Lenny Bartulin - Death by the Book

“Now why would you want to do that? To your best friend Chester? The one who could make today your lucky day?”

“Are you moving interstate?”

“But the deal is, I want a cut.”

“Chainsaw or razor?”

“Sixty per cent.”

“Chainsaw.”

“Well, are you interested or what?”

“Yes. I would like to kill you with a chainsaw.”

“Come on, listen to me. You still got that copy of From Russia with Love ?”

“Maybe.”

“What’s it worth, five, ten grand?”

It was Jack’s little investment. He was saving it for a rainy day. He remembered it had been raining since Saturday.

“You think I’m going to give you sixty per cent?”

“You haven’t seen her yet.”

“Sinclair, you’ve actually done pretty well, you know. Working on two brain cells for most of your life.”

“Her mother’s Japanese, her old man’s Swiss. Loaded . He’s a James Bond nut and it’s his sixtieth in three weeks.”

“And she walked into your bookshop?”

“Why the hell not?”

“Fifty-cent paperbacks do not an antiquarian make.”

“The Swiss are canny with their money.”

“Canny?”

“Look, I told her I’d check with someone I knew who might be able to do her a good deal on a rare copy and then I’d call her. She’s staying at the fucking Hilton.”

“Obