De Luxe Read online

  Shoes crunched over the debris and talk took flight among the partygoers, every comment one of shock and exasperation. Somebody picked up Kippax’s apartment phone, ordered a cab. The front door opened and stayed that way. Jack looked for the woman who had borrowed his coat.

  ‘I want to talk to you, Susko.’ Kippax pointed down the hall, in the direction of the card room. He saw Mick and called out: ‘Get security. I want to see the fucking tapes!’

  Jack was in no mood. He wanted to get home now and sleep and forget for a little while. ‘What’s there to talk about, Allan?’

  ‘Fucking Brandt.’ Kippax through tight bearded lips. ‘What the fuck else?’ He led Jack down the hall.

  They went through a door past the card room. Kippax flicked a light. It was small, a third or fourth bedroom maybe, but furnished like an office. In the middle of the room was a table. On it, a scale model of what looked like some kind of city development. Jack frowned, trying to recognise a building or street. And then the word Barangaroo flashed through his mind.

  ‘That motherfucking son of a bitch!’ Kippax glared at Jack, barely containing himself. Anger pressed down on his forehead, creasing it like an invisible thumb. ‘Mick! Get in here!’

  A moment later, the big guy came in. Kippax nodded. Before Jack knew what was going on, Mick swiftly took hold of his arm and twisted it most of the way up his back.

  ‘Now we can chat.’ Kippax lit a cigarette.

  Jack let out an extended moan, reached around with his free hand and grabbed his now burning shoulder. Fuck. He was sure that at any second his arm would come off at the socket. The humiliation of being held like a shoplifting twelve-year-old only added to the pain.

  ‘Tell me about Ziggy, Jack.’

  Mick kept the twist on. Jack thought of Bruce Lee and tried to remember some of the moves he had seen in Enter the Dragon, but it was difficult to concentrate when his arm was on fire.

  Balls, he thought. I’m going to kick him in the fucking balls.

  ‘Ziggy knew about the game, right?’ said Kippax. ‘You told him and he did me. Yeah, Mr fucking Susko?’

  Jack grimaced and groaned and wished somebody would give him a piece of leather to bite on. ‘You hired … the bunnies …’

  ‘You playing the fucking inside man?’ Kippax smoked: after a few seconds, he gave another small nod to Mick, who relaxed the twist on Jack’s arm, just enough to let him breathe again. ‘You and Beaumont, huh?’

  Jack squeezed his eyes hard through the pain. Stars flashed inside his head like wet fireworks. ‘Beaumont? What the f—’

  Somebody walked into the room. ‘Oh!’

  All eyes on the wind-blown honey blonde with great legs, her face pale and heading towards terrified. She bunched up Jack’s coat and looked nervously at Kippax. ‘It’s his,’ she said, holding it out.

  ‘Thanks, dear,’ said Kippax. ‘Just pop it on the chair there and close the door behind you.’

  Unsure, she put the coat down. At the doorway she gave Jack a final look, then mouthed a silent thank you.

  Jack said: ‘Anytime.’

  The lady and her high heels clicked away quickly.

  ‘Always a gentleman, eh Jack?’

  ‘People appreciate manners.’

  A nod and Mick had Jack’s elbow coming out at the wrong angle again.

  ‘Look …’ said Jack, wincing and gritting his teeth. ‘I don’t know … aagh … what you’re on about … shit.’

  ‘No good, Jack.’ Kippax dragged on his cigarette slowly, as though tasting a rare delicacy. ‘Don’t play the fucking double-agent shit with me. This heist was Ziggy telling me to get my fingers out of his pie.’

  Mick was enjoying his work. Kippax waited a little longer, then motioned with his cigarette and the big guy let go. Jack’s arm fell limp and useless by his side, like a just-wrung-out towel. He took a step forward, creating some space between himself and Big Mick. He took a deep breath and focused all of his anger into his right foot. On weight, the odds were against him. Cranial thickness probably went the other way, too. So one shot to the softest spot, that was it. He had to make it count.

  Jack massaged his wrist and nodded at the development all neat and nice on the table. ‘That a model of the pie you’re talking about?’

