Lenny Bartulin - Death by the Book

The detective walked round to the back of Jack’s chair and ran a hand through his hair. He leaned in, close. His breath was sour: cigarettes and toothpaste and empty stomach. “But this isn’t just about you, baby.”

Jack turned, looked hard at Peterson. Kasprowicz . The old man’s name popped into his head, smoking like a piece of burnt toast. “Where’s Hammond Kasprowicz?”

Peterson pushed Jack’s head away roughly. He walked back to the window. “He’s in Hong Kong, Jack, you know that. Doing a runner after doing his brother.”

“Bullshit.”

The sound of a car. Peterson put his eye to the crack in the curtains. He shook his head; a look of anger contorted his face. He sat down in the gold and red, floral-print couch opposite Jack. His right knee jerked up and down impatiently.

Footsteps over the timber steps and decking. The hinge-squeak of the screen and then the front door opening. Peterson looked up. Jack turned his head in the same direction. Ian Durst stood in the doorway. He glanced at Jack, then set his blue eyes on the detective. He put his hand on his hips.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” said Peterson.

Durst screwed up his face, tight as a cat’s anus. He nodded his head as though agreeing with something he had just confirmed. “Fucking Glendenning’s onto us.”

Peterson stood up. “What are you talking about?”

“He’s fucking onto us!” repeated Durst. He was wearing a thick black coat over a stiff-collared white shirt and designer jeans. And, courtesy of Jack, a black eye and a bruised cheek, too, both turning yellow. “He came around to my apartment asking questions.”

“About what?”

“You, for fuck’s sake! He wanted to know if I knew you.”

Detective Geoff Peterson looked at Jack, then back at Durst. “He’s fishing.” But his tone lacked confidence. “What did he say exactly?”

Durst walked into the room. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit up with a red disposable lighter and blew smoke with a long sigh.

“He said, So you know Detective Peterson? And I said no. Then he said, But you’ve met him before , and I said that I didn’t think I had. I couldn’t remember, maybe I had, you know. Then he nodded his head. Smug as all shit. The fucking cunt.”

Peterson stared at Durst and said: “He doesn’t know anything.”

“It’s fucking Celia,” said Durst, sitting down heavily on the couch. “She’s sniffed something and gone to Glendenning.”

“You wouldn’t be here if she had.”

“No, she has, I can sense it. She’s not talking to me … I can’t even touch her … She’s looking at me with those crazy fucking eyes of hers … I’m telling you, she knows.”

“Her old man’s just been murdered, for Christ’s sake! What do you think she’s going to do? Have a fucking party?”

Durst’s face brightened a touch. He looked at the detective for more reassurance but that was it for the day. His face went back to looking bleached. “So why does she keep asking me why I went to the apartment to meet her, instead of the shop? I keep telling her it’s because I fucked up the days, thought it was her day off, but she keeps asking …”

“It’s all in your head.”

“Bullshit.” Durst looked around nervously. “Anyway, she’s out in the car.”

“What? You fucking brought her here?” Peterson was not happy with the news flash.

“I don’t want her going anywhere near Glendenning. If she’s with me I know where the fuck she is.”

“Oh man, fuck me …”

“Don’t worry about it. She thinks I’m delivering a letter for a friend, to his grandmother.” He pulled an envelope from his back pocket. “There’s nothing in it.”

“Just like your fucking head.”

“Fuck off.”

“Amateurs. Always start cool and then lose it to paranoia.” Peterson put a finger to his forehead, leered at Durst like a school bully. “She’s got no idea about what’s going on, just stick to the fucking story. Kass was dead when you walked in and you struggled with Champion and the gun went off and that’s fucking it. Unless you talk in your sleep and told her that you hid in the bedroom and waited for Champion to do the deed and then shot him, she doesn’t know a goddamn thing.”

“Better safe than sorry.”

The detective shook his head, looked at the floor. “Glendenning’s just checked your record that’s all,” he said, his tone reaching for an ounce of conviction. “Saw my name as the arresting officer when you got done in the toilets last year with the coke and that slut.” The detective turned and looked through the curtains again. “Glendenning likes to be thorough.”

“How fucking thorough?” Durst flicked ash at the carpet.

“Don’t worry about it. I can handle Glendenning,” said Peterson. Nobody in the room believed him.

“Well, you’d better. And you’d better make sure no connections pop up with that scumbag idiot Rory Champion, either. If anybody finds out —”

“I told you to relax.”

“You fucking relax!”

Jack adjusted himself in the chair. “Not easy getting away with murder,” he said, as though to himself. “Even with a cop on your side.”

“What was that?” Ian Durst stood up and walked over to the chair. He slapped Jack across the face. “Every time you open your mouth, smart-arse, that’s what you get.” He slapped Jack again, snapping his head the other way. “That’s credit. Want to say something else?”

“Sit down, for fuck’s sake,” said Peterson.

Jack shook his head, rubbed his stinging jaw with his free hand. His brain ticked over, adrenaline-fuelled. He looked up at Durst and smiled. “So you’re the sucker with the gun.”

Ian Durst glared down at Jack.

“Glendenning went to see you because he didn’t believe a word.” Jack stared coldly into Durst’s eyes. Doubt flashed across them like a flock of startled pigeons. It was worth risking another punch. “You sure you told your story the same way each time? Remember the order of things?”

“He’s just fucking with you,” said Peterson.

Durst lifted his chin. “When are they picking him up?”

“Later. George and Red are coming. Remember them, Susko?”

Jack looked at Peterson.

Durst grinned, his confidence returning. “Yeah, that’s right.”

George Papatheophanous and Red Sneddon. Two hundred and twenty-odd kilos between them. Each had the muscle-to-brain ratio of a brontosaurus. Ziggy’s broom boys for cleaning up messes.

“They’ll be by in a little while.”

Jack had heard better news. But he smiled. Rubbed his jaw some more. Don’t worry about the boys. Think. Peterson and Durst had Glendenning on their minds.

“Hope you know what you’re doing,” he said, looking at them both and massaging his cheek. “George and Red hate complications. They’re easily confused. Can’t handle corners. Might be a good idea not to mention Detective Sergeant Glendenning going round to see Durst here. Remind me to keep my mouth shut.”

Peterson sat down on the couch, leaned his head back and hoisted a foot onto his knee. He stared at the ceiling and sighed. “Sorry, Jack,” he said, amused. “You’re out of my hands. But good luck with everything.”

Jack looked at Durst. “You do Kasprowicz as well as Kass? That wipe your slate clean with Ziggy?”

Durst’s eyes widened a fraction: the whites were bruised and bloodshot.

“Sucker with the gun,” said Jack. “Where’d you put him? One of Ziggy’s construction sites? That place at the bottom end of George Street? Or the one on Castlereagh? Or did you go all the way out to Parramatta, use one of the new apartment developments he’s got going out there?”