Death by the Book jsm-1 Page 9

  “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.

  Jack pushed the door to Celia’s Crystal Palace open. A bell rang, shaking out a sprinkle of nostalgia. Celia Mitten looked up from behind a glass counter where she sat next to a credit card terminal, holding a pen. The machine was printing out a smooth spool of white paper.

  “Mr Susko!”

  “Not too busy, are you?” Jack gave a quick smile but studied her face like a poker player.

  “No, not at all.” She stood up and began to clear the glass counter of invoices, a calculator and some change. “Two minutes from closing time, actually.”

  Jack glanced at his watch: nearly 4.00 p.m. Her voice sounded a little nervous. Or was Jack listening too hard? He unbuttoned his coat.

  “I’m surprised to see you,” she said. “How are you feeling now? What actually happened?” She sounded sincere enough.

  “I’m fine. It just looks bad.”

  Celia waited for more.

  “Bar-room altercation,” said Jack, turning away. “Serves me right. How’s your father?”

  “He’s better, thank you.” She tore the ribbon of paper from the eftpos machine and folded it once. Then she picked up a stapler and snapped it crisply on the corner of a couple of receipts.

  “That’s good to hear.” Jack looked around the shop. It was very bright in there. Two display walls were mirrored, the shelving was glass, and the colour scheme was white, bronze and silver. Jack could see bits of himself reflected all over the place. There were a hundred and one configurations of crystal stones and beads on display. For guidance, there were some pictures of women wearing different styles of tiaras, jewelled hair combs and stickpins. Everything a young princess could want and did not need to insure.

  “You must be relieved,” he added.

  “Oh, I can’t tell you.” Celia kept her eyes down, scooping up the rest of the change spread out on the counter. She poured it back into the tray of an open till.

  “Is he at home now?”

  “Um, yes.” She looked up. Her eyes seemed a little bloodshot. Jack held them. She blinked a few times and then returned her attention to the counter. Her neck had flushed.

  “I’d love to meet him.”

  Celia shook her head in a disappointed manner. She shoved the calculator and a notepad into a drawer and closed it roughly. “You still don’t believe me about the burnt books, do you, Mr Susko?”

  Jack inspected a row of brooches. “Hammond Kasprowicz certainly didn’t.”

  Celia closed her eyes: a moment later she fixed them on Jack, narrowed and fiery. “I could have told you that.”

  “I was hoping we could have that cup of tea you offered.”

  “My father is recuperating,” she said, irritated. “He’s fragile at the moment.” She walked out from behind the counter and stopped by the front door. She reached up to a small bank of switches and
killed the lights. “I’m sorry, but I do have to close up now.”

  Jack put his hands inside his coat pockets. The sign on the front door said closing time was 5.00 p.m.

  “Early today?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Meeting someone?”

  Celia went back around the counter. She picked up her red coat and handbag and came out again. She put both items down on a glass cabinet and started looking through her bag.

  “I have an appointment,” she said.

  “What about tomorrow?” he said, in a warmer voice. “I’m keen to hear what your father has to say.”

  Celia found her keys. Then she pulled out a mobile phone and zipped up the handbag. “Tomorrow?” She stared at the screen of the mobile, pushing a few buttons with her thumb. Then she looked up and sighed through a begrudging smile. “Yes, okay, Mr Susko, I think that should be fine. You could meet me here.”

  “Four or five?”

  “I close at five, Mr Susko.” She picked up her things. “Please don’t think me rude.”

  Jack gave her a half-dejected face. “And to think I stayed open for you.”

  Celia ignored him and walked to the front door, slipping on her coat. Jack followed and she let him out. As she secured the lock he glanced up the street: Durst’s car was still there.

  Celia turned, hooking the handbag over her shoulder. “So you asked him then?” she said. “Kasprowicz?”

  Jack nodded.

  Celia sighed at the traffic over his shoulder. “Well. Tomorrow then. And you can ask my father, too. Maybe you’ll change your mind about things.” She gave him a weak smile and began walking away.

