Lenny Bartulin - Death by the Book

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.”