Death by the Book (12 page)

Before Jack had crossed the lounge-room floor he heard Lois outside the front door, complaining. When he let her in she looked up, held his eyes for a moment, and then sauntered into the flat, offering only a quick, unimpressed miaow in greeting.

‘Nice to see you, too.’

He followed her into the kitchen. She nudged up against Jack’s shins and flicked her tail. He bent down and gave her a scratch behind the ear. ‘How about you go into work for me today, huh?’

He was in no hurry to get to Susko Books. The police had barred the damaged rear door from the inside, so for the time being nobody was going to get in. He had earned at least half a day off. And there was no boss to convince. Just a pity the sick day had to come out of his own pocket.

He opened his bathrobe and inspected the bandage on his stomach. Blood-tinged yellow fluid had seeped through the dressing. The whole area was sore to the touch. Lucky Doctor Armstrong had given him the good stuff. He wondered which clothes he was going to be able to wear.

Jack flicked the kettle on. He spooned some coffee into a plunger and then lit a cigarette. While the water boiled, he dialled Hammond Kasprowicz’s mobile number.

‘Yes?’

‘Hammond, how are you?’

‘Who is this?’

‘Jack Susko. Your employee of the month.’

There was a slight hesitation. Then, firmly: ‘Yes?’

‘Why am I searching for your brother’s books?’

‘Are you on drugs, Susko?’

‘Why would someone want to burn them?’

‘Listen here, I’m not going to —’

‘Hey!’ Jack shouted into the phone. Lois bolted into the lounge room. ‘I want you to listen very carefully.’ Jack was pacing around his tiny kitchen now. ‘Otherwise the next call you get’ll be the cops. Clear?’

Silence. Then: ‘Don’t threaten me, boy.’

‘Don’t call me boy, grandpa. What d’you want with your brother’s books?’

Kasprowicz sighed, as he might at an annoying child. ‘I don’t see what business it is of yours.’ His voice was cool and precise. ‘Would you mind telling me what this is all about?’

Jack controlled himself. ‘Sure, I’ll tell you. Somebody broke into my shop last night, smashed a couple of things and then poked my guts with a knife. Just in case I needed to let off a little digestive gas. How’s that sound?’

Kasprowicz cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry if —’

‘Hold the concern, Hammond. I wouldn’t believe you anyway.’ Jack dragged on the cigarette. ‘Just before the knife said hello to my belly button, he tried to smoke up a couple of books in my rubbish bin. Poetry books, Hammond, by a certain Edward Kass. What do you think that’s all about?’

‘How would I know?’ Kasprowicz turned on his growling-bear tone again.

Jack grinned, running his fingers through his hair. ‘Okay,’ he said, his voice calm, resigned. ‘You can either tell me what the fuck’s going on, or, if you prefer, I’ll let Detective Peterson know exactly what the guy was doing and how it’s connected with you. And because it’s the cops, I’ll be sure to mention that the books he was trying to burn in
my rubbish bin are the same books somebody is sending to your estranged brother, the morbid poet of Potts Point, also burnt and with nasty little messages attached to the parcels. Should I go on? Because I can.’

‘That won’t be necessary. Just a moment.’

Jack waited. He heard voices, disjointed words down the line.

Then Kasprowicz coughed and said: ‘This afternoon is impossible, I’m extremely busy. But I can give you twenty minutes tomorrow. At the house. One o’clock.’

‘What’s wrong with right now?’

‘I’m a busy man, Mr Susko, or didn’t you hear me? And I’d prefer not to discuss the matter over the phone.’

Kasprowicz’s voice sounded genuine.

Jack relented. ‘One o’clock.’

He went into the lounge room to select some music. Something bluesy and dark. Something mean. Something by the Stones, he decided. As Lois looked up from in front of the heater, the opening riffs of ‘Midnight Rambler’ strutted out of the speakers, smoky and round and full of intent. Lois yawned, flashing her sharp little fangs. Jack sat back in the Eames chair and put his feet on the coffee table. He smoked his cigarette. It was time for him to sharpen his fangs a little, too.

The scene of the crime: a drawer pulled out and emptied on the floor; shattered wineglass, busted mug, spilled pens and pencils; a few books tossed about, papers too, all content to stay where they lay. A stapler knocked from the counter was splayed like a broken jaw. Jack surveyed the damage
and felt surprisingly calm. He walked slowly around the bookshelves: no other disruptions. The back door looked okay in the dim light and from a distance, but worse as he got closer. He frowned, bothered by the impending hassle and expense of getting it replaced.

He returned to his desk and picked up the phone. The dial tone told him a message was waiting. Chester Sinclair’s smarmy voice came through. Jack hung his head as he listened.

Mr Susko, taking another day off? Tsk tsk, you’ll be in the bankruptcy courts if you’re not careful. Small business requires dedication and long hours. Lucky for you, you’ve got me. How does a dozen Edward Kass books sound? Like money, maybe? Give me a call.

Jack hung up the phone, keeping his hand on the receiver. Fucking Chester Sinclair. But even as he shook his head in exasperation, Jack began flipping through the address book with his free hand. He picked up the phone again and dialled the number for Jack and the Bookstalk.

He tapped a pen impatiently against the counter. He wondered where the hell Sinclair had found a dozen Edward Kass books. The phone rang a few times before being answered.

‘Hello, Bookstalk.’

It was a female voice, young and bored.

‘Is Chester there?’

‘No.’

Jack closed his eyes. ‘Will he be back today?’

‘Maybe. I think.’

‘But you don’t know?’

Silence.

‘Okay, could you tell him that Jack called, please?’

‘Hang on, I think he’s just come in.’

Jack listened to muffled voices. The phone crackled, like it was being held against a chest. Then Jack could hear Chester swearing: ‘ … well for fuck’s sake, when can you work?’

The voice that had answered the phone trailed away. Jack could not make out what it was saying. ‘Hello?’ he said.

Chester’s voice, irate: ‘What?’

‘That’s nice. Do you train your staff in phone etiquette?’

‘Oh, it’s you. Jesus, fucking uni students! They’re all desperate for casual work but when you give them a job, they’re never available! Can’t work Tuesday afternoons. Okay, what about Wednesday? No. Thursday? Yeah, but only for twenty minutes in the morning. Great. Weekends? No. That’s when I wash my dog’s arsehole! Un-fucking-believable!’

‘Maybe it’s just you. Have you been using deodorant like I told you?’

‘Ha ha.’

‘What do you need a casual for anyway?’

‘I do have another life, Susko. Unlike yourself.’

‘Masturbation doesn’t count for another life,’ said Jack. ‘What else you got?’

Sinclair’s voice grew more irritated, grinding up through the gears like an eighteen-wheeler. ‘What have I got?’ he said, almost snarling down the phone. ‘About a dozen Edward Kass books that you want,
muchacho
. That’s what I got!’

‘Now, now. Just because the pretty uni students don’t want to sleep with the big fat boss is no reason to take it out on me.’

Chester sighed into the phone. ‘Do people hit you a lot, Susko?’

‘Of late, or just in general?’

‘Okay, whatever. I’ve got ’em, you want ’em. If you don’t want ’em, I know someone else who does.
Comprende
?’

Jack put a thumb in behind his belt buckle and carefully adjusted his jeans. It was time for another painkiller. ‘You learning Spanish, Sinclair? You need to work on your accent.’

Silence. ‘Twenty-five dollars each. And I’m not going to bargain. I’ve got a woman who’s willing to pay. I told her that I’d let her know today. Today’s getting old.’

‘A woman?’ Jack frowned. ‘What’s her name?’

‘That’d cost you another twenty-five bucks.’

Jack pressed a couple of fingers to his forehead and rubbed between his eyes in small, tight circles. Then he looked up at the damp-stained ceiling. ‘How about I take a guess,’ he said, getting a little steamed. He kicked a piece of broken mug on the floor. ‘Celia Mitten sound about right?’

No reply.

Jack asked in a stern voice: ‘When did you speak to her?’

‘She rang this morning. How did you know?’

‘You sent her to me, Einstein. Yesterday.’

‘Really? That was her? I didn’t recognise her voice.’ There was the sound of fingers drumming wood. Then in a sly voice, he asked: ‘What’s her story?’

Jack was not going to tell Chester she was Kass’s daughter. ‘Another fan,’ he said, vaguely.

‘Well then, so there’s more than one buyer out there,’ replied Chester, his haughty tone returning. ‘So it’s either
you or her, Susko. What’s it going to be? The clock is ticking.’

Jack carefully straightened his back, feeling the bandage on his wound pull at his skin. With the pain came a reminder of the previous night. ‘Anyone else been interested?’

‘Only the phone call last week, some guy who didn’t leave a name. I already told you that.’

‘Yeah, you did.’ Jack scribbled in a corner of the address book. ‘So where’d you get a dozen Edward Kass books?’

‘I have my contacts. And it’s exactly eleven copies. That’s two hundred and seventy-five dollars.’

‘They better not have State Library of New South Wales stamped in them.’

‘I run a legitimate business, Susko. You’re the one who used to drive a criminal around.’

