Death by the Book jsm-1 Page 5

  Jack tucked the phone into his chin and reached over for the glass of wine on the desk. “Bit of bad luck he saw you come in. That’s all.”

  She did not reply. The line droned for a moment.

  “Unlucky coincidence.”

  “Yes,” said Annabelle, as though she were talking to herself. Then she took a deep breath. “Our divorce comes through next month,” she said, raising her voice a little. “The official end. Of course, he wants us to get back together.”

  “Right.” Jack put the wineglass down and picked up his burning cigarette. He thought about Ian Durst. He pictured Annabelle Kasprowicz with Ian Durst. He said nothing.

  “Listen,” she said, “I feel awful about what happened. I was hoping you might let me make it up to you. Lunch, tomorrow?”

  “Well, I do have this little business to run.”

  “Okay then, what about dinner?”

  “Sure.”

  “Here, about seven?”

  “At your place?” The words came out too quickly.

  “Yes, unless you’d prefer somewhere else.”

  “No, that’s fine. I mean, whatever you like. You don’t have to go to any trouble.”

  “Don’t you think I can cook?”

  Jack grinned. “I’ve got no idea.”

  Annabelle blew smoke down the line. “My father won’t be here. He’s away. Business.”

  It threw him. A couple of seconds passed before he managed a squeaky, “Okay.” What did she mean? He was already trying to remember her tone, but the words had faded too quickly. He waited for her to say something else, to give him a clue. She said nothing. The pause was pregnant with triplets.

  “Seven o’clock then?” she said.

  This time Jack was sure she was smiling.

  ~6~

  Old man time was a smart-arse. You wanted it slow, he gave it fast. You wanted it fast, he gave it slow. Today, Jack wanted it fast. So Monday dragged like it had rolled an ankle.

  By noon, Susko Books had seen just three people, not including Jack or his reflection in the front-door glass when he walked over and looked up the stairs at the street. Two pissed-off couriers came in asking for directions and a shoplifter tried to offload some books. It was the same guy he had seen the week before. A hard worker but not particularly bright. He stole the books from two doors down — a large retail bookshop called Index — and then walked straight over to Jack’s and tried to sell them. He even left the price stickers on, so that Jack could see he was getting a great deal. The man was wiry and wrinkled and looked like a sad old jockey with no horse left to ride. He had small, pale blue eyes that glistened like he had just swallowed a shot of cheap scotch. Body odour did not appear to bother him. There was a faded blue-grey tattoo of a small bird on the back of his right hand, between the base of his thumb and forefinger. He spoke quickly and in short bursts, in a thin voice like an old woman’s. The first time he came around, Jack felt sorry for the guy and gave him a few dollars for the books. It was a bad move: encouragement should be dispensed with caution, like painkillers. And so here he was again this afternoon. The latest haul: half-a-dozen paperbacks, all the latest releases, and a Jeffrey Archer hardback. That he managed to shove so much down his pants deserved some kind of acknowledgement. Jack tried but could not think of a more legal use for the man’s skills.

  “You read a lot.”

  “Nah,” the man said. “Presents I don’t want.”

  “Right.”

  “Fifty bucks. That’s a bargain.”

  Jack shook his head. “I don’t need them.”

  An instant aggression prickled the air around the man. Jack remembered somebody telling him: always watch out for the short guys.

  “Yes, you do,” said the short guy.

  Jack watched him look around the shop: nobody but the two of them. What if he jumped the counter? Pulled a knife?

  “Fifty bucks.”

  “No,” said Jack.

  The man’s watery eyes were a little narrower now. He glanced towards the front door, then down to his right. He looked back at Jack, grinning. Slowly, he turned to his left, followed the aisle of books that led to the rear door. Craned his head, squinted at something. Nodded a couple of times, as though agreeing to buy the place.

  “Okay. See you next time.” He walked out with his merchandise.

  “Can’t wait,” whispered Jack.

