Death by the Book Page 8

  Jack tapped ash into the palm of his hand. He could see where Peterson was going with his questions. It was starting to annoy him. ‘Could you pass me the ashtray over there?’ he said, pointing.

  The uniformed police officer slid it across so that Jack could reach. Jack brushed the ash from his palm into it and then smoothed the tip of his cigarette against the aluminium side of the ashtray. ‘Yes, I’ve already told you. He was in earlier today.’

  ‘And a week or so ago, too, you said?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘What for?’ asked Peterson, sternly.

  Jack kept his voice calm. ‘He was trying to sell me stolen books.’

  ‘Was this the first time or had you used him before?’ Detective Peterson was getting a little nasty.

  Jack closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He could feel the Panadeine Forte the ambulance guys had given him finally beginning to work. The day was catching up with him, lapping at his body in long, foamy waves. It was not an unpleasant sensation. ‘He’s my main supplier.’

  ‘I wouldn’t joke, Mr Susko.’ Peterson took out his keys, looked at them and then slipped them back into his pocket. ‘Do you owe anybody any money?’ he said.

  ‘Does that include my grandmother?’

  Peterson smiled, like a croupier about to take all Jack’s chips. ‘Only if she’s capable of sending a guy around with a knife.’

  ‘Well, she always says I never come around. They can get crazy, old people.’

  ‘We’ll be in touch, Mr Susko.’

  Jack looked over at the uniformed police officer. ‘Can I grab a lift to the hospital?’

  ‘Can’t you drive yourself?’

  ‘Not without a car.’

  The police officer glanced at Peterson.

  ‘You could always lend me one,’ added Jack.

  The detective frowned but nodded to the officer. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Oh, thanks ever so much,’ replied Jack.

  The officer walked off. Detective Peterson came over and stood beside Jack. He carefully buttoned the middle button of his coat. Without looking at Jack, he said: ‘Susko. That’s an interesting name. Be hard to forget.’

  Jack drew on his cigarette and then tapped it into the ashtray. ‘Cost me my job in espionage.’

  ‘Kind of rings a bell for me.’

  Jack looked up at Peterson and watched him pull at his tie a little, loosening it. He noticed a shaving rash just above the detective’s collar. He hoped it had been irritating him all day.

  ‘That’d be my uncle,’ he said, deadpan. ‘Harry Susko and the Sausage Boys. They were big in the seventies. Cabaret. They had a fantastic piano accordion player.’

  ‘No, I don’t reckon that’s it.’ Detective Peterson shook his head. ‘It’s right on the tip of my tongue. But I just can’t remember. Susko. Susko.’ He scratched his chin. ‘I suppose it’ll come to me later.’

  Jack put a hand on the counter and slowly stood up. ‘Hope it doesn’t keep you up all night.’

  Peterson rubbed his hands together. ‘Goodnight, Mr Susko. Careful with that cut.’

  The officers were finishing up. Jack walked gingerly behind the counter and looked into the rubbish bin. He glanced at the police and then carefully reached in. His copy of Entropy House. The bottom corner was lightly singed black from the bite of a flame. He brushed at it, then rubbed the greasy stain between his fingers. It smudged grey. He wondered if Hammond Kasprowicz would notice. Jack would be sure to point it out.

  It was after 11.00 p.m. There were two other people in the waiting room at St Vincent’s Hospital Emergency ward. A dark-haired twenty-something, dressed in a sweaty white T-shirt and faded jeans, sat passed out in one of the plastic chairs, star-fished, his limbs and head spilling awkwardly over the edges as though he had been shot. His friend — obviously still buzzing from whatever they had taken — nodded his head and drummed his knees and chewed gum beside him. Occasionally he leaned over to his comatose friend and said: ‘You’ll be right. Just breathe.’

  Good advice.

  Jack stared at the double doors that led into the surgery. Finally, they swung open. A nurse called out: ‘Mr Susko?’

