The Bookmakers (26 page)

“How soon do you need it?”

“Day after tomorrow will be fine,” said Reggie.

“I’ll call when I know something.”

“You can tell me in person,” said Reggie. “I’m coming out there myself.”

Reggie hung up and ran his hand over his bald head. He wasn’t worried about Packer running off with the money—a guy who looked like him would be easy to track down. When he found him he’d turn him over to Afterbirth; the little fellow loved working on tall, lanky guys.

Reggie thought for a while about Packer’s replacement. Soon he’d have the
Diary
, an unimpeachable suicide note. And with Green out of McClain’s house, almost anyone could do the job on him. Suddenly he had an inspiration. Afterbirth was too shy to mention it but Herman knew he was desperate for a promotion. Give him the chance and he’d go out to Oriole for free, turning whatever was recovered from Packer into pure profit.

There was more than just money involved in Herman’s calculation. Afterbirth was a valued subordinate who happened to have a physical disability. Helping him up a rung on the professional ladder would make him a happy man. It was a good thing to do because it was the right thing, the American thing. Herman Reggie,
the bookie thought to himself proudly, Equal Opportunity Employer.

On the opening day of the baseball season, with the Tigers scheduled to play at home against the Red Sox, Mack awoke all alone in a strange bed. The strong scent of lavender on the pillow mixed with the used bourbon fumes in his nostrils made his head spin and his stomach churn perilously. “Jesus H. Christ,” he moaned. “Where am I?”

There was no answer, just the sound of water running in a nearby shower. Painfully, he tried to reconstruct the events of the last twenty-four hours. He remembered finishing the
Diary
. He recalled slipping Wolfowitz’s and Ligget’s copies into cardboard boxes and dropping them off at Federal Express. He recollected stopping at Stanley’s for a sandwich and a few celebratory cocktails. Vaguely he remembered calling Linda, who hadn’t been home.

The water stopped and Mack struggled to sit up. He had called someone else after Linda. Packer’s girlfriend. She said Buddy was gone for good and would he like to come over. That’s where things began to go blank; he couldn’t remember his answer. Maybe that’s where he was right now, in Packer’s bed. Serve him right, Mack thought, for pulling his stupid prank on McClain.

McClain. Suddenly Mack remembered they had a date for opening day. He looked at his watch, squinting with concentration, and saw it was 10:15. McClain was supposed to pick him up at the condo in an hour.

The idea of fresh air and loud, cheering voices nauseated him. Maybe it’s raining, he thought hopefully. With a grunt he stumbled to the window, pulled back the heavy shade and got a blast of April sunlight that sent a dagger of pain through his skull. There would be a game for sure.

If he rushed he’d just make it, but first he desperately needed a cold shower. “How’s it going in there?” he called to the mystery woman in the bathroom. “You almost done?”

“Hey, you’re awake,” she answered in a high, cheerful voice he didn’t recognize. “I’ll be right out. How do you feel?”

“Terrible,” said Mack. “My head’s exploding.”

“I’ve got just the thing for that.” After a moment he heard the sound of harmonica music echoing off the bathroom walls; it was “For the Longest Time.” The song was off-key, but Mack didn’t care. He still couldn’t remember what had happened the night before, but at least he knew now who it had happened with.

Afterbirth Anderson arrived in Oriole at the wheel of a rented late-model Cadillac specially outfitted with hand controls and an elevated seat. On the passenger side he had a street map and a leather briefcase. In the case was a set of burglary tools, a pack of Necco wafers, a change of underwear and the untraceable Beretta Herman Reggie had given him that morning.

Reggie had booked a regal suite at the Pontchartrain and taken him out the night before, for a fine steak dinner and a final briefing. His instructions were simple. “All you have to do is drive out to Green’s place, get inside, make him sit down, shoot him in the head with one bullet and put the gun in his hand. Then you leave and meet me back here,” he said.

“Why does he have to be sitting down?” Afterbirth asked.

“The angle,” Reggie explained. “If you do it while he’s standing, you’ll be shooting up. This is supposed to look like a do-it-yourself job.”

“I could get up on a chair.”

“No need for that,” said Reggie. “You are who you are. Just be yourself, that’s good enough for me.”

