Lenny Bartulin - Death by the Book

Durst snapped the gun shut. Jack had not had time to notice if it was loaded. The two dark cylinders pointed at his kneecaps. Suddenly they looked about a mile long.

“You’re a son of a bitch,” said Durst. He lifted the shotgun a little higher and pointed it precisely at Jack’s balls.

Clifford Harris walked out of the house and stood beside Durst, a double-barrel resting over his forearm, too. It looked more of an antique, the barrels side-by-side old style and engraved with Spanish-looking motifs, as was the stock and grip. He had been smiling as he walked out but when he saw Jack and Annabelle and then Durst, he stopped.

“What’s going on?”

Durst and Harris wore identical, shiny brown leather vests with red and black cartridges slipped into ammunition sleeves cut into them — two sets of five over the chest, two more sets of five directly below. Between them they had enough to make a mess of a small family of woolly mammoths. Jack wondered if he should call out for MacAllister.

“That’s the second gun I’ve seen you with in three days,” he said to Durst. “You compensating for something?”

Annabelle moved towards him. “Jack, don’t.”

“Get the fuck inside,” snarled Durst at her. “Go find your daughter.”

“Don’t talk to me like that!” She spun around and advanced on Durst. The riding crop went up into the air. Durst grabbed her by the arm and pulled her aside. She stumbled and hit the alcove wall with her shoulder. Jack took a step forwards. Durst lifted the shotgun higher.

“Easy, lover boy.”

“You fuck!” cried Annabelle.

Clifford Harris put a hand on Durst’s shoulder. “Settle down. I think it’s best if we just ask Mr Susko to be on his way.”

Durst’s shotgun had moved slightly when he grabbed his ex-wife. Jack’s balls were safe again. He took a quick step forward and swung a right at Durst’s head: chin, cheek, eye, neck, anywhere was just fine. He connected mostly with ear, and a little with the area in front, where the jaw attaches to the skull. Fairy floss would be on the good doctor’s menu until Christmas. Durst stumbled backwards. Jack moved with him; a second later his left came round at the end of a tight, right-angled jab and caught Durst square on the chin. It looked good, much prettier than the first punch. Durst’s head snapped back again. The shotgun fell from his hands onto the flagstones. Annabelle yelled something and Harris moved at the edges of Jack’s vision, but Jack only had eyes for Durst. He grabbed a handful of leather vest and pulled Durst forward, away from the wall and into some space. He let go with another right, straight into the guts: the money shot, the one Jack had been saving up since the first time they met. All the air in Durst’s lungs blew out with a loud ooohff , like a gym mat being thrown to the floor. He went down and stayed down, curling up around his stomach and grimacing with pain.

Now they were even, with a little extra left over in the bank for Jack.

Somebody grabbed him from behind and pulled him backwards. They tried to pin his arms. Jack straightened up and threw his head back, hard as he could. He hit something bony and then heard a groan. His arms were no longer pinned. He turned around and saw MacAllister with his hands on his face.

“Jesus!” cried the big man as he doubled over. “Fuck!”

Harris froze and stared at MacAllister. Jack moved quickly and snatched the shotgun out of his hands. Harris hardly seemed to notice.

“What’d you do that for?” said MacAllister, wincing. “You’ve busted my fucking nose!” He stood up again and then looked at his hands. They were covered in blood. His nose was raw and swollen. He spat on the ground. “Jesus!”

Annabelle went over to Jack and grabbed his arm. “You should go.” She glanced down at Durst, still curled up on the flagstones, and then nodded at MacAllister. “Go on, just go. Help him to your car.”

Jack leaned the shotgun on the wall behind him. His arms were very heavy. He could feel his heartbeat pound in his fists. He guided MacAllister to the Volvo and helped him into the passenger side. Then he got into the driver’s seat. Annabelle waved him away and turned to Harris. They started to argue. Jack glanced up at Kininmonth and saw Annabelle’s daughter, Louisa, staring down from one of the windows. He turned away and started the Volvo’s engine. He tried to tell himself it was not always the bad guys that got driven out of town.

The adrenaline faded slowly from Jack’s body: his hands shook a little on the wheel. His guts were tight, shoulders stiff, the taste in his mouth metallic. Some light repartee might have helped, but MacAllister was not talking. He remained silent the whole way back to Sydney, even after Jack had stopped at a supermarket in Campbelltown and bought him a packet of frozen peas for his nose. Sometimes MacAllister had a tendency to sulk. This was one of them.

“What about a game of I Spy ?”

MacAllister ignored Jack. He inspected the improvised cold pack and then switched on the radio. Classical music filled the car, along with a lot of static.

“Is that a no?” Jack glanced at his friend. A scowl flashed over MacAllister’s face like a flame.

Eyes on the road and the rain, Jack drove and tried to remember to breathe. But his mind kept throwing punches, replaying the scene at Kininmonth, and his regret grew with every wet mile that slipped under the wheels.

At home, a couple of shots of Tullamore Dew did nothing to dispel the unease. Neither did a few more. Lois sensed the tension and stayed in the bedroom. Jack smoked and picked at the stitches in his stomach and thought about a lot of things that added up to nothing.

Slowly, silently, the afternoon soaked up the evening. He fell asleep on the couch.

Next thing, the phone rang. It was Annabelle Kasprowicz.

“I need to see you.”

Jack rubbed his face. “What time is it?”

“Nearly midnight. I know it’s late, but —”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at home. Please, can you come over?”

“What’s the rush?”

“The police were here this afternoon. They rang me at Kininmonth and asked me to come back and answer some questions.”

“About what?”

“My father.” Annabelle paused. “They think he had something to do with Edward’s death.”

Jack tried to focus. The room was thick with darkness. He closed his eyes, lowered his head.

“And what did he have to say about it?”

“He didn’t say anything. He’s not here.”

“Isn’t he back from Hong Kong?”

“No. And I don’t know where he is. That’s what they questioned me about. They think he never went to Hong Kong.”

Jack’s mind started to sift a few things, but it was slow work at this time of night.

“He was meant to be back yesterday but I still can’t get him on his mobile. I’ve been trying every five minutes since the police left. I’m afraid, Jack.”

Lois padded in from the bedroom. Jack leaned across and switched on the lamp. A soft reddish light spread through the lounge room. His arm twitched. He remembered Durst.

“Where’s hubby?”

“Please, not now, Jack.”

The bottle of Tullamore Dew stood a third full on the coffee table. Jack poured himself a couple of fingers.

“I’m here alone,” said Annabelle. “I can’t sleep.”

“Too much hot-shoe shuffle.”

“What?”

“You heard.”

“ Jesus , Jack.” Annabelle’s voice tensed.

Jack slugged the whiskey. “What was Clifford Harris talking about? Are you really getting a divorce or just playing a nice round of family swindle?”

“For God’s sake! I’ve already told you. What do I need to say to make you believe me?”