De Luxe Page 3

  Over the rich notes of the flat-six engine humming and roaring in their ears and vibrating through the seats, she had a language CD playing. A monotone French voice kept repeating phrases over and over, unaware that it was in competition with the old enemy, a loud piece of German engineering.

  Je travaille dans une banque …

  Je travaille dans une banque …

  Jack glanced at the speedo and hoped the cops had knocked off for the day. ‘French boyfriend, huh?’

  She scoffed.

  ‘Paris?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Overrated.’

  Pardon, monsieur. Pour aller à la Gare du Nord, s’il vous plaît?

  Pardon, monsieur. Pour aller à la Gare du Nord, s’il vous plaît?

  She gave him a sideways look. ‘How’s that?’

  Jack shrugged. He was not about to get into the story of his trip last year: Charles de Gaulle Airport, police arrest, then a whole day of questions about an old girlfriend called Kim Tate and her priceless, stolen Bible. All on the run. Statements rather than questions seemed to be the French cop’s style: You know something. She told you where she was going. You have come to meet up with her.

  They let him go, eventually, but only as far as the departure lounge for a flight back to Sydney. Do not attempt to ever return to this country, Mr Susko.

  Que sera, sera …

  ‘Ziggy giving out holidays now?’ he said. ‘Maybe I could claim some old benefits?’

  Astrid slipped the Porsche into the Mosman lane off the bridge, changed down to third and gunned it up the hill. ‘I pay my own way, Jack.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, but kept the sarcasm down. Jack knew that paying your own way with Ziggy Brandt was just an optical illusion.

  J’ai acheté du pain, de la viande, des fruits …

  J’ai acheté du pain, de la viande, des fruits …

  He said: ‘What’s French for tax-free bonus?’

  She reached over and switched off the stereo. Her smooth brow had tightened over her eyes. ‘Maybe in a minute you can ask Mr Brandt.’

  Military Road was a stream of watery red brakelights, hardly moving through the grey rain. Astrid swore and got a little jerky on the clutch. Between the shiny four-wheel-drives and vans and trucks, the Porsche sat like a big jungle cat suddenly loose from its cage, nervous and hemmed in.

  ‘How long have you been driving for Brandt?’

  ‘Why?’

  Jack heard the irritation in her voice. ‘Just making conversation, love.’

  After a moment, she said: ‘Year and a bit.’

  ‘Before that?’

  She managed a grin. ‘Police.’

  ‘Right.’ Jack nodded. ‘Got sick of working for a corrupt organisation. And now you work for Ziggy.’

  ‘Got it in one.’

  ‘Detective?’

  ‘Senior constable.’

  ‘Brandt must love the special skills you bring to the job. And the connections.’

  ‘I handle security, Jack. Want me to put you in an arm lock?’

  ‘Sure. But I have to let you know that it wouldn’t be my first time.’

  ‘I knew that without looking.’

  They turned down Avenue Road and drove to the bottom end. Astrid parked the Porsche under a Moreton Bay fig. It was quiet, the air fragrant with wet vegetation. Jack followed her over to a red metal door, seven feet of rendered wall all around it. She used a key and they walked into a courtyard of patterned paving bricks and palm trees in huge pots. Up marble stairs to the third floor. Astrid stopped at number six and held the door open for Jack. A cold hallway of blue-grey carpet.

  The place smelt of cleaning products and stale air, with an edge of cigarette smoke and spilt liquor. The walls were all mirror, and windows lined the far end. As Jack approached, the view opened up over Mosman Bay. Not bad, as far as exclusive water features went. There was a park to the right and a small marina on the other side. A couple of boats sat around in the misty rain, lolling gently on the dark water, masts bare with sails packed away for the winter. On the opposite slope, lush greenery separated the lucky houses enjoying the scene, and lined the whole waterfront of Cremorne Point, down to the head. Nice place to not have a care in the world.