All the way to Oriole, Afterbirth had savored those few words. They gave him a confidence and sense of worth that he hadn’t known since boyhood. If there were more men like Herman Reggie, he mused warmly, the world would be a better place, not just for midgets but for everyone.

He arrived just before eleven, parked the Caddy in the condo’s lot, took his briefcase and walked up a flight of outside stairs to the
second floor. There was no one on the street or in the yard below. He rang the bell, knocked, rang again and then deftly let himself in.

He stood in the small front hallway, listening, but there was no sound in the apartment. He made a quick inspection tour—living room, kitchen, bedroom, bathroom—saw that no one was home, and went back to the living room to wait. His gaze fell on a small footstool next to an overstuffed television chair and he smiled to himself. He wouldn’t be needing the footstool. Now that he was working for Herman Reggie full time, his climbing days were over.

McClain was standing in front of the full-length mirror in the hall, a Tiger’s cap on his head, watching himself take a few opening day swings with an air bat, when the phone rang. He whipped around and hit one last imaginary fastball on a line into deep center field for a triple, bowed to his image in the mirror and picked up the receiver. He expected Mack; instead he heard the gravelly voice of Ducky Brokowski.

“I just looked out my window and saw some little fucker break into your condo,” Ducky said.

“What kind of little fucker? You mean a kid?”

“More like a dwarf. Mean-looking mohumper with a barrel chest and a big-ass head. He’s not from around here, I can tell you that.”

McClain remembered the midget wrestler with a weird name in Reggie’s FBI file. “He’s there for Mack,” he said. “You gotta grab him.”

“Mack’s not home,” said Brokowski. “His car was gone when I got home from my shift at seven, and it’s still gone. I figure he’s shacked up someplace.”

“I was supposed to pick him up in a little while,” said McClain. “We’re going to opening day.”

“Maybe it skipped his mind,” said Brokowski. “Pussy will make a man forget baseball every time.”

“Probably he’s on his way over here.”

“Yeah. Look, John, you want me to go over and scoop this turd up for you?”

“No,” said McClain. Ducky was a good cop, but he had a tendency to shoot people, and McClain wanted to talk to the midget. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. If he tries to go, grab him, but if he stays put, leave him for me.”

In the next five minutes, McClain got halfway to the condo; Ducky sat on the toilet reading a
Free Press
story about the Tigers’ pitching rotation; and Mack came home just in time to shave, change his clothes and keep his date with McClain. He was three steps into the front hallway when he felt a hunk of hard steel thrust roughly between his legs and heard a voice from behind say, “Hands on your head, Green, or I’ll blow your balls off.” He raised his hands as the barrel prodded his scrotum. “Now, turn around slow.”

He turned and found himself looking down at Afterbirth Anderson. A rush of adrenaline cleared Mack’s head as he realized with an amazed detachment that Packer had been telling the truth after all.

“I’m not Green, you dumbfuck,” said Mack said in a calm, slightly irritated tone that shocked him; he had no idea why he had said it, or what was coming next.

“No? Then who are you?”

“I’m Detective John McClain,” said Mack. Now he understood what he was trying to do.

Afterbirth blinked in confusion. Reggie had shown him a picture of Green taken from a book jacket, but it was twenty years old. Besides, although he hadn’t admitted it to Herman, regular-sized men looked a lot alike to him. “Show me some ID,” he said.

“We don’t carry ID off-duty, Afterbirth,” said Mack, slipping easily into McClain’s gruff style.

“Hey, how’d you know my name?”

“Because Reggie sent me over here to get you, hotshot. The hit’s off.”

“I just saw Reggie two hours ago at the hotel.”

“I know that,” Mack said impatiently. “I called down there fifteen minutes after you left to tell him they picked Green up for drunk driving. He’s in the tank right now. Herman told me to get over here and send you back.”

“I thought you said you’re a cop.”

“Herman and I are old friends,” said Mack. “Business friends. I helped him set this thing up.”

“How do I know you’re not bullshitting me?” asked Anderson, his gristly features contorted in confusion.

“The hit on Green was originally supposed to be done by Buddy Packer. How would I know that unless Herman told me? Think about it.”

Suddenly they heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. “It’s Green,” Mack whispered urgently. “They must’ve let him out.”

Afterbirth looked wildly from Mack to the direction of the door. “You go in the living room and stay put,” he said, gesturing with his pistol.