  That was it until about 3.00 p.m. as far as business went. At 3.10 the mailman stuck his head inside the front door, smiled and said: “Nothing for you today.” For some reason he had never liked Jack.

  Half an hour later, the phone rang. It was Chester Sinclair.

  “What?”

  “I was just thinking that I should sell you the name Jack and the Bookstalk. It’d suit you more than me. Seein’ as your name’s Jack. How about twenty-five grand?”

  “Sure. Rupees okay with you?”

  “You mock me and I come with an open heart.”

  “What did you find when you opened it? An IOU?”

  “Boy. Somebody better get nice if they want to hear something interesting.”

  “Chester, I’m busy. What do you want?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Right.”

  “Wait!”

  Jack waited.

  “Well?” said Chester.

  “Well what?”

  “You going to say sorry and ask nicely for the information I’ve acquired? I’m sure you’d love it.”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  “It concerns your poet.”

  Jack took a deep breath and forced it out through his nostrils. “And?”

  “Now I’m not sure if I should tell you.”

  “Chester, I think I know why you can’t get a woman.”

  “Now I’m definitely not going to tell you.”

  “Bye.”

  “Hold it, hold it. So fucking nasty today.”

  “Okay. You have my sincerest apologies.”

  “Fine. That’s all I wanted. See how easy it is to be nice?”

  Jack closed his eyes and shook his head. “And so?”

  “Well, I reckon you’ve ripped me off. Those Kass books are pretty popular all of a sudden. First some guy, then you, and now today some lady was after them as well. She was posh, too. And she was very interested to hear about you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I told her that I’d sold my last copies and she asked who to — hang on, she said to whom — and I told her about you. Expect her sometime today or tomorrow.”

  “Did she tell you who she was?”

  “No. Wasn’t bad looking though, for an older chick.” Chester paused. “So we’ll forget about the first lot, but from now on, whatever I get we split down the middle.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The Kass books. You’ve got the contact, I’ll get the merchandise. Fifty-fifty.”

  “Do you think you’re in a movie, Chester?”

  “Hey man, I sent her over as a gesture of goodwill. Come on. This is business. We’ll find more books if we’re both looking.”

  “How many books do you think I need?” Jack hoped his voice sounded loose and unconcerned.

  “You tell me. Then I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse,” said Chester with a terrible Godfather accent.

  “Sinclair, I promise I’ll keep you in mind when the Cosa Nostra approach me about heroin distribution. Okay?”

  “Wait —”

  Jack put the phone down. Hearing from Chester Sinclair was one of his least favourite things in the world.

  It was one minute to closing time when she walked in.

  “Are you still open?”

  “Sorry, just locking up.” Jack finished putting his coat on.

  “Oh.”

  He switched off the heaters and walked over to where the lady was standing, just inside the front door. She was an older woman, maybe in her early fifties, but looked like she took care of herself. She had a broad oval face of fin
e pale skin, with delicate cheekbones and a high, smooth forehead. Her lips were pale too, and her mouth was wide and straight, with thin wrinkles lining the corners like apostrophes. A narrow nose with slightly flared nostrils. Her dark brown hair was shoulder length and cut in a plain bob. She had soft hazel eyes: they looked at Jack with vague trepidation.

  “Sorry,” he repeated.

  She remained where she was. A new wardrobe would have helped. Instead, she wore a maroon polo neck under a thick knitted cardigan of turquoise-blue and purple, with long sleeves down to her palms and large multicoloured buttons. Also a dark blue woollen skirt, stockings and brown moccasins. There was a large, brown hessian bag over her shoulder with the handle of an umbrella sticking out. It was in the shape of an English bobby’s helmet. Jack would have said art teacher. Or maybe a children’s book illustrator. She looked a little uptight, but he sensed there was a warm fire glowing in a back room somewhere. He bet she still loved the Rolling Stones.

  “We’re open again tomorrow,” said Jack. “Ten o’clock.”

  “Oh, I don’t mean to hold you up.” She adjusted the bag on her shoulder. “Can you spare five minutes? I promise I’ll buy something.”