  Kippax swallowed something hard. ‘Ziggy Brandt thinks he can just help himself, anytime.’ Almost hissed the words. ‘No, no. That’s mine right there. All of it.’

  ‘I thought Florez was in with you.’

  ‘Roberto is an investor, yes.’

  ‘With what? A widow leave him something recently?’

  ‘There are many ways to invest. Information is a valuable commodity, too. You should bear that in mind.’

  ‘I find it hard to believe you’d share, Allan.’

  ‘The majority stakes are yours truly.’

  Or was it the majority still at stake. Jack wondered how much of what Kippax said was true. ‘So, what, you and Ziggy are fighting it out for the development?’

  ‘Oh no, the fight’s over, Jack. And my name’s all over the title.’

  ‘From what I understand it’s Lend Lease who are all over it. They got the tender ages ago.’

  ‘And who told you that?’

  ‘The newspapers. My financial adviser. My Nikkei stockbroker, too.’

  Kippax managed a grin. ‘The newspapers? Jack, come on, you’re not that stupid. When does what you read in the paper have anything to actually do with what is going on?’

  ‘Obituaries.’

  ‘Granted. But let’s not take out any space there right now, huh?’

  Kippax glanced at Mick: time for another arm-twisting. Jack balanced himself and let rip. All balls were made of the same flimsy material, no matter the size of the man. It was a low blow, but the Queensberry Rules were not governing this encounter. Big Mick went slowly down onto his knees, then slowly onto his hands, arching his back. Jack did not relent and lined up his guts side-on, wanting to be sure it was at least a minute or two before the guy got his breath back. After he landed the kick — Mick sounding out a windy whoof! from deep within — Jack figured there were maybe three or four. Enough time to get the hell out of there, if he hurried.

  Kippax shook his head. ‘You know he’s going to get up again.’

  ‘Better get used to a high-pitched voice.’

  ‘You’re a dead man, Jack.’

  On the floor, Mick groaned. Jack tried not to look but felt the hairs on his neck zing. He said: ‘So where’s Duncan Beaumont?’

  ‘I was hoping you’d tell me.’

  Jack nodded at the scale model on the table again. ‘Not working for you anymore? Done a runner, huh?’ He was fishing, still not sure of the story here: but there was no doubt Beaumont was persona non grata at the Kippax organisation.

  ‘That’s information I’d be keen to ascertain.’

  ‘Twisting my arm won’t get you any. Unless you want me to make something up.’

  Kippax glanced down at his hard man. ‘Yes, I can see that. But maybe you could find out for me? For a price, of course.’

  From the floor: ‘You’re … fucked … Susko.’

  ‘Easy, Mick. Just wait a minute.’

  The big guy began to stand up but paused, hunched over and wincing and breathing hard.

  Kippax said: ‘Five thousand dollars.’

  Jack rolled his shoulder and squeezed his arm gently. Wondered where he might buy a sling on the way home.

  ‘Yes?’ Kippax extinguished his cigarette and tugged at his cuffs. ‘Mick, check on our guests, will you? Make sure nobody has called the fucking cops and then organise some cabs. Apologies and all that.’

  Mick came to his full height. Stayed where he was, silent as death.

  ‘Now, son.’ />
  A few more seconds passed. Jack could see the man’s desire for vengeance begin to glow in his face like a healthy complexion. ‘Sure, Mr Kippax.’

  ‘And ring Fratelli’s and order some breakfast: Tony should be there already. Take the Jag. You hungry, Jack?’

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  ‘Okay, Mick. Off you go.’

  The big guy left the room.

  ‘Let’s have a drink.’

  Jack felt tiredness overcome him. ‘I’ve got to get home, Allan,’ he said, trying to massage the blood flow back through his arm. ‘Way past my bedtime and bullshit threshold.’

  ‘Now, now,’ said Kippax. ‘Let’s keep it civil. I’m sorry about Mick tweaking your arm, but somebody’s just walked away with all my fucking money. Jesus, what a goddamn night.’

  ‘I’ve got to go.’ He headed out into the hall, Kippax right behind him.

