Death by the Book

~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.

Apart from that, the place was empty. Jack walked briskly. He turned down Bay Street and wondered if Annabelle would be at the house.

In his bag were the Kass books he had been able to find since delivering the first lot exactly a week ago. Jack was still in two minds about whether he should hand them over. A lot had happened in the last seven days. The books might be his only bargaining power: though for what, he had no idea. It would all depend on what Kasprowicz had to say for himself.

The long green gate was open. Jack walked through, noticing again how shabby the front yard looked. Annabelle’s Audi was parked in the carport. He went up the three front steps to the house, crossed the verandah and knocked.

After a few moments, she opened it, trailing a white cloth napkin in her hand. “Well, Mr Susko. This is a surprise. Are you collecting for a charity?”

Jack smiled. She was dressed in an oversized black jumper stretching down to her thighs and light grey tights: on her feet, thick white socks. She looked warm and very comfortable. Her hair was loose and tucked in behind her ears. No jewellery, no make-up, clear skin, smooth complexion: the effect was almost rude. The kind of woman who started wars and religious cults.

“Nice beanie,” she said. “Did your mother knit it?”

“In case of Sydney blizzards.”

She looked Jack up and down, grinned. “Yes, I can see it now. Bit of a mummy’s boy.”

“I visit every Christmas.”

“What else could a mother want?” Annabelle stepped aside. “Come in. You’ve just caught me having my lunch.”

Pity it wasn’t a bath. Jack walked through. He waited for her to close the door and then followed her down the hall, into the kitchen.

“Your father not here?” he asked, watching her walk and listening to the soft, padded sound of her feet on the hall runner.

“No. Did you want to see him?”

“We had an appointment for one o’clock.”

“He’s in Hong Kong on business. Don’t think he’ll get here in time.”

“Right.” Jack thought about getting angry, but the feeling had nothing to grab. Other feelings were grabbing hold of other things.

Annabelle dropped her napkin onto the kitchen table. “Are you hungry?” she said, turning to Jack. “I made too much.”

Jack noticed a bottle of Semillon, about one-third full, standing guard beside a green salad. Looked like Annabelle had opened her innings already.

“Thanks, I’m fine. Don’t let me stop you.”

“I’ve had enough. Wine? Or Scotch, maybe? It’s after twelve.”

“I’ll have what you’re having.”

“Easy.” She reached up to a cupboard, opened it and removed a bottle of Scotch and two glasses. Jack watched her pour generous portions. He put his bag down beside a chair and then removed his beanie, coat and scarf.

“So, more developments?” she said, turning around with the glasses. She walked over, handed one to Jack. “I suppose you’ve been talking to Celia again?”

He noticed the edge in her tone. “This afternoon, actually. I’m meeting her father, too. Hopefully he’ll be there.”

“Ah, the dark poet.”

Jack smiled. He leaned back against one of the dining chairs. “So what’s big Hammond got against him?”

“What hasn’t he got against him.” Annabelle sipped her drink. She tilted her head slightly to the side and gave Jack a questioning look. “Do you mind if I ask what happened to your face?”

“I was hoping your old man might be able to tell me.”

“What do you mean?”

Jack knew the concern on Annabelle’s face was not for him. But the chance that it was, even just a little, nudged him in the ribs. He wanted to tell her what had happened. Even as he told himself to be wary, to read and consider the situation, the angles, he knew he would tell her. Given the chance, Jack realised he would always want to tell her, anything and everything.

“Somebody broke into my shop. They were trying to burn a couple of uncle Edward’s books.”

“I don’t understand. In your shop?”

“In my rubbish bin. Set-up job gone wrong. I turned up when I wasn’t supposed to.”

Annabelle Kasprowicz looked out through the glass doors into the rear yard and frowned. Outside, the wind had tipped over a striped deckchair. “You think my father had something to do with it?”

“Maybe.” Jack looked down and swirled the glass in his hands. “He denied it on the phone.”

“That’s why you wanted to speak with him?”

“Yes. Nice of him to tell me about Hong Kong.”

“It was out of the blue. I made the appointment for him.” Annabelle ran a hand through her hair, thinking. Her eyes darted along the grooves between the terracotta tiles on the floor. Jack was disappointed she had lost interest in his face. “Couldn’t be helped,” she said, more to herself.