  Jack turned back to the apartment and looked around. The executive 1980s alive and well. More mirrors. White wall unit with a big TV in the middle and stereo speakers all around. Cream leather couch with lots of padding and silver lamps at either end on small metal tables. A few pictures hanging around, straight out of a hotel lobby. Not one Jack had been to before. Ziggy Brandt had pads like it all over Sydney, in every style and shade. Handy for putting up the girlfriends — and when you had to count the cash somewhere quiet.

  Astrid had a mobile to her ear. ‘He’s here.’ She held out the phone to Jack. He took it and watched her walk into another room.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘So what do you think of the place, Jack? Nice, huh?’

  ‘Depends.’

  Brandt laughed. ‘Same old Jack. Jesus, how long’s it been? Two, three years?’

  ‘Nearly five.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘And here we are.’

  Jack let a little silence fill the line. ‘Been well, Ziggy?’

  ‘The best.’ The snap of a lighter. Exhale. ‘You?’

  ‘Always on the cusp.’

  Another rough laugh. ‘You crack me up, Susko.’

  Jack saw Brandt in his mind’s eye, his words riding out on a tide of cigarette smoke. The Big Zig. Multimillionaire. Connoisseur of fine automobiles and bespoke suits and shirts. Corrupt developer. On occasion, suspected murderer. An only child who loved his mother but had difficulties with his old man. Jack wondered how much Ziggy had aged. Early sixties by now, at least. He remembered the broad, broken nose, the heavy brows over blue eyes. Large, cutlet-shaped ears and barrel chest. The street thug in Italian wool and expensive aftershave.

  ‘How’s the construction business?’

  ‘Look out the window and pick a crane,’ said Brandt. ‘It’s mine.’

  ‘Whose was it before?’

  He exhaled again. The voice returned, firmer. ‘I remember you as a polite boy, Jack.’

  ‘I remember you once asked me to kill somebody.’

  ‘Is that what I did?’ Brandt paused. ‘A misunderstanding. But I forgive you.’

  ‘That’s nice.’ Jack felt brave because he was on the phone. ‘What about trying to set me up for Hammond Kasprowicz?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You heard.’ The wealthy Double Bay businessman was still missing, three years later. Jack knew he was probably somewhere in the CBD, down in the concrete with the reinforced steel under a Brandt Construction tower, but only Ziggy knew for sure. ‘I had the cops following me for months,’ he said.

  ‘You’re confused, Susko. And that ain’t healthy.’

  ‘Okay, Ziggy.’ Through a doorway, Jack caught a glimpse of Astrid making coffee. ‘Why don’t you un-confuse me? What do you want? I’ve got to go house hunting today.’

  ‘I want to help, Jack.’

  ‘Yeah?’ He almost sneered. The words never went with the music when Ziggy Brandt offered succour. ‘Who?’

  ‘Have a good look at the apartment, son. Free. For as long as you need it.’

  ‘Before or after I do whatever it is you want me for?’

  Brandt cleared his throat. Jack heard the cigarette being dragged again. Slow breath out. ‘Yeah, that’s right. I need your help.’ He sniffed. ‘It’s Claudia.’

  Not what Jack was expecting. He felt a headache coming on and lowered his head to the side. Grimaced a little. The last time he had heard Claudia’s name was when he called it out as she dro
ve off. It was in a small town out in wine country, where they had been enjoying a romantic weekend. Breakfast included. She had left him by the side of a gravel road, breathing in dust: but the rest of the details were a touch blurry now. All Jack remembered for sure was the long hot walk back to the motel and the even longer night that followed.

  ‘She’s hooked up with this motherfucker,’ said Brandt. ‘Even wants to marry him, for Christ’s sake.’

  Jack could not quite believe what he was hearing. ‘Must be love.’

  ‘It’s not happening. Not in a fit.’

  Astrid walked in and handed Jack a coffee. He mouthed thanks as he brought the cup to his lips. There was a slug of Scotch in it. She winked and sat on the leather couch.

  ‘I need you to take an interest in the situation, Jack.’

  ‘Need?’

  ‘I’m asking … nicely.’ The man’s tone stiffened some more.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘A little wedge. That’s all. Nothing too complicated.’

  ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘I’d see it as a personal favour to me.’

  Jack was frowning now, thoughts rushing his brain.

  ‘All I want you to do is talk to her,’ said Brandt. ‘Say hello, have a coffee, you know? Remind her of days gone by.’

  ‘And you think that’s all it’ll take for her to call off an engagement? Come on, Ziggy. I can’t believe we’re talking about this.’

  ‘Just tap a little wedge in there for me, Jack. I can’t have a direct hand in it, she’d see me a mile off. No hard stuff, otherwise Mr fucking Duncan Beaumont wins and I’ve got to put up with the cunt for the rest of my life.’ Brandt paused to light another cigarette. ‘Tap tap,’ he said. ‘That’s all I ask. Free accommodation for as long as you want.’

  ‘Tap tap?’ said Jack. The man’s name was in his head now. Duncan Beaumont. Already more involved than he was ten seconds ago. He felt a little panic start to stir inside him.

  ‘Claudia made a big mistake leaving you. I always thought so.’

  ‘You’d have let her marry the driver that you wanted to put to bed with a shovel?’

  ‘More than that, Jack. You were more than that.’

  ‘Don’t give me that shit.’

  ‘I’m telling you —’

  ‘Ziggy, I’ve got to go.’

  Another cold pause. ‘And where do you think you’re going to go?’

  Jack closed his eyes. The worst of it — even worse than the fact that if Ziggy Brandt wanted to put the bite on, you were as good as bitten — was that part of him wanted to know more. What was Claudia doing? How did she look? Who the hell was Duncan Beaumont? He hated the guy already. But he knew he would hate himself more if things took the next corner. A small part of him also knew that something more was up than Brandt just wanting his daughter to break up with a guy. And whatever that more was, he could guarantee it was no good.

  ‘Okay, Ziggy. Sign the deeds over and I’m in.’

  ‘I’m trying to be fair. I was hoping you’d be reasonable.’

  ‘You know what that sounds like from here?’

  ‘Enough.’ Silence. Brandt held it by the neck. ‘Listen to me. This Beaumont guy, he’s good-looking. Smart, too, some kind of degree, or two fucking degrees, I’m not sure. He’s got his own moolah. So I think you should get a haircut. Go and see my guy and tell him I sent you. Astrid can drive.’

  There it was, the classic Brandt railroading. Continuing as though Jack had actually agreed to something. How many times had he witnessed it from the driver’s seat of Brandt’s big black Merc? Watching via the rear-view mirror as Ziggy got exactly what he wanted from whoever happened to be there with him in the back seat. The quick and confident assumption, the air of menace he wore like cologne, the shift in tone that never let anybody know where they stood. The way he put his hand on their leg at the end. Pat pat. Nothing to worry about, yeah?

  ‘And maybe some new clothes,’ Brandt went on. ‘A suit? You have to wear your confidence, Jack. That’s what the ladies like.’

  Jack said nothing. He now knew how those little white mice in the labs felt.

  ‘Anyway, we’ll talk soon. Astrid can give you Claudia’s number.’ Brandt cleared his throat. ‘Oh, and Jack, I forgot to ask. How’s business? You making any fucking money in that book hole of yours?’

  ‘Takes me all weekend to count it.’

  A hard laugh. ‘Thought so. Put Astrid on the blower. I’ll get her to give you some folding money. There’s no romance without moolah.’

  Jack removed the mobile from his hot ear, held it out. Astrid got up from the couch and took it from him.

  ‘Yes, Mr Brandt?’

  While she nodded, Jack went to the window again, looked out over Mosman Bay. The rain was still coming down, heavier than before. Settling in for a long, wet week. At the edge of the park a man was running. No raincoat, no umbrella. Nowhere to run except into more rain.

  Join the goddamn club.

  5

  The books from the auction arrived Monday afternoon. The day had cruised until then, with a thin but steady line of customers shuffling through Susko Books: some browsing and some buying, all of them cupping their hands every now and then and blowing warmth over their fingers. Jack was distracted enough not to think too much about Ziggy Brandt — though every time the phone rang, the hairs on the back of his neck wanted to know who the hell it was.