  ‘Five thousand dollars, Jack. Tell me where the fuck Duncan Beaumont is and I’ll give you five thousand dollars. And if you find out and don’t tell me, I’m gonna let Mick have that arm.’

  Jack walked through the apartment, weary and stained. There were a few people still hanging around. It was after 3.00 a.m. now. He had a few coins left in his pocket, but that was it. A long walk home in the freezing cold, with an arm made of old tyre rubber and the wrath of a very large guy who wanted to hurt him a lot. All in all, not a bad evening’s work.

  As he stepped out of the apartment, he heard Kippax shouting. ‘Those bitches took one of my fucking radios!’

  20

  Jack drank a grappa to kill the stale taste of tobacco in his mouth and the pain in his arm, then made himself a peanut-butter sandwich and a sweet, milky hot chocolate so that his guts did not ache with neglect. There had at least been enough left in the till at Susko Books for a couple of supplies from a twenty-four-hour convenience store on the way home. Lois was back from her drain party and tucked into her gourmet dinner. She curled up next to Jack on the couch just as the dawn seeped in around the curtain edges, the glow a thin and pale nightlight. He slept for a few hours, then woke to silence, the day cold but not unkind, no calls and no visitors. He ate again and settled in on the couch with the rest of the grappa. Read three Richard Stark novels in a row — The Man with the Getaway Face, The Mourner and The Rare Coin Score — then fell asleep late in the afternoon, dreaming of million-dollar heists and getting away with the beautiful girl. The evening eked drowsily away. When he woke again on the Monday, she was ringing him on the phone.

  The place was an igloo and Lois refused to answer the mobile, only accelerating the motor of her purring as though she had hit the tense part of a chase dream and was getting up for nobody. Still half asleep, Jack reached over and groped at the coffee table until he found it. He opened his eyes briefly to focus on the keypad, then answered and put the phone to his ear, closing them again. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Jack, it’s Claudia.’

  The name stunned him a little, like a flicked-on light.

  ‘Hello?’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, yeah …’ Jack dragged himself up onto the couch cushions, flinching as his arm clenched with pain. Lois miaowed her annoyance. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Seven-thirty.’

  He whispered shit, not quite ready for the world yet.

  ‘Jack?’ A pause. ‘I … I need to see you.’

  Her voice had wavered and he caught it. ‘I know he tried to shoot your old man, Claudia.’

  She sniffed. ‘Have you found him?’

  ‘Bounty hunters don’t work for free.’ Jack was annoyed with her and thinking of Kippax’s five grand: the two things together were warming him up.

  ‘I … He …’ She began to cry softly.

  ‘What?’

  She took a deep breath and blew it out quickly, like a diver on the edge of a springboard. Composed herself. ‘So you’re not going to help me?’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ His arm throbbed again. Jack was empty, flat on the bottom line, his only hope that Faye would let him move in and give him some time to pay what he owed her, and maybe then he could get the hell away from these people. ‘You understand that Beaumont used you to get to your old man, don’t you?’

  ‘No!’ she said in hot response. Then again, ‘No,’ but the vehemence in her voice faded. Then one more little no came down the line, more a breath, soft and padded with disbelief.

  ‘You sure about that?’ said Jack.

  She did not seem to hear him. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At home.’

  ‘Can I come over?’

  The hope in her voice made his heart kick: he let it hang and enjoyed her need of him for a moment longer. But it was not enough. Not anymore.

  ‘Jack?’

  ‘I’ve got to open up the shop, Claudia. Make a living instead of fucking it up. I’m already late.’

  ‘Please, Jack. I —’

  ‘Cut me a break, huh?’ He could not keep the emotion out of his voice and regretted it as soon as he said it.

  Silence down the line. Just the two of them, together, over a wire. An intimacy of sorts.

  ‘So why’d he do it?’ said Jack. ‘Why try and kill Ziggy?’

  ‘I … I’m not sure.’

  ‘Temporary goddamn insanity?’

