Lenny Bartulin - Death by the Book

“You there?” called out the guy with the mobile from the street. His voice was frail and nervous. “Hello?”

Jack filled his lungs and climbed to his feet. “Over here!” The intruder swung around. His arm shot out. The knife blade reached out in a pointy curve. Jack back-pedalled but found a bookshelf. Frantic, he tried to push himself along the uneven spines. He did not get far.

An instant later, a hot stripe drew itself briefly across his stomach, just about where his appendix would have been if he still had it. The moment his hand went there, he could feel dampness seeping through his shirt. Jack Susko slipped down the bookcase to the floor again.

The assailant ran towards the back door. Somebody swore and then there were scuffling footsteps and a crash and then nothing. A few moments later the young guy from the street walked in, stepping cautiously through the shop.

Jack sat himself up and leaned against the bookshelf. “There’s a light switch just beside the door.”

“Shit, are you all right?” The guy ran over.

“I hope so. Did you get hold of the cops?”

“They’re on their way.” He knelt down beside Jack. “The fucker just rammed past me!” he said. Then he took a better look at Jack. “Oh, shit!”

Jack pressed down where the knife had slashed him. “Reckon you could grab the towel from behind the counter? Should be on a shelf there somewhere.”

“Yeah, sure, sure.”

Jack put his head back. He turned and let it hang over his left shoulder. The shop lights flickered on, fluorescent tubes popping with harsh blue light, and he closed his eyes from the glare. When he opened them, he noticed a book sticking out a little from the shelf, just there beside him. He turned his head a little more and read the spine: After We Die, What Then? by George W. Meek.

Nothing like a good sign at the end of a bad day.

“This is Detective Peterson,” said one of the police officers. “He’ll need to ask you a few more questions.”

Detective Geoff Peterson was a tall man in a plain navy-blue suit. He had a wide face, pale complexion and small, dry blue eyes set close together. The remains of acne scars dappled his cheeks. His close-cropped sandy hair was receding in a neat V from his forehead, and his ears stuck out from his head. They were fleshy, like oysters, and large enough to pick up FM radio signals. His hands were in his pockets and he stared down at the end of his plain, light blue tie, brooding. Absently, he scratched the back of his head. Then he rubbed his face like a man who could do with some sleep.

As Jack watched him, the detective lifted his head and looked straight at him. His eyes caught Jack square, like headlights flicked onto high beam. His face was set firm. And then he winked. Surprised, Jack looked away. What the hell was that about? Peterson kept his eyes on him for a moment longer and Jack felt them crawling over his face, scrutinising him. It was not a nice feeling.

A uniformed police officer waited beside the detective with a notepad. Jack sat uncomfortably in a chair that had been brought out from behind the counter. The ambulance officers had cleaned him up, stuck a cold pack on his face, and dressed the knife wound. It was not deep, but a few stitches up at St Vincent’s Emergency ward were recommended. Jack had already answered questions and given a statement and was keen to get home, but now Detective Peterson was here and he wanted to go over a few things.

“Is this going to take much longer?” asked Jack, irritated. He had swallowed a couple of painkillers, but his head still felt like an egg in boiling water.

Peterson grinned, but the smile vanished before taking hold. “So you arrived about what time?” he said, as though they were halfway through a conversation. He squinted at Jack like a schoolteacher who already knew the answer to the question.

“I don’t know exactly.” Jack took the cold pack off his nose. “Sometime between eight-thirty and nine, I suppose. Whatever time it was when the guy from the street called you. You should know when he rang.”

Peterson did not respond. He paced around a little. The uniformed police officer stood perfectly still and scribbled in his notebook.

“And you say nothing was taken?”

“I don’t know yet. He smashed my pen mug, though.”

Peterson took one hand out of his pocket and stroked his tie, running a finger down it smoothly, like a cut-throat razor over a strap. “I don’t suppose there’d be much cash lying around here, would there?” he said, raising his eyebrows on the word cash . “I mean, what’s a second-hand book set you back. A dollar fifty? A couple of bucks? You’d have to sell a few to get a stash together.” He nodded, agreeing with himself. “Take a while.”

Jack did not answer.

The detective stood up straighter, pushed his chin out a little and carefully adjusted his tie. “Do you have a safe?”

“No.”

“Cash box?”

Jack laughed and then grimaced because it hurt. “Shoe box,” he said.

“Ah, I see. And how’s trade been?” Peterson’s tone was cool, conversational, but full of pins, like a cheap business shirt.

“Fine.” Jack noticed the uniformed officer had put his notebook away.

Peterson nodded. “What days do you bank?”

“Whenever I get a hundred bucks together,” said Jack. “Usually the autumn solstice.”

“That’s pretty funny,” said Peterson. He did not laugh. His voice wore steel-capped boots and stepped all over Jack. He slipped his hands into his pockets again and leaned back against the counter.

Jack had to turn a little to keep his eyes on him. The slash across his stomach burnt.

“So what I want to know is why somebody would break into a second-hand bookshop in the first place?” The detective looked up at the ceiling as he spoke, as though he was thinking out loud. Then he looked at the police officer there beside him. “I mean, really, what could you want? Obviously there’s no money. Just old books.”

“Rare books?” said the officer, as if he had struggled to think of the answer.

Peterson flashed a grin and looked quickly at Jack. “Doesn’t look particularly antique in here though, does it?” He checked out his shoes and then brushed something off his pants. “Any rare books, Mr Susko?” he said, still smiling. “Anything worth more than half-a-dozen dollars in here?”

Jack shifted his weight onto his left buttock. His nose throbbed. “Not today.”

“So why would our friend take the risk? If you’re going to smash a door and have no qualms about pulling a knife, why not a jewellery store? A bottleshop or a newsagency? Even a café would give you a better return.”

Jack had started to dislike Detective Geoff Peterson about five minutes ago. The feeling was now taking root like a noxious weed. He put the cold pack down and reached over the counter for his cigarettes. He put one in his mouth and then struck a match against the box. Before lighting it, he paused. “Maybe if you catch him,” he said, “you could ask him.”

Peterson shot a look at Jack. If it had been a bullet, it might have grazed his ear.

Jack lit the cigarette and tossed the spent match onto the counter. He drew back and then exhaled slowly, watching the detective through the smoke.

“But I was wondering if you had any ideas, Mr Susko,” said Peterson, smoothly, flattery lining his voice like artificial sweetener. “Think about it. There’s nothing to steal, but he brings a knife and attacks you.” Peterson looked at the officer again. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

“About what?” said Jack. He was starting to feel like he needed a lawyer.

Peterson grinned. “You say you recognised the man?”