Lenny Bartulin - Death by the Book

“Of course.”

“Goodbye.”

There was no handshaking. Kasprowicz walked off and left Jack to find his own way out.

He lingered a few seconds, looking about him. The house was silent: it felt suddenly empty and solemn, like a weekday church. Jack’s gaze caught the photograph of Mrs Hammond Kasprowicz, on top of the piano. He stared at it a moment. For some reason, he thought that she would not have liked him. Whatever, lady. That’s fine. Jack smiled and winked at her as he left. I wouldn’t have liked you either.

Outside the sky was still blue but the air was cooler. Jack paused to wind his scarf on. Then he checked the contents of the small white envelope and slipped it into his inside coat pocket. He tried not to spend it too quickly in his head, but half was gone before he knew it.

A white BMW with a rusty scratch in its bonnet pulled into the drive and a young woman got out. She stood beside the car a moment, talking to the driver through the window. Jack guessed it was Annabelle’s daughter. He walked slowly towards her.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell her anything,” the teenager said. She crossed her arms and shook her head. Her voice was whiny and her manner insolent. She looked about eighteen or nineteen. Annabelle must have been young when she had her. The girl wore a short denim skirt revealing too much leg and a white sleeveless top that revealed too much of everything else. There was a faded denim jacket in her hand. Obviously she did not feel the cold.

Bracelets jingled up and down her arms as she continued to speak. “All right, all right! I said I wouldn’t, didn’t I? God!” She leaned over and gave a reluctant kiss to the driver. Then she marched down the driveway, her ponytail bouncing with fury.

She stopped in front of Jack. “Who are you?” she snapped.

“I’m the gas man.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “Who let you in?”

Jack saw Annabelle in the girl’s eyes and in the shape of her forehead and chin. In fact, her whole face was her mother’s. The body was almost there, too. Whatever her father had passed on had merely held the door open.

“Your grandfather asked me over for a drink,” said Jack. “Louisa, isn’t it?”

Annabelle’s daughter scoffed and walked off without a word. Jack grinned. They taught them young in Double Bay.

The BMW began to back out of the drive. Jack caught a glimpse of the driver before his window wound up. He could not place the man there and then, but was sure he had seen him somewhere before. He thought about it for a moment, but nothing clicked. He struck a match and cupped his hands and lit his cigarette. Then he started off down the road. The scotch burnt in his stomach and he decided to buy himself a good meal. He tapped the envelope in his pocket. It was making him feel warm all over.

It was 9.00 a.m. Still an hour before Susko Books opened for trade. Down the front steps Jack saw somebody was already waiting for him. The man was standing beside a box that looked big enough to accommodate a bar fridge. No doubt the guy thought he was sitting on a small fortune in rare books. The early birds always did.

“Morning!”

Jack nodded hello. He slipped the key into the front door. “We actually open at ten,” he said.

“Oh.” The guy looked lost for a moment. He was in his seventies, built small and thin, looked about as heavy as a copy of War and Peace . The skin on his face was like rice paper, and he had blotchy cheeks and a long nose. His hair was white and oily and all short back and sides. He wore a grey parka and a red flannelette shirt, buttoned to the neck and tucked into light blue slacks pulled up high and belted tight. There was no way a draught was going to get anywhere near this boy’s kidneys.

The old guy patted his box. “Any chance you can take a look? You see my son dropped me off in the car, and …” His wet eyes pleaded. Then he smiled, changed his mind and decided to tempt rather than beg. “Got some real beauties in here!”

Jack knew he was going to let him in. Though on the outside he might appear cool, the second-hand book dealer could never resist a box of books. The chance of that rare, elusive first edition, worth three grand, picked up for three bucks. It was a curse.

“Come in,” said Jack.

“I’ll just need a hand, if you don’t mind …”

Jack walked across to the counter and put his coffee down. Maybe there was an Edward Kass or two in there? He helped the man drag the box over. It weighed a ton. Jack had a look inside.

“What do you reckon?”

All Jack could see were copies of Reader’s Digest . “Is your son picking you up again in the car?”

“Eh?”

“I don’t buy magazines.”

“Oh.” The old man’s hand went to his chin. Then he reached into the box and began to pull the copies of Reader’s Digest out. “Hang on, there’s books in here, too! My wife packed the bloody thing, you just can’t see them. Take a look!”

Soon they were piled over the concrete floor of Susko Books. Reluctantly, Jack crouched down and went through them: rejects on the right, offers on the left. Most went on the right. But he did manage to find a few things worth keeping: half-a-dozen Beatrix Potter books; a hardcover book on embroidery; a 1982 edition of the Macquarie Dictionary of Australian Quotations ; Gemstones of the World by Walter Schumann; Let’s Speak French by The Commonwealth Office of Education, Sydney; Patrick O’Brien’s Picasso ; The Eye of the Storm by Patrick White; a 1982 edition of the Collins English Dictionary ; Foucault’s Pendulum by Umberto Eco; and The Complete Book of Flower Preservation by Geneal Condon.

“Forty dollars,” said Jack.

It was clear from the look on the old man’s face that this was not the amount he had confidently predicted to his wife and son.

“What about the rest?”

“Sorry. Can’t use it.”

“Not at all?”

Jack shook his head. “Not if you gave it to me for free.”

“I just can’t believe it.”

They never could. And they always took it personally, as though Jack were passing judgement on what they had chosen to read. He supposed he was. It was one of the few perks of the job. But it was just a small God complex, nothing too serious. It did not affect the fate of nations.

“I can give you a hand up the stairs if you want.”

Jack locked the front door and pulled the Yellow Pages out from a dented, grey filing cabinet behind the counter. Apart from the shelving, the only other furniture in the shop included a cheap pinewood chair, a small trestle table that served as a desk, a set of drawers tucked in underneath, and a tall free-standing lamp that he had inherited from the last business that occupied the premises. “Antique World” had not lasted long and in the end made a quick, overnight exit, leaving a good portion of rent unpaid. Jack moved in cheaply because nobody wanted basement premises in the city: apart from porn operators, who did not rely on display windows so much for their trade. But “Serious Titillation” was already there, and had been for years, right above the basement site. With its bright yellow sign and bright yellow façade, it deflected a lot of attention away from Susko Books. But that was okay. On some days there was a little bit of flow-on traffic. Always the odd customer who came in accidentally and was convinced to buy a copy of The Story of O .

Jack flipped through the Yellow Pages until he got to Books — Secondhand &/or Antiquarian . He dropped a pen into the spine. He figured he would let his fingers do the walking. This was going to be the easiest money he had ever made.