  There was a pause. Her voice came back harder. ‘It was revenge. His father was ruined in a business deal, years ago. Ended up dead on the street.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard that too. And your daddy did it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jack shook his head. The whole thing was really starting to irritate him. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the clang of a bell not ringing true. ‘And now, just as he’s about to marry you, he decides he doesn’t need a father-in-law?’

  ‘I’d talked him out of it,’ she admitted. ‘Before. He said he wouldn’t. He promised —’

  ‘Jesus, Claudia. I mean, what the fuck? You were never that stupid before.’

  ‘I was with you.’ Like a rifle crack.

  ‘Yeah, nice one,’ he said. ‘But at least I wasn’t trying to kill your father. Let alone fucking tell you that I wanted to kill your father. Hey honey, why don’t we get married, even though I wanna put a bullet in your old man’s brain, you’re okay with that, aren’t you? What was going in your brain? You didn’t think that maybe there was a fucking leak in the guy’s reactor?’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘And you want me to find the son of a bitch?’

  ‘Stop it!’

  Jack did. Listened. Heard faint, fast breaths. She was hurting. He eased off, let it go, waited for whatever she would say next.

  ‘I’ll find him myself.’

  ‘Go for it.’ Jack moved his arm and grimaced. She was getting off the line and now he did not want her to. ‘You still think he’s in love with you?’

  The phone threw a dial tone in his ear. Had she hung up on him? Or heard what he said? Fuck it. He was too tired to think. And annoyed. And starting to get angry: because he was still worried about her, because he had to fight the desire to care, despite all that had happened between them. That was still happening between them.

  Jack dropped the mobile to the floor and slid back down the couch. He dragged the woollen blanket back up to his chin. Lois continued to purr underneath. He was not going to sleep, too late for that now, but neither was he in a hurry to get back to the world outside, waiting for him like some punk dude in pointy shoes shuffling under a lamppost, with a deal that could only ever go one way — the direction it had gone all this last week and more. Straight down goddamn Wrong Street. He closed his eyes and wondered what the hell he was going to do now.

  Not long after, the cops knocked on his door, wanting to know the exact same thing.

  21

  Detective Sergean
t Keith Glendenning stood in the hallway at Leinster Street, hunched up inside a black raincoat that did not fit him very well. The outside cold clung to him like dry ice. His thinning hair was pasted flat over his scalp, dark with rain and swirled into little curlicues that lassoed islands of baldness. His face was lined and grim, maybe from more than just the weather, though his eyes looked focused, intent. His hands were jammed deep in his coat pockets. Jack doubted he was here for an emergency copy of Pride and Prejudice, but you never really knew with people: they always surprised you.

  ‘Good morning, Detective Sergeant. Still raining out there?’

  Glendenning grunted. ‘You’re in deep shit, Susko.’

  ‘I got towels. Smell good, nice and fluffy. Fifty bucks each.’

  The detective looked down the poorly lit hall, then returned his stern, yellow-brown eyes to Jack. ‘You looking to charm me? Should I give you the odds?’

  ‘Too early for you, Keith? You prefer dinner?’

  A rectangle of muted light broke briefly into the hallway a couple of doors down. Footsteps followed the snap of a lock. A moment later, Corinne from number five was coming towards them.

  ‘In trouble again, Jackie-O?’ she said, walking past with a smile, bundled up in a chocolate-brown, fur-cuffed coat.

  ‘Only with Santa Claus,’ said Jack. She left through the front doors, waving over her shoulder.

  ‘Maybe you should invite me in,’ said Glendenning, head still turned after the girl. ‘Save any further embarrassment.’

  Jack stepped back. ‘For who, old man?’

  The detective sergeant walked in. Jack followed, picked up his cigarettes from the coffee table. ‘Still no Duncan Beaumont then, huh?’

  Glendenning sat down. ‘No.’ The steel in his tone eased. ‘What can you tell me?’

  ‘He’s a popular boy.’ Jack brought over what was left of the grappa and a couple of shot glasses. ‘But what’s it got to do with me?’

  ‘Well, Jack, that’s the whole deep-shit thing you’re in, you know?’

  ‘I thought it was just what you said to all the girls.’