  Her voice was pleasant to listen to. She enunciated every vowel like the Queen’s fifth cousin by marriage.

  “Okay,” he said. “Five minutes.”

  She stepped out of the way as Jack went to the door and flicked the sign over to Closed.

  “Anything in particular you were looking for?”

  “Well, I was hoping you had a poetry section.”

  “Yeah.” Jack grinned. “There’s a poetry section. French surrealists?”

  She laughed. “Oh no! Thankfully I haven’t been in my twenties for a long time. I was actually after some Australian poetry.”

  “Right. Just down here.”

  Jack showed her the section and left her to it. He walked over to his desk, opened a drawer and pulled out the Edward Kass books. He laid them on the counter in a neat fan. Then he went around to the other side and waited for the woman to finish looking.

  After a couple of minutes she came back. She seemed disappointed.

  “Not what you were after?”

  “No,” she said. She swapped the bag to her other shoulder. “That’s all you have?”

  “Pretty much. Oh, I’ve got these too, but they’re for a customer.” Jack moved so that the woman could see. “He’s a wealthy collector. My first one. Ever.”

  She looked. Her hairline moved up a little but that was it. The expression on her face remained blank, but Jack could tell she was working hard to hold it. She pretended to read the cover of the end book. There was not much written there but she took some time to finish.

  “Yes,” she said, finally. “Yes, I think I’ve heard of Edward Kass.” She looked up at Jack and gave him a smile. It was bright — and fake as a chocolate gold coin. “Is he any good?”

  “Not really.”

  “They’re sold, you say?”

  “Just waiting to be delivered.”

  “What a pity.” She straightened up. “I remember now. He was actually one of the poets recommended to me.”

  “Really?”

  “No chance then?”

  “I don’t think so.” Jack picked up one of the books and flipped through the pages. “My collector wouldn’t appreciate it. I mean, what if I were holding the books for you and —”

  “I’m happy to pay a little more,” she interrupted. “Would that persuade you?”

  Jack leaned back against the counter, shaking his head. “Look,” he said, in a stiff voice, “I’ve got a dinner date tonight and I’d like to spend too much time getting ready for it. I’m going to need more than the offer of a few extra dollars to stay open.”

  The woman looked at him, surprised. Jack could see her thoughts flit over her eyes, like a line of fast cars reflecting past dark windows. She was having trouble keeping up with them.

  “Is your collector a man by the name of Hammond Kasprowicz?” There was more than a little venom in her voice.

  “You tell me.”

  She walked off. At the front door she stopped and turned around. “I don’t know exactly what to say to you,” she said, huffed and puffed now, like she had received bad service at the bank. “But you shouldn’t sell those books to Hammond Kasprowicz.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because he’s a complete and utter bastard, that’s why.”

  The pale skin of her neck broke out in angry blotches. It was obvious she was a woman who did not indulge her temper often. She tugged at the bag on her shoulder.

  “Aren’t bastards allowed to own books?” asked Jack.

  “Not that bastard. And not those books.”

  “You still haven’t told me —”

  “Oh, shut up!” she yelled. It was loud and sudden. “He’s burning them. Is that good enough?” She covered her face with one of her long woolly sleeves and started to sob. Through the tears and the thick, rib-knitted wool she cried: “He’s burning my father’s books!”

  ~7~

  Jack brought a chair out from behind the counter and offered it to the woman. She sat down and blew her nose into a bright yellow handkerchief.

  “Would you like a drink of water?”

  “No, thank you, I’m fine.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Please forgive me.”

  Jack smiled, a quick friendly smile, like he sometimes gave babies on the bus.

  “I’m Celia Mitten.”

  “Jack Susko.”

  She slipped the bag from her shoulder and lowered it to the floor. Under the blue-tinged fluorescent light her face looked weary and Jack had an idea that Celia Mitten did not always feel as colourful as her clothing.