  Claudia Brandt was another matter. Deep down, some small part of him had started to ache again. A memory on crutches wanting to crawl. Jack knew he had to keep his head. Make sure a vague interest in knowing what she was up to these days did not flare into some kind of ambition.

  So he thought about something else. He rang a few more real-estate agents and got the same crap about checking the net for listings and viewing times. Two or three asked for his price range, then laughed. One guy told him to try moving to the country. The possibility was gaining ground. Jack wondered what Lois might say if he told her they were going to live in an iron shack at Lightning Ridge and do a little opal prospecting for something different.

  RENT.

  He looked it up in Ernest Weekley’s An Etymological Dictionary of Modern English. Volume II, L–Z. There were two definition roots, a choice between fissure, to tear, as a variation of rend; or, income, yield, revenue, profit. Both on the money. First known usage was in the Wyclifite Bible translations (c.1380), from Matt, xxii.17:

  Is it leful to geve Cesar rente?

  Jack had no idea what leful meant, but he got the tone, no problem. Not much had changed in a couple of thousand years. The landlord was still king. He thought of Ziggy Brandt and all his cranes in the sky.

  The delivery guy turned up after lunch. Jack heard the trolley clanging down the steps of Susko Books and went over to the front window. There was a thin drizzle falling now. Too ambitious with the load, the guy had to keep an arm around it, with the trolley on a heavy tilt, tucked into his guts. He was short, brown and wiry, wearing silver tracksuit pants and a bright orange spray-jacket zipped up to his neck, fluoro-yellow vest over the top. On the last step he slipped and the top box came off, crashing into a shallow puddle of water. It split and spilt books over the doormat. The guy stopped, looked down and swore. Then he parked the trolley and bent over to pick up the books.

  Jack opened the front door and wedged it. The delivery guy said, ‘Where do you want it, buddy?’

  ‘In there.’ Jack pointed to a small area just inside the door. He took the loose books the guy had picked up and waited for him to pick up the rest. The rain swirled in the breeze and prickled his face. No apologies from the delivery guy, who wheeled the slightly damp boxes in, struggled the trolley out from under them and went back up the steps. ‘One more load.’

  ‘Maybe try half this tim
e,’ said Jack.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Need a hand working the fractions out?’

  The guy shook his head and turned away, continued up with the trolley. ‘Everyone’s a fucking smart-arse.’

  Jack left it and went in. Dropped the books he was holding on top of the boxes. All he needed now were worthless wet books.

  He resisted inspecting the haul and waited until the rest of the boxes were brought down. Delivery Guy asked for a signature on his electronic pad and left without a word. The first book Jack picked up was an old paperback. Day of the Comancheros by Steven C. Lawrence. Centurion Books, 1977. It had either been read ten thousand times or run over by a six-horse wagon train every year since publication. There was a sombrero-wearing Mexican on the cover holding a six-shooter, blood on his shirtsleeve. Moustachioed face grim. Maybe he knew how much the book was worth on the second-hand market.

  There were three whole boxes of well-thumbed, weary westerns. Jack was looking at a buck or two per title. Say thirty to sixty dollars per box. That was if anybody wanted them: it had been a while since westerns had topped the bill. Maybe Jack could do a nice display, try to drum up some excitement. The covers were pretty cool. Start a whole new wave of appreciation.

  The rest of the stuff was a mix of bad to average: at least half was heading straight for the nearest St Vincent de Paul. A copy of The Picador Book of Blues and Jazz was going home with Jack, as was a Mayflower Books paperback reissue of the 1946 boxing classic In This Corner by Terry Leigh-Lye. He also found a copy of Radio Days: Australian Bakelite Radios. Beautiful old thing on the cover: the inside flap told Jack it was an AWA Fisk Radiolette Empire State. He could see the attraction. He could also see Allan Kippax in his mod suit down at Lawsons auction house. Jack had the strange feeling of being dealt into a game he had not intended to sit in on. He put the book aside.