‘Careful I don’t ask him for a favour,’ said Jack, regretting he had ever mentioned Ziggy Brandt to Sinclair. ‘Where did you get them?’ he repeated.

Chester blew a raspberry into the phone. ‘Two hundred and seventy-five dollars.’

Jack dragged the phone along the counter and eased himself into a chair beside his desk. There was white powder all over it where the police had dusted for prints. He was careful not to get any on the sleeves of his jacket.

‘Two seventy-five is too rich,’ he said, calmly.

‘Don’t give me that crap! I told you, if you don’t want them, that’s fine by me. It’s non-negotiable. End of story.’

Jack had to be careful. Even Chester had his limits. ‘I don’t believe Celia Mitten would pay twenty-five per book, Sinclair,’ he said.

‘Oh, really?’

‘Yeah, really. If she were willing to pay you twenty-five, there’s no way you’d offer them to me at the same price.’

Chester grunted. ‘Maybe I like you,’ he offered, trying to regain some control. ‘Don’t waste your window of opportunity. There’s about sixty seconds left.’

‘I wouldn’t waste yours,’ replied Jack, smoothly. ‘Because you’re not getting twenty-five from me.’

Chester laughed. ‘No skin off my ball sack, Jack. I’ll get it out of our Miss Celia instead.’

Jack picked up a lighter and flicked a flame from it. He stared at it for a moment. ‘Did she say why she wanted them?’

‘Who cares?’

‘Right.’

‘Well?’ said Chester. ‘I’m waiting.’

‘Someone’s just come in, I’ll call you back, okay?’

‘Don’t make me wait, Susko. You can think what you like. I’m calling her at exactly five o’clock, Eastern Standard Time. It stands at twenty-five per book. You or her.’

Jack rubbed a pinch of police powder between his fingertips. Chester’s voice had lost some heat. ‘Let me think about it,’ said Jack.

‘
Adios amigo
.’

Jack took out his wallet and found Celia Mitten’s card. He checked her address. Reporting the damaged door to the insurance company could wait until tomorrow.

Jack caught a train from Town Hall to Kings Cross. Regardless of its newly paved footpaths and bronze historical plaques, the Cross still smelled of takeaway food and stale
beer. He walked through, past the tired strip-show joints and bars, the souvenir shops and greasy-windowed liquor outlets, the McDonald’s where a guy stood out front and spilled the contents of a hamburger over the footpath as he tried to stick it in his mouth. Then past the fruit vendor who never had to worry about the homeless stealing his apples. He got to the chlorine-laced fountain and continued along Macleay Street.

Within twenty metres, everything changed: neighbouring Potts Point was the Manhattan of Sydney, or so the realestate guides said. Art-deco apartment blocks, delicatessens with twelve-dollar sandwiches, and flashy cars swinging out of underground parking. Lots of actors and film people around, too: the successful having their lunch, the struggling serving the macchiatos. Naked plane trees lined the length of Macleay Street, looking like up-ended roots washed of soil, unreal and majestic. As Jack walked, the wind picked up the odd browned leaf from a roof gutter and tossed it down, fluttering in gentle swirls across the street. Brass railings and doorknobs and marble entrances shone. Jack liked it. Pity all he could afford there was a walk.

Celia’s Crystal Palace was on the ground floor of the Macleay Regis building. It sparkled between an antique furniture shop and a florist. From across the road, Jack scanned the front window, bright with bracelets and earrings and tiaras. He could not see if anybody was inside. Jack hoped his visit was not going to be a waste of time. When he saw Ian Durst step out through the front door, he was pretty sure that was not going to be the case.

Jack watched Durst pull his coat tighter and shrug his shoulders at the cold. It was a nice-looking coat. It was
probably very warm. Durst took notice of a new Bentley Continental GT coupe coming around the corner out of Challis Avenue. As it drove by he pulled a scarf from his coat pocket and wrapped it around his neck. Then he began walking up the street, in the direction of Kings Cross, blowing into his cupped hands and rubbing them vigorously together.

Jack stepped off the footpath and stood between two parked cars. He kept his eyes on Durst. He watched him check his suntanned reflection in a window. As Durst adjusted his scarf, Jack crossed the street. He stopped opposite the front door of Celia’s shop. Durst continued on. Then he got into the driver’s side of a parked car. Jack waited a few moments to hear the sound of the engine and see the car pulling out, but the white BMW stayed where it was. Jack could just make out Durst’s silhouette through the rear window. He waited some more but the car did not start up. Maybe Durst was fixing his hair in the rear-view mirror. Maybe he would be a while.