Lenny Bartulin - Death by the Book

“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 fine 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!”

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.