“So you earn your keep then?”

Annabelle reached for a packet of cigarettes, lit up, tossed a cheap blue lighter onto the bench. She scratched the corner of her mouth with her little finger, pensive. “Why would he try to set you up? He’d only be setting himself up, wouldn’t he?”

“Maybe,” said Jack. He had already thought of that and knew deep down that Kasprowicz probably had nothing to do with it. But the break-in was connected to something: to Hammond Kasprowicz, to this family. And now to Jack. A knife in the guts made him practically a relation.

“Why does he want them in the first place?” he asked, firmly, remembering his anger. “Why would he be burning them and sending them to his brother?”

Annabelle gave Jack a startled look. “You don’t know that for certain.”

“I’ve seen the note.”

“So what? That’s not proof. And those ashes could be burnt newspapers for all you know.” She moved to the other side of the island bench, away from Jack. “I told you not to believe anything Celia Mitten said.”

“You believed it the other night.”

Annabelle looked away.

“Why don’t you give me something then?” asked Jack, with more force than he had intended. “One little idea. Preferably true.”

Annabelle dragged on her cigarette, blew out a quick blue breath. “I would if I had one.”

“Tell me what happened between your father and Kass. Why did he take all the money?”

“Because.”

Jack waited for an answer.

Annabelle poured more Scotch into her glass. With her back to him, she said: “Edward Kass had an affair with my mother.”

One of the halogen lights in the ceiling died, softly, like a candle being snuffed out. Annabelle turned around and stared meaningfully at Jack. “That enough?”

He had suspected the possibility, but hearing it surprised him. Now that it was clear, all of his assumptions shifted around a little, suddenly uncomfortable and awkward, like distant relatives at a wake. Durst flashed in his mind like a hazard light.

“Runs in the family, then?” said Jack.

“What?”

“Playing around. Six-figure imaginations and you guys still go for the one-dollar thrills.”

“Excuse me?” Annabelle straightened up.

A little blood rushed to Jack’s head. Who was he getting angry at? He looked at Annabelle, tried to see what her face revealed, but could not afford the entrance ticket. Truth was, Jack was the only one-dollar thrill round at Cumberland Gardens.

“Celia must be a chip off the old block,” he said, fiddling with the lighter in his pocket. “I saw your ex-husband leaving the sparkle shop the other day. Or are they just good friends?”

Annabelle opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She stood frozen, her lips slightly parted, soft and full. Jack almost went over and laid one on her. But as her face darkened, he realised now was probably not a good time.

“I’ve got to send some faxes,” she said. She crushed her half-smoked cigarette in an ashtray. Glass in hand, she walked out of the kitchen.

Jack looked around. The house was silent. A strange feeling overcame him: it was as if he were looking at himself through the window. Standing there, in somebody’s house, somebody he did not know. As though he had broken in, but now had no idea what he wanted.

He walked out into another hallway. From a nearby room on his left he could hear the beeping of office equipment. The door to the room was open. He went over and stood at the entrance. Annabelle was flicking through a small pile of paper.

Kasprowicz’s study: a warm cocoon of timber, leather and books. A gas heater burnt red through fake logs. There was a chess board set up on a small table in front of it, a couple of deep sofa chairs on either side, perfectly aligned. Jack scanned the bookshelves, thick with brown, black and maroon spines, all carefully lined up, every edge flush with its neighbour. He wondered if they had ever been taken down. White lace curtains filtered damp light in through a tall bay window, just behind a dark-stained desk that looked big enough to live in.

Annabelle sat behind the desk in her father’s thickly padded, green leather chair. She was turned to her left, feeding a page through the fax machine. Her eyes were wet but her expression gave nothing away.

“Kass went to hospital the other night,” said Jack. “After getting more ashes in the mail. Thought he was having a heart attack.” He walked into the study, half-closing the door behind him.

“We’ve all got to go sometime.”

“True. But we don’t need help to get there.”

“Everybody needs help.”

Annabelle stood up. As she reached for her glass of Scotch, Jack grabbed her wrist and drew her to him. She did not resist.