linda laughed. “I hate New York.”

“I’m not going to say a word, and neither are you. About the Wolfowitz thing, either. Not to Mack and not to John. This is going to be our secret.”

“All right,” said Linda. “I guess it can’t do any harm.”

McClain stood, hands on his hips, glaring with frustrated disbelief at a seven–ten split. It was only a morning practice game at the Elks but he had been working on a possible two–twenty, and now he wouldn’t get it. He cursed loudly and kicked the ball-return rack.