The Bookmakers by Zev Chafets

change, Russo eagerly told Mack about his boyhood in a spit-on-the-sidewalk part of Bensonhurst, his days at the seminary and his increasingly onerous duties at St. Fred’s. “In the beginning I expected people to come in and confess to murders, like they do in the movies,” he confided, “but all I get is: ‘Father, I have impure thoughts, Father, I jerked off three times, Father, I told my kittycat a lie—’ ”
    “You mind if I tell you something about yourself? Something personal?” Mack asked.
    “Sure, why not?” said Tommy, feeling the gin. It seemed to him that Mack Green was the most interesting listener he had ever met.
    “You don’t seem like a priest.”
    “You mean like Bing Crosby in
Going My Way
? Yeah, I guess you’re right, I’m not really cut out for it.”
    “Then why’d you become one?”
    “Runs in the family,” Tommy said. “My uncle’s a priest, my older brother’s a priest and I got two sisters are nuns. I never really gave it much thought. One day I’m hanging out on the corner with the guys, singing, “Run Around Sue,” and then, bing-bang, I’m in the seminary. Just like that.”
    “You didn’t have to go,” said Mack. “It’s a free country.”
    “Where
you
live maybe it is,” said Tommy. “Not in my family. Besides, with the draft and all, the deferment seemed like a good deal.”
    “There were easier ways to get out of Vietnam,” said Mack. “Get a letter from a shrink. Cut off your toe. Anything’s gotta be better than—”
    “What, celibacy?”
    “Well—”
    “Don’t worry, everybody’s curious,” said Tommy. “It’s a part of the mystique. Truth is, it’s no big deal. I mean, I’m not a homo, I get the urge just like anybody else, but usually I can handle it okay.”
    “What happens when you can’t?”
    “Then I go outta town and get laid,” said Tommy.
    “Are you supposed to admit that?” asked Mack, slightly shocked; he had an atheist’s awe of holy vows.
    “It’s funny,” said Tommy. “You come to me for confession and here I am confessing to you. It doesn’t matter, though; I’m quitting.”
    “When did you decide that?”
    “Just now, when I said it. But it’s been building up.”
    “Can you do that? Walk away?”
    “Hey, we’re not talking Mafia here. The pope isn’t going to put out a contract on me. I’ll leave just before Easter and let that lazy bastard Dorsey do some work for a change.” The thought of Father Francis X. Dorsey chaperoning the St. Fred’s High School spring hop made Tommy grunt with pleasure.
    “Why not sleep on it?” said Mack with real concern.
    “Naw, like I said, I’ve been thinking about it for a couple of years.” He took another sip of his martini and smiled. “Ever since my draft lottery number came up 346.”
    “What about all your uncles and sisters and—”
    “They’ll survive,” said Tommy. “It’s like Sinatra says, I gotta do it my way. Ever since I was a little kid I’ve had guilt stuffed down my throat. And for the last few years I’ve been stuffing it down other people’s throats. But, hard as I try, I can’t feel guilty about this. I’m not priest material and that’s that.”
    “What are you going to do? For a living, I mean?”
    “I got a cousin in Jersey City sells life insurance. I can probably catch on with him for a while. After that, who knows? Other guys get by, I figure I can too.”
    “You ever think about becoming an agent?”
    “Like James Bond? Double O Seven? I don’t think I got the right accent.”
    “I meant a literary agent.”
    “A literary agent? I don’t even know what a literary agent does.”
    “Not much,” said Mack. “You basically negotiate for authors with publishers.”
    “What makes you think I could do that?”
    “You’d be a natural. You’re a smart guy, likable. And you know when you’re getting bullshitted. Like today at confession.”
    “Yeah, but that comes from experience—”
    “You’ve got the