Lenny Bartulin - Death by the Book

Peterson moved a little closer. Behind his back he flexed the fingers of his right hand. “I know about the other guy at Kass’s apartment, Jackie boy,” he said. There was cold steel in his tone. “You know, the one who stabbed you the other day? The one who shot Kass in the head? The one you saw on the kitchen floor with a bullet in his chest? Good old Rory Champion. And that was his real name, too, in case you’re wondering.”

Peterson let it all hang in the air for a moment. “Not telling us about Rory was a bad move, Jack. Sounds a little like intent to pervert the course of an investigation. Or maybe it sounds a lot like it. So next we have to ask ourselves why. Don’t we?”

Jack looked blankly at Peterson.

The detective grinned. “’Cause you’re an accessory to murder, maybe?” he said, enjoying himself. “People do all sorts of things for money.” Peterson looked around the apartment with distaste. “And there’s no doubt Kasprowicz could afford you .”

“I’m sure you can colour it any way you want, Detective. But it all looks bullshit brown to me.” Jack tried to sound smooth but it was all unsealed road from the moment he opened his mouth.

“Oh, I got all the colours of the rainbow right here.” Peterson tapped his pocket. “But let’s be clear. Let me explain the way they see it down at the station. I’ll give you the list and we’ll make sure there’s no confusion. I’d hate for you to be confused.”

The detective took a few more steps towards the Eames chair. “You work for Kasprowicz,” he said. “You got all the Kass books for him. You lit the matches and wrote the notes. You’re a helpful kind of guy. And you find Kasprowicz someone to kill his brother. Kasprowicz knew you’d find the right person. Because you worked for Ziggy Brandt, you knew every piece of shit in town.” The detective smiled.

Jack did not look up. He carefully shaped the end of his cigarette against the inside of the ashtray.

“So you hire Rory — he’s nice and cheap, eat a bag of cockroaches for ten bucks. Everything is set. But then the fucker wants more money. Maybe he worked out he was being ripped off, somehow found out about Kasprowicz and guessed that whatever he was paying you was more than you were paying him. Or maybe he thought he could blackmail you. Maybe he thought he could squeeze something extra out of the deal. Is that why he stabbed you, Jack? ’Cause you said no?”

“You must be one of the five smartest people in the world.”

“I don’t give a fuck why he stabbed you,” spat Peterson. “He took the job. All systems go. Kasprowicz gets the fuck out of town. You’re so dedicated to your work you get yourself invited to the apartment to see everything’s been done right. And what do you find? Kass is dead and, hey shit, so is Rory! What a bonus! You’re in the money now and no witnesses. How am I going so far?”

Jack hauled on his cigarette and then stubbed it out. The day had barely started and already it was up to his neck.

“That’s a good story, Detective,” he said. “Some twists and turns, some interesting characters. Motive’s a little thin, though.”

“Not for Glendenning.”

Jack tried a grin. “But the nice thing about writing stories is at least you can make yourself good-looking.”

Peterson burnt his eyes into Jack’s. Half-a-dozen seconds ticked by slowly, as though a grandfather clock was in the room, marking time with long, ominous strokes.

The detective walked over and stood behind the Eames chair. He leaned in towards Jack’s ear and spoke in a nasty whisper. “What about the daughter? She good in the sack, Jackie boy? She part of the deal?”

Surprised, Jack turned his head a little towards Peterson. “Why? You short on masturbation fantasies?”

There was a slight rush of air. An instant later the slap that caused it landed on Jack’s right cheek. It snapped his head round to his left shoulder. His face lit up and glowed hot, as though a row of firecrackers had been set off inside his head.

Lois miaowed over by the bedroom doorway but thought twice about a rescue operation. Jack tried to get up out of the chair. The detective helped him up. A second later, he was sitting down again, doubled over and holding his guts.

“How do you like being fucked, Jack?” Peterson’s face was red and sweaty: his eyes sparked like dynamite wicks. Detective Geoff Peterson loved his job. “I hope you like it, Jack. ’Cause you’re going to get good and fucked now.”

Jack held his hands out in front of him. Detective Geoff Peterson put the cuffs on with a couple of swift movements. He threw a coat over them, opened the front door, nodded down the hallway. Jack walked through and Peterson followed.

The detective’s car was parked about twenty metres up the road. Gusty wind whipped through the trees; drizzly rain swirled and plunged in the air. There were not many people about. Those that were walked by stiffly, heads down, hunched under umbrellas, with mobiles and iPods glued onto their ears. They paid no attention to Jack, stumbling beside Peterson, the red welt across his cheek stinging in the morning cold.

“That’s the way,” said the detective. “Nice and quiet.”

They reached the car, a white, unmarked Ford Falcon. Peterson opened the rear door and pulled Jack closer.

“In you get.”

Jack stepped back. “I want to call a lawyer.”

“I’m going to count to one.”

“This is bullshit —”

“One.”

Jack braced but Peterson was too quick, unloading like a cannon. A hard fist followed by a lot of forearm, straight to the gut. As he doubled over the detective pushed him into the back seat and slammed the door. Jack lay on his side and groaned.

Peterson grinned at the Neighbourhood Watch sign riveted to the telegraph pole beside the car. He walked calmly around to the driver’s side door, got in and drove off.

“You comfortable back there?”

“Motherfucker,” wheezed Jack. He squeezed his eyes shut and the darkness filled with wriggling shards of light.

“Good boy.”

Thrown like a sack of shit into the back of a car. Maybe it was just a bad dream. Or karma? For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction . The only mystery: when and where.

Jack remembered the day Ziggy Brandt leaned into his driver’s side window, while his boys pushed some poor power-suited bastard into the back seat. Middle of the night. “Take him out to Smithfield and dump him somewhere off the highway.” Ziggy pointed at the glovebox. “There’s something in there for you.” As Jack drove away, he looked. Even wrapped in an oily black cloth, he knew it was a gun. His test. His moment. The initiation. Club membership for life.

In the back seat, the guy had pissed himself. He had a broken pinkie finger and a few bruises around the kidneys. He kept repeating his split-lip promise that he would never cross Ziggy’s yellow-brick road again. Jack did not say a word to him: just glanced into the rear-view mirror of the big black Mercedes while the guy babbled. He drove straight to the emergency ward at the Royal Prince Alfred and left him in the car park. Then he went out to Ziggy’s luxury city apartment, parked the car in the street, lit a cigarette and walked away. He was still waiting for the fallout. Ziggy Brandt was a very patient man.

Jack sat up, looked out the window. They were heading south. Not the way to the police station.

“I want to see Glendenning.”

“That’s nice.”

“Where the fuck are you taking me?”

The detective smiled, said nothing.

Jack slipped down in the seat. His head felt like ten hangovers, his body like an old mattress thrown out into the street. He figured Peterson would probably drive him around for a while, cook him up a little. The Ziggy Brandts of this world were not the only ones who stuck it hard and mean to their fellow man.