  The air was icy and the sun had nothing left in it this late in the day. Jack crossed Macleay Street. There was a café just up the road. He sat down at an outside table and pulled out his cigarettes. He watched Celia Mitten walk by the plane trees. He noticed her glance over her shoulder. A waiter came over with pad and pen. “Short black, thanks.”

  He saw Celia stop beside Durst’s BMW. She looked back along the street and then climbed into the passenger side. Jack blew some smoke and nodded to himself. Anybody watching might have said he looked like a man who knew what was going on. They would have been wrong.

  ~12~

  For a windy Wednesday morning, Susko Books was doing all right. It was only 11.15 and already about a dozen people had been through. Three were browsing now. Maybe today was International Day of Second-hand Books. Or the stars were aligned just so. Any other time it might have put Jack on the road to a good mood. But a few bruises, some stitches and a busted door ensured Mr Positive was only peeking through the venetian blinds.

  A customer approached the counter. She handed Jack ten dollars and a faded, hardback copy of The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying.

  “The butler did it,” said Jack. The woman gave him a puzzled look. Small, dull metal rings pierced her nose, bottom lip and left eyebrow. She had the kind of face that did not need all the extra attention. White-wired miniature headphones were packed tightly into her ears: music buzzed faintly from them. She took her book, turned and walked out.

  Jack slipped the ten dollars into the cash draw. Beside it on the counter was a scrap of paper with a few numbers and sums written on it. Chester Sinclair had accepted Jack’s offer of twenty dollars per book. Minus Sinclair’s twenty, and the four books he still needed for the advance Kasprowicz had paid him, Jack was left with an extra one hundred and thirty dollars. If he could squeeze a delivery fee out of the old guy, that made one hundred and eighty.

  Jack stared at the figure he had written down. A shitty one eighty. It looked a little thin. In the orbit of embarrassing. Replacing the rear door would be twice that, if not more. And what about the cost of being knifed? Maybe Jack had taken his quality customer service a little too far.

  He picked up a dictionary on the counter that a customer had finally decided not to buy. It was the Concise Oxford, tenth edition, minus dust jacket. Jack closed his eyes and thought: Money. He pressed a finger firmly on the page. He opened his eyes.

  doldrums/ • pl. n. (the doldrums) 1 a state of stagnation or depression. 2 an equatorial region of the Atlantic Ocean with calms, sudden storms, and light unpredictable winds.

  “What are you looking up, Jack? Prior record?” Detective Peterson slapped the edge of the counter with his fingertips. He grinned, pleased with himself for being so funny. He leaned over and tried to get a look at the page Jack was holding open.

  “Isn’t that two words, Detective?” Jack closed the dictionary and spun it around, pushing it towards Peterson. “Here,” he said. “Ever used one of these before?”

  The detective picked up the book and weighed it in his hand, swinging it gently up and down. He stared at the cover and nodded as though impressed. “How about two more words?” he said. “Insurance and fraud. Reckon they’re in there as well?”

  Jack noticed a customer glance over from the biography section. Cops were never good for business. Just like the past was never any good to the present.

  Detective Peterson threw the book onto the counter. “Two thousand and four,” he said, raising his voice. “An S-Class Mercedes Benz. Black and brand new. Nice car. Remember it?”

  Jack remembered. It was the kind of car heavyweight German Chancellors got driven around in. Or Sydney bigwigs who liked a lot of leg room in the back seat. “No,” he said.

  Peterson put his hands in his pockets and looked around the shop. The polyester in his blue suit crackled with static electricity. He nodded at the customer in the biography section: the man quickly resumed reading the book in his hands.

  “Jerry can, bonfire, a certain Ziggy Brandt?” said Peterson, casually, like he was reading a shopping list. “No?”

  “Movie or book?”

  “You were arrested, weren’t you, Jack?” Peterson tilted his head and read the spines on a bookcase beside the counter. “Down in Watson’s Bay, wasn’t it?”

  “Nice place at the wrong time.”

  “Spent a night in the cells. Didn’t smell too good in there, did it?”

