Death by the Book (5 page)

‘Why don’t you tell me something?’

Annabelle hesitated a moment. ‘It’s not the first time I’ve caught him buying Edward Kass books.’

‘Caught him?’

‘Discovered them in his possession.’

‘I didn’t know they were illegal.’

Annabelle looked away. Little Walter’s harmonica moaned. Muddy sang.
Gonna need my help I said.

‘Does your father know Edward Kass?’ asked Jack.

Annabelle reached into her bag and pulled out a small black case. Inside were some reading glasses with narrow rectangular frames and pale pink arms. The lenses were slightly tinted. They suited her. No doubt everything suited her. She slid them on and walked over to one of the bookshelves.

‘Susko,’ she said, running her finger down the line of books. ‘That’s a strange name, isn’t it?’

‘Should’ve seen what it was before I changed it.’

She looked up, her finger stopped on a book.

‘Jones,’ said Jack and shook his head in despair. Her smile lasted longer this time.

‘Jack Jones does have a certain ring to it,’ she said, returning her attention to the book spines. ‘You could have called yourself Jay Jay.’

Jack came out from behind the counter. He leaned against it, crossed his arms over his chest. ‘What about Kasprowicz? Bet you’ve had fun spelling that.’

‘Sure have,’ she said, coolly. ‘It cashes all the cheques.’

‘That’s handy. Polish?’

‘Very good, Jay Jay. My mother hated it and never took it as her own. She stayed Temple. Except when she signed the cheques.’

Jack walked over to the bookcases. He could see Annabelle through the gaps on the shelf. Her cowboy boots clicked across the polished concrete floor. Muddy started the riff to ‘Whiskey Blues’.

‘Australia via … ?’

‘London,’ she said. ‘The old story, running away from the Nazis. Easy when you’re loaded.’

‘What isn’t?’

‘Love.’

‘Let me guess. Your favourite Beatle was Paul.’

She did not reply. Jack tried again. ‘So who’s Edward Kass?’

Annabelle walked around the end of the aisle. She stopped beside Jack and passed him a book.

‘This looks interesting. Do I get a discount?’ Jack took the book without looking at it.

Annabelle lingered beside him. ‘He’s my uncle,’ she said. ‘On my father’s side.’

The door to Susko Books swung open and a customer entered. Cold air rushed down the steps: dead leaves and a page of soiled newspaper blew into the shop. Jack looked around to see who had come in. A man was closing the door behind him.

Annabelle gathered her bag off the counter. When she turned towards the front door she froze.

The guy was grinning like a cartoon cat. He had a lean, tanned face, all blue-eyed and square-jawed. Except the tan looked a little
tandoori
to Jack. His straw-coloured hair was short and thinning, styled to look like all he ever did was run his hand through it, casually. A tight little paunch said that he was not as young as he wanted to look. He had splashed on about a hundred bucks’ worth of aftershave. He wore faded blue designer jeans, pale yellow leather slip-ons, and a loose grey blazer over a white T-shirt and black knitted vest. Overall, he seemed pretty fit. He had a couple of inches on Jack, both up and sideways. A BMW key ring dangled between the fingers of his clenched right hand.

Jack recognised him. It was the guy he had seen in the car with Louisa at Kasprowicz’s house.

‘Hello, Annabelle,’ he said, still grinning. His teeth were as white as cream cheese. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

Annabelle looped an arm through her bag. ‘I suppose you expect me to believe it’s a coincidence.’ Her voice was cold. ‘Leave me alone, Ian.’

Ian walked towards her. He jingled the keys in his hand. ‘I was driving past before and saw you come in. Thought we could have a coffee.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘You know I never joke, Annabelle.’ He turned to Jack.
‘You got to watch this one. Needs a tight leash.’ His voice turned slimy, like warm suntan lotion. ‘Yep, a real tight leash.’

‘Fuck you,’ said Annabelle. She pushed past him to the door. Ian smiled as he watched her disappear up the steps.

‘You need some help?’ said Jack.

The man’s smile dissolved. He ran a hand through his hair, walked over and put his finger in Jack’s airspace. ‘Keep away from my fucking wife.’

Two seconds went past as Jack considered his next move. Two seconds too long. The man shot a dirty right fist into Jack’s stomach, BMW keys and all. He stepped back. All the air inside Jack blew out fast enough to break the sound barrier. He moaned and doubled over. He tried to suck air back into his lungs but they had collapsed like a beginner’s soufflé. The man went to the nearest bookcase and began to pull all the books off it. They hit the floor like a net full of wet fish. When he had finished, he gave Jack a parting knee to the ribs.

Business was slow that day. Nobody came in and saw Jack crawl over behind the counter and lift himself up into a chair. Nobody got him a couple of aspirins and a glass of water, or a stiff drink and a cigarette. Nobody helped him clear up the mess. And nobody made him chicken soup that night either.

But that was okay. Jack Susko could take care of himself.

4

L
OIS HAD APPEARED IN THE LANE
behind Susko Books about six months ago. Her right paw was off-white, like a dirty sock, the rest of her was a cheap, stripy ginger. Her ears were stubby and her tail was too long. Just a run-of-the-mill short hair, but she flounced around like Marlene Dietrich. No name, no past, and nothing to lose. A free agent with time on her paws. Jack made the mistake of tossing her some bacon out of his breakfast roll: after that, she was there every morning. He could not remember what had possessed him to take her home. She was a bedraggled thing, with no breeding or manners. She had the gall to refuse tinned pet food. But Jack could not deny there was something about her. He thought it was style. He never guessed that it was trouble.

