Free The Bookmakers by Zev Chafets

you might. I’ve got a wife and two kids to think about. I’m happy.”
    “And I’m not?”
    Otto shrugged. “You’re in here socking away double bourbons in the middle of the morning and talking about suicide—”
    “Fiction,” said Mack. “A fictional diary.”
    “Shit, I wish somebody’d make me an offer like that,” said the bald guy in the brown suit at the end of the bar. Otto glared at him and he quickly added, “I wasn’t eavesdropping, I just heard.”
    “Okay, suppose somebody did. What would you do?” asked Mack.
    “Buy me some pussy, that’s what,” said the guy in a country twang, Kentucky or Tennessee Mack guessed. He tentatively slid his glass and a loose pile of change in Mack’s direction; close enough for him to see that the man’s eyes were bloodshot and there was gray crud on his jacket. “Hell, you could prob’ly fuck Gina Lollobrigida for a million bucks. My name’s Fred Mart, by the way.”
    Green shook the man’s clammy hand. “Wouldn’t you be afraid to go through with it?”
    Mart shook his head, “Nossir. In the service I saw some guys die horrible, all shot up with their guts spilling out, just begging for one in the head. I said to myself right then, Fred, when the time comes, make it easy on yourself.”
    “Right,” said Mack, encouragingly. “Make it easy. I see what you mean.”
    “Or let’s say you’ve got a terminal disease, brain cancer, maybe. You ever been in a cancer ward? Shit, it’ll make you want to vomit your damn heart out.”
    “Can’t say that I have,” said Mack, delighted by the ghoulish character. He reminded him of the tattooed man at the bar who had inspired
Bragging Rights
. Meeting Mart was a good omen; the gods of fiction were once again smiling on him.
    “The thing I think about is, how would you do it?” Mart said in a far-off voice. “Shoot yourself? I read once that most guys use a gun. Most of your female suicides, they take pills. There’s your difference.”
    “You could jump off a building,” said Green. “Or cut your wrists in the bathtub.”
    “Jesus, Mack, this is sick,” said Otto, looking disgusted.
    “You know, a lot of people who cut their wrists don’t die,” said Mart, ignoring the interruption. He slid another seat closer, and his voice grew lower, confidential. “The mistake they make, see, is they cut crossways. How you do it is, you cut lengthwise. That way, the blood flows out nice and smooth.” He ran his finger up the inside of his arm to demonstrate.
    “Interesting,” said Mack. He was concentrating hard, making certain he’d remember the details of the conversation. This guy was going in the novel, no question about it.
    “I had a brother-in-law kill himself, that’s how come I know so much about this. Know how he did it? He set in the car with the motor running and the garage door closed. My sister found him out there cold as a Popsicle. He wrote in his note that he did it for love.” Mart laughed and Mack smelled his rancid breath. “He had a look in his eye, same as yours,” he said.
    “You’re a freak,” said Otto. “Why don’t you go drink your beer someplace else.”
    “Take this,” Mart said in an urgent whisper, handing Mack a dog-eared business card. “You decide to do it, call me, okay?”
    “I’m not going to kill myself, I’m just writing a book about a guy who does.”
    Mart looked at Mack with feverish, disbelieving eyes. “Just call me,” he said. “All’s I want to do is watch.”
    Mack walked home from the Tiger feeling refreshed and reassured. He picked up a
Times
at the kiosk near his apartment and a coffee to go from the Greek on the corner, fished his mail out of the box and glanced at it in the elevator. As usual it consisted mostly of flyers for Chinese restaurants, utility bills and a warning from
Time
magazine that if he didn’t renew his subscription they’d keep on warning him. He almost overlooked a plain white envelope at the bottom of the