The Bookmakers Read Online Free PDF

that the old bastard had no idea that he was the subject of a vendetta. He would find out, but only when Artie was ready.
    The moment came in mid-October, when Artie walked into Mike’s Corner Grocery for the first time in more than two months. He took out his notebook, laid it on the counter and looked the old man in the eye. “Remember that Drumstick you sold me? The one without the cone? You said to take it back to the factory.”
    Mike shrugged his fat shoulders, but it was clear from the look on his face that he hadn’t forgotten.
    “I decided not to shop here anymore,” said Artie. “Maybe you noticed.”
    “Big deal,” said Mike. “Who cares?”
    Artie opened his notebook, where long columns of figures were neatly printed, a date alongside each amount. “Every time Ibuy something someplace else, I write it down in here,” he said. “It’s a record, like, of what it’s costing you. Want to know how much?”
    Mike peered at the notebook, trying to read upside down. Artie spun it around to make it easier. “Twenty-eight dollars and forty-six cents so far,” he said, pointing to the bottom line. “Minus the dime you rooked me out of, that makes twenty-eight dollars and thirty-six cents.”
    “Big deal,” Mike repeated.
    “It will be,” said Artie. He picked up his notebook and walked to the door. “I’ll be back.”
    From then on Artie Wolfowitz made a practice of stopping by Mike’s Corner Grocery on the first of each month to announce his updated total. At first, Mike displayed an exaggerated apathy, but as the amount began to grow he became visibly upset. In March, when the figure passed one hundred dollars, he lost control and chased Artie out of the store. “I’ll be back next month, you dumb Polack,” the boy yelled over his shoulder. “That Drumstick’s going to cost you millions.”
    A few days later Artie was walking home from school when a blue Chevy pulled alongside and honked. He peered into the car and saw Mike’s son, Stanley, behind the wheel. “Get in for a minute, I want to talk to you,” he said.
    Artie knew Stan, a pudgy, nearsighted guy in his mid-twenties, from around the neighborhood. “I’m here for a truce,” he said. “This boycott of yours is driving my old man nuts.”
    “He asked for it,” said Artie. “He screwed me out of a Drumstick.”
    “Jesus.” Stan laughed. “A Drumstick costs a dime.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a five-dollar bill. “Here, that ought to make up for it, okay?”
    Artie looked at the bill and shook his head. “First, let him apologize,” he said, although he didn’t really want an apology. Thevendetta had become the most important thing in his life, and he had no intention of calling it off for five bucks.
    “He’s stubborn,” said Stan, waving the money at Artie. “He won’t apologize to a kid.”
    “Then fuck him,” said Artie, reaching for the handle.
    Stan put a soft, restraining hand on the boy’s shoulder. His genial expression was replaced by a look of nearsighted concern. “He’s an old man and you’re making him sick,” he said imploringly. “On the days you come in he can’t even sleep. The doctor says it’s bad for his blood pressure. What do you want to do, kill him?”
    “I don’t want anything,” said Artie, pulling open the door and climbing out. “Tell him his Drumstick has cost him around a hundred and twenty bucks so far. I’ll be in next week to give him the exact amount.”
    “Don’t do this,” said Stan, but Wolfowitz was already out of the car and running down the street, filled with a sense of triumph.
    The following September, shortly after one of Artie’s visits, Mike Stanislaw keeled over in the store: “Dead,” in Gert Wolfowitz’s hushed phrase, “before the poor man’s head hit the meat counter.” Artie was surprised to see that Mike’s death deeply affected his widowed mother. “He was a good man,” she said tearfully. “Despite his manner, he was