Mack stepped back into the living room as McClain opened the door. He heard the midget say, “Freeze,” picked up the footstool and tiptoed in the direction of the hall.

“Hands on your head, Green,” said Afterbirth to McClain, as Mack slowly raised the stool into striking position.

“I’m not Green, you dumbfuck,” he heard McClain say.

“Nobody’s Green around here,” Afterbirth protested as Mack sprang at him from behind, bringing the footstool down on his head. The midget crumpled to the floor, his body lying between Mack and an astonished John McClain.

“Took you long enough to get here, hotshot,” snapped Mack.

McClain gave him a sharp look. “Looks like I was right about Packer,” he said.

“Yeah, it does,” said Mack, fading out of his McClain character. The hangover headache was back, pounding at the tops of his
eyes. “What do we do with him?” He nudged Afterbirth’s prone form with his foot.

“Help me get him into a chair,” said McClain. “I’m going to show you how to conduct an interrogation.”

Herman Reggie was in his suite, leafing through a copy of
Forbes
, when the phone rang. He expected Afterbirth, reporting on a job well done. Instead, a voice he didn’t know said, “Herman?”

“Who’s this?”

“Mack Green.”

“Oh?” said Herman. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“That’s what I was wondering,” said Mack. “I’m down in the bar. Why don’t you meet me and we can talk.” There was a long pause and Mack added, “I’ve got Afterbirth.”

“I’ll be down in two minutes,” Herman said.

“Good. I’ll just stay on the line until you get here. You weren’t planning to use your phone, right?”

When Reggie entered the bar he saw Green and a powerful-looking old man sitting together. He recognized Mack from his picture; the old guy he made for a cop from fifty feet away. Wordlessly, he walked over to their table and sat down.

“I’ve never seen you before in my life,” said Mack, squinting at him.

“That’s true,” said Reggie. “Listen, can I get you fellas something to eat? Club sandwich, maybe, or a chef salad?”

“No thanks,” said McClain, his eyes fixed on Reggie. “We didn’t come for lunch.”

“I know that,” Herman said, “but since I’m the one staying at the hotel, that makes me the host.”

“You’ve got balls,” said McClain.

“You need them in my business. Yours, too. Detroit PD?”

“Oriole, retired.”

“Ah, you’re John McClain,” said Reggie, extending his hand. “I’ve heard a lot of good things about you.”

“Thanks,” said McClain, taking the hand and giving it a shake.

“Excuse me for interrupting,” said Mack, “but I was wondering why you tried to have me killed this morning.”

“I’m sure you don’t expect me to admit something like that,” said Reggie. He turned to McClain. “What brings you down here?”

“Well, it’s like Mack says, we want to know why you tried to kill him. And to make sure you don’t try again. If you tell us, you can have Afterbirth and go back to New York. If not, I’ll have him charged with attempted murder and you named as an accessory.”

“Is he all right?” asked Reggie with real concern.

“You’ve got a loyal employee there,” said McClain. “Feels real bad about letting you down.”

“This will be tough on him,” said Reggie. “He didn’t have much self-confidence to begin with.”

“Well, nobody bats a thousand,” said McClain.

“I’ll tell him you said that. If that’s all right.”

“Go right ahead,” said McClain.

“Jesus, I can’t believe this conversation,” said Green.

“This deal you’re offering, are you speaking for Mack here, too?”

“Mack?” said Green. “What am I, a friend of yours?”

“Yeah, I’m speaking for both of us,” said McClain.

“Word of honor?” asked Reggie, staring into McClain’s eyes. The big man nodded and held out his hand again; Reggie took it in a solemn grip. “That’s good enough for me.”

“How about explaining what this is all about,” said Mack. “Just for the fun of it.”

“I can see how you’d be curious,” said Reggie. “It all started out when Tommy Russo couldn’t repay an eighteen thousand dollar debt—”

Mack sat listening in agitated disbelief as Herman Reggie described the plot to turn his novel into a multimillion dollar snuff diary. By the time he was finished, Mack realized that he had been
sold out by Russo; stalked by a guy in a blue Mitsubishi he couldn’t remember seeing; set up by a sham Hollywood producer; and that only a moment of inspired invention at the condo stood between him and the J. D. Murphy Funeral Home.

“—so that’s it,” Reggie concluded. “The whole story. From my point of view it’s close, but no cigar.”