  “I live with my father in Potts Point,” she said. “He’s old now, not very well. For the last twenty years he’s been trying to complete his final collection. His masterpiece. He still writes every day, from eight in the morning until noon. In the kitchen. It’s been quite stressful lately, because he’s not well.” She looked into her lap, picked something off her skirt. “He believes he’ll die before he completes his work.”

  Jack imagined Kass in the kitchen. Eight until noon must have been a barrel of laughs in there. The poet and his burning brain.

  “If he knew what Hammond Kasprowicz was doing,” said Celia, shaking her head. “My God …” Her neck flushed again.

  Jack put his hands in his coat pockets. “How do you know Hammond Kasprowicz is burning his books?”

  “Because he sent them to us, that’s how. A box of ashes in the mail. Luckily I was there when it arrived. Here” — she reached down into her bag — “you can read the note yourself.”

  She found the note and held it up. “It’s typed,” she said. Then, defensively: “There’s no name. But I know it’s Hammond Kasprowicz.”

  Jack took the small, cream envelope from her. To Mr Edward Kass was typed on the front. The letters were faded, punched through a ribbon that needed changing. Who used typewriters anymore? Jack slipped out the note. The paper was thick and grainy, the same colour as the envelope, and folded in half.

  Soon it will be as if you never wrote anything at all.

  “Sick, isn’t it?” said Celia.

  No name, no signature. Jack read the note a couple more times. Would Kasprowicz have written it? It seemed a little indirect. Or a touch too poetic.

  “Does your father have any —”

  “Enemies?” interrupted Celia. “No. Apart from Hammond Kasprowicz.”

  “Other poets?”

  “I know what you’re thinking. Petty jealousies and warring factions, all that. The battle for grants and prizes. I know all about it.” She adjusted her cardigan. “But this? Burning another poet’s books? Some of them can be vindictive, Mr Susko, and believe me, they have been. But not to this degree.”

  “Have you confronted Kasprowicz about it?”

  Celia laughed. “Why? As if he would ever admit it.” T
hen she shook her head in disappointment and looked up at the ceiling. “And just when there’s interest in Dad’s work again.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “People have been calling lately, wanting to speak to my father about his poetry. And there have been some enquiries about buying his archive as well.”

  “Who wanted to buy his archive?”

  “There were three or four calls, I can’t remember exactly who now. University libraries, private collections, that sort of thing.”

  Jack frowned, thinking.

  Celia looked at him sadly. “Please don’t sell those books to Hammond Kasprowicz.”

  “They’re already paid for.”

  “Haven’t you been listening?”

  “It’s a big call, Ms Mitten. I’d like to hear what Hammond Kasprowicz had to say about it all.”

  Celia stood up. Her chair scraped over the floor. She picked up her bag and pulled out a large red purse. She unclipped it and handed Jack a card.

  Celia’s Crystal Palace

  Bridal Accessories

  10b Macleay Street, Potts Point

  tel. 93314411 fax. 93314423

  email: celias@hotnet.com

  “After you realise what kind of man Hammond Kasprowicz is,” she said stiffly, “please call me.” She put the purse back into her bag. She looked around the bookshelves and then at Jack. “I assume you must have some regard for the written word.”

  “Sure,” he replied. “When I can sell it.”

  “Well, if it’s just about the money —”

  Jack held up his hand. “No need to be rude, Ms Mitten. All you’ve given me so far is a story. It’s not a bad story. In fact, it’s pretty good. But I’m sure Hammond Kasprowicz could give me one, too.”

  “Are you saying that I’ve made all this up?”

  “I’m saying family sagas have a tendency towards melodrama.”

  Jack watched her neck warm up again, a patchy blue-red like blackberry juice. An old girlfriend once told him that it was a sign of energy blocked in the throat: not saying what you wanted to say. Jack’s ex had been interested in stuff like that.

  “My father is at home, Mr Susko, quite ill and depressed,” said Celia Mitten firmly. “I have a package of his burnt books hidden under the laundry sink. You are more than welcome to come by and see for yourself. I would be happy to offer you some afternoon tea for your trouble.”