  Jack followed her through. On the other side he found a few more people sitting around, waiting: some blank-faced, some worried, a couple asleep. He wondered if Monday nights were always like this. A handful of hospital staff milled around the narrow hall and walked in and out of doors. An orderly wheeled a machine down the corridor. A middle-aged woman in a pale blue uniform was refilling a water dispenser with plastic cups, while another mopped the area around it. And a little further down, Celia Mitten sat on a chair, flipping through a magazine.

  The nurse told Jack to wait. He nodded and remained on his feet. As the nurse disappeared into a cubicle, he walked down towards Celia Mitten.

  ‘Hello.’

  Celia looked up and swallowed a quick gulp of air. ‘My God, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Gang fight. What about you?’

  She glanced behind her through an open door. The bed in the room was unoccupied. ‘It’s my father. He’s had a turn. I think it was a heart attack.’

  ‘Is he okay?’

  Tears rose in her eyes. Jack noticed she was wearing the same clothes as when he had seen her earlier that day.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, a little breathless. ‘They’ve taken him somewhere for tests.’

  Jack saw a nurse coming towards him. Celia blew her nose into a crumpled tissue that she pulled out of her sleeve.

  ‘Another package arrived with a note,’ she said, trying to swallow her sobs. ‘I was with you when it arrived.’

  Jack winced as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. ‘What did the note say?’

  Celia did not answer. The nurse had stopped beside them.

  ‘This way, Mr Susko.’

  Jack smiled at the nurse and then turned to Celia. ‘Wait for me, I won’t be long. Okay?’ He patted her gently on the arm.

  Celia Mitten nodded, wiping under her eyes with the tissue.

  Jack was ushered into an examination cubicle. He sat down in a plastic fold-out chair. He could hear groaning next door and the odd squeak of rubber shoes, then an orderly telling somebody to take a deep breath. He lifted the corner of his shirt and looked down at the bandage on his stomach: blood had soaked through.

  ‘Mr Susko? I’m Doctor Armstrong.’ The doctor walked in. She dragged the cubicle curtains together with two swift movements. ‘After some stitches, I believe?’

  She was young looking, maybe mid-thirties, and had sandy hair tied in a plait. Her eyebrows were darker, curved over large brown eyes that glistened in the stark, tiled room, lit by nauseating fluorescent light. A kind, soft face. She was slim, athletically curved, dressed in grey slacks, a white short-sleeve shirt and a pair of red Adidas sneakers.

  ‘Shirt off and flat on the bed, thanks.’

  ‘Oh, good. I was hoping you’d do all the work.’

  The doctor smiled but continued with her preparations. ‘Do you want this to hurt, Mr Susko?’

  ‘Whatever you’re into, Doc. Just hit me with some pethidine and go for it.’

  Jack removed his jacket and shirt and lay down on a narrow bed. The plastic sheet beneath him popped thickly like bubble wrap. The doctor wheeled over a tray of bandages and bottles and long pointy instruments. Jack closed his eyes. He had never been good with this kind of thing.

  It did not take long. He received a tetanus injection as well, which only added to his wooziness. He thanked the doctor, who handed him a strip of painkillers.

  ‘One every three hours. Better if you can go longer, though. They’re strong.’

  Jack moved out of the examination cubicle and walked down to where Celia had been. She was gone. When he asked at the front desk, they told him that she had already left with her father.

  ‘Heart attack?’

  The male nurse scoffed. ‘Panic attack.’

  11

 
IT WAS WELL AFTER 10.00 A.M. the next morning before Jack climbed carefully out of bed. As tired as he was when he got home, he had spent most of the night waking up every five minutes. Each time he moved, something hurt. He had to breathe through his mouth. And all his half-dreams were surreal and unsettling, playing out the last week of his life like a Buñuel montage. Detective Peterson had haunted most of them.

  He dragged on a white bathrobe and pulled open the curtains. He rubbed his eyes at the day. Mid-morning light sharpened itself on the wet glass of the window. The damp grey wall opposite looked as lonely as it did yesterday. His nose ached. He needed a cigarette and a strong cup of coffee.

  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 throu
gh 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.’