The Bookmakers Read Free Page A

something about him quick.
    “Father Tomas,” said Mack, taking Russo’s hand and bowing in mock reverence. He had never lost the habit of treating Tommy with the proprietary superiority of an author for one of his characters. At one time this had annoyed Russo, but as Mack’s career slipped, he had forgiven him. The arrogance was good-natured and, Tommy thought, even a little brave, like a down-at-the-heels aristocrat sporting a fresh carnation in the lapel of a frayed suit. Russo felt a genuine affection for Mack, mixed with gratitude, pity and a nagging sense of guilt. Of course it wasn’t Tommy’s fault that Mack’s books no longer sold; there was no way he could have halted his client’s long slide down. At least that was what he told himself, and usually he could make himself believe it.
    “Sorry I’m late,” Tommy said. “The cab ran into a demonstration on Broadway. Reverend Abijamin and some of his homeboys are picketing the theater district and it tied up traffic for a mile.”
    “No enjoyment without employment!” Russo intoned. “These rhyming shakedown preachers make me want to puke.”
    “Spoken like a true man of the cloth,” said Mack. “Sit down, Tommy, have a drink. I want you relaxed when you hear my idea.”
    “Yeah, yeah, I’m relaxed,” Russo said as he took a seat at a table near the window.
    “You want to hear some music?” Mack asked, gesturing toward the jukebox. “Little Hank Ballard and the Midnighters maybe?”
    “Midnighters my ass, this is the twentieth century. Motown’s dead, in case you didn’t know.”
    “He wasn’t Motown,” said Mack. “He was from Detroit, but he wasn’t a Motown artist. He came a little earlier, around the time of Little Willie John and—”
    “Come on, Mack, I’m not in the mood for rock-and-roll 101 today. What’s on your mind?”
    “Okay, here goes. Last night I was walking home about three, all alone, and guess what happened?”
    “You got mugged,” said Russo.
    “How’d you know that?”
    “Are you kidding? What else could have happened at three in the morning in this city?”
    “Yeah, well, anyway, this kid jumps out of a doorway and pulls a gun on me—”
    “What kind of kid?”
    “How the hell do I know? I never saw him before,” said Mack. “Probably a crackhead.”
    “I meant what color,” said Russo. “What color kid?”
    “He was black,” said Mack, “but that’s not the important—”
    “Yeah, right,” said Tommy with sour irony.
    “Anyway, the kid says, ‘Give me your wallet or I’ll shoot,’ something like that. At which point, what do you think I did?”
    “Gave him the wallet,” said Russo. “What’s the point here?”
    “Like hell I did,” Mack said triumphantly. “I grabbed the gun, knocked him on his ass and sent him home.”
    “What are you, a fucking moron? You got a death wish or something?”
    “That’s just it—for one split second I did,” said Mack. “I was looking down the barrel of the gun and all I was was curious what would it feel like if he pulled the trigger. In a way I even wanted him to. You ever have a feeling like that?”
    “Hell no,” said Russo.
    “Anyway, there I am, standing in the street with the kid’s gun in my hand and all of a sudden a whole novel popped right into my head.”
    “It popped into your head,” echoed Tommy.
    “Right. It begins when this guy, a middle-aged writer, gets mugged and he suddenly realizes he doesn’t give a shit if the guy shoots him or not. Only in his case it’s not just a momentary thing, it’s real. He’s burned out, beaten down and just generally tired of living. So he decides to keep a diary about his last year on earth, sell it to a publisher for a shitload of money and then, at the end of the year, actually kill himself.”
    “Why would he need the money if he’s gonna kill himself?”
    “Let’s say he needs it for his kids. Or maybe he just wants to blow it on a last fling. The motivation will come