It was a little before 6.00 a.m. Jack pushed Lois off his head and got up.

In the lounge room he turned on the heater. Lois stood in front of it and waited for the warm air to start blowing. Their ground-floor flat in Leinster Street, Paddington, was comfortable, but cold in winter. It was part of a large, double-fronted terrace that did not receive a lot of natural light. The last time it had received anything was a paint job in 1955. Its main features were a shabby ambience, high moulded ceilings and some fancy ironwork. It was apparently a fine example of the architecture of its day. Considering the rent for all this unique charm, Jack probably should have paid it more attention.

He sat down in his Eames lounge chair and pulled on a pair of socks. Along with his small collection of blues and jazz vinyl, the chair was his prize possession, a 1970s number 670 that he bought at a garage sale last year while trawling for books. It was missing its base and the footrest, and the leather had a couple of scratches in it, but for seventy-five dollars he could not believe his luck. He happily spent five hundred getting it repaired. It was the most comfortable chair in the universe. Jack yawned. Maybe he should sit in it all day.

He went into the kitchen and poured a glass of water, dropped a Berocca into it and lit a cigarette while the thing fizzed. Normally he would wait until later for his first cigarette. Each day he had been trying to beat the previous day’s time, even if only by a minute. He was getting close to 8.00 a.m. But not today. Jack did not feel so good. He struck a match and drew deeply.

The damp Saturday morning streets were empty, except for some late-night boys and girls huddled under leaky awnings. They shivered, looked up and down the street, and silently wondered what to do. A few cabs drove by, searching for a last fare. Walk signals ticked loudly at intersections and bins overflowed with rubbish. Everything seemed to be suffering from a mild hangover, the sky, the buildings, even the trees. Rain drifted down in a grey mist.

Jack walked along Oxford Street.
Punched in the gut
. He felt the bruise to his ego. The worst thing about a sucker punch was the thinking afterwards: you should have done this, you should have done that. And the whole time knowing you had done nothing.

In the city he bought the weekend paper and a pack of cigarettes. He stopped at a small café in the Strand Arcade. It was a warm, timber-lined place with a few tables on one side and a row of booths on the other. Framed reproductions of old coffee and tea advertisements hung on the walls. Jack removed his coat and scarf and slipped into one of the booths. The waitress came over to take his order. Her honey blonde hair was done up in a loose bun at the back of her head. She was young and plump, her brown eyes were bright and her cheeks rosy. She made Jack feel a little better. He ordered a ham-and-cheese croissant and a long black.

A story on page four of the paper caught his eye. It was about a GP who had been supplying his receptionist with drugs. After everybody went home they liked to stay behind in the surgery and relax together, talk a bit and pop a few pills. Have some fun. Make a couple of home movies if they felt like it. Everything was going fine until one found its way
onto the net. It was popular with a lot of people but none of them worked for the Medical Association of New South Wales.

Doctor Ian Durst
. The name flashed into Jack’s mind. The newspaper story had reminded him of a similar episode about five or six months ago, involving Mr Fake Tan of the Sucker Punches, formerly Doctor Ian Durst, gynaecologist, Double Bay. He had been struck from the medical register after a sex, drugs and money scandal. It was on the evening news: his photograph had been in the papers. That was why Jack thought he had seen Durst before, when he glimpsed his face in the car in Kasprowicz’s driveway.

Durst
. He said the name in a low voice. It sounded like a town in Austria. Or a type of sausage.
Son of a bitch
.

Jack paid for breakfast. It was nearly 8.30 a.m. Outside, the drizzly rain had stopped but the wind had picked up and whipped around in annoying gusts. Traffic was quickly filling the streets as Jack hurried on to Susko Books. He wanted to call Brendan MacAllister before opening up. Jack’s former boss at
MacAllister’s Old Books
knew a little something about everything that went on in old Sydney Town.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s Jack.’

A pause. ‘Jack?’ MacAllister put on an exaggerated English accent. ‘I am sorry, but I do not believe I know anybody by that name.’

‘Like that, is it?’ said Jack.

‘I am sorry, sir, but I suspect that you may have dialled the wrong number.’

‘I suppose I’ll have to send you a written apology before you’ll speak to me?’

MacAllister laughed. ‘You can write?’

‘You can read?’

Brendan MacAllister was a big man: fifty-five and fit, with dark red hair everywhere except his scalp. Handsome in a bald, bristly kind of way. His laugh was deep and resonant. Cups and cutlery shook if he happened to be at a table when something struck him as funny.

‘Nice of you to call,’ said MacAllister. ‘I thought you were dead.’

‘It’s been a busy couple of months.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Then in a Scottish accent: ‘Did I not treat you like a son?’

‘I was an abused child, your Honour.’

‘Oh, that’s why you’re ringing: blackmail. How much?’

‘Hundred thousand ought to keep me quiet.’

‘Sure, sure. Cheque okay?’

‘Only if it’s in a bag with the cash.’

‘Funny bastard. Hang on …’

Jack waited. He flicked through a pile of mail on the counter. He could hear MacAllister calling out to his wife.

‘Right,’ he said, back on the phone. ‘My coffee shall be here directly.’

‘How’s Denise?’

‘Demanding as ever. What’s new with you?’

‘I’m getting married.’

MacAllister grunted. ‘Really? What’s her name?’

‘Annabelle Kasprowicz.’

‘A millionaire’s daughter, no less! I presume you’ve met the father-in-law.’

‘A gentleman and a scholar.’

‘In the fifth rung of hell.’