  Jack crossed his arms and nodded at the dictionary. “I got a word for you. How about harassment? And then maybe you could look up lawyer.”

  “Just talking, aren’t we?”

  “The bullshit section is down the back.”

  Detective Peterson scowled. He straightened up, stepped slowly to the counter. Then he reached over and flipped open the dictionary. He grinned as he ran a finger down the page. “Ziggy Brandt didn’t hesitate turning you over, eh? What’d you do, Jack? Try it on with his little girl?”

  Jack shook his head. “I was acquitted of all charges, Geoff. Or didn’t you read that bit of the report? Got sleepy trying to concentrate on all the big words?”

  Peterson smiled. “She was a looker, wasn’t she? Big tits, I remember. But daddy’s little girl in the end. Claudia? Yeah, that was it. Claudia Brandt.”

  The front door opened and another customer came in, a middle-aged woman with spiky hair, pink-framed glasses and large earrings. She smiled at them both and began inspecting some books laid out on a table: the discount specials, nothing over five dollars.

  “I’d appreciate if you’d watch your language,” said Jack.

  The detective gave him a look the equivalent of an eye gouge. “Don’t think I believe what’s in that report, Susko. Nobody clean ever worked for Ziggy Brandt.”

  Jack picked up his lighter, turned it around in his hand. Almost true: nobody stayed clean working for Ziggy Brandt. Being in his employ was a matter of how long you could go without taking a bath.

  “You must have heard some interesting things driving that prick around,” added Peterson, almost jealously, glancing at the woman who had just walked in.

  “Yeah. All on tape, too. Shall we do a deal?”

  Ziggy Brandt was a self-made man. He was short and dark and ugly. Among other things, a property developer. He began his career with a company that provided
scaffolding for high-rise projects. Most of the scaffolding he had conveniently found while walking around the city late at night — just minding his own business. One scaffold pipe at a time and the odd insurance scam and up the ladder he went. By the time Jack got the job driving his Mercedes, he was worth a cool fifty mill. On the books, that is. He was generous with cash bonuses, but you had to be available around the clock. Jack was about to throw it in when he met the daughter. He stayed on. She was impressive. Did the odd underwear catalogue while she finished her law degree. Appreciated the finer things and was happy to pay for dinner. But in the end, she cleaned out his heart like a pickpocket and left him standing with no bus fare home.

  “How’s your friend with the knife? Been back to check up on you?” said Peterson.

  “He’s already in Mexico. We’re meeting in Switzerland as soon as the insurance company pays out on my door. Nothing like a lump sum to set you up for life.” Jack moved out from behind the counter and walked to the front door. He stood there and held it open. “I’m really very busy, Geoff.”

  Detective Peterson did not move. He reached out and smoothed the pages of the dictionary still lying open on the counter. Then he turned and slowly made his way over. He stopped beside Jack at the front door.

  “So why’d he pull the knife?” he asked, eyes bright with conspiracy. “You get nervous, try and pull out of the deal? Ran down here to stop him sending it all up in flames?” He glanced around the shop. “Just love the books too much, huh?”

  “What are you talking about?” Jack tried to contain a worried look but it tightened the muscles in his face.

  Peterson did not seem to notice. “Brandt must have shown you a few tricks. His businesses burn down every month.”

  “Yeah, that’s it,” said Jack, without looking at him. He let go the door and walked back to the counter. Peterson stepped outside. The door closed with a soft thud. Jack looked up and saw the detective through the glass, grinning and waving goodbye.

  He smiled back, whispering through his teeth: “Fuck you, Geoff.”

  Lunchtime in Double Bay. The sun was sharp and the cold air whipped canvas awnings in violent gusts. Traffic lights shook like TV antennas. Jack got off the bus and cut through Knox Street on the way to Cumberland Gardens, feeling the blood turn blue in his veins. Nobody braved the outside tables: inside, old ladies with grey bouffant hairdos and their forty-five-year-old daughters with not much to do complained and wondered if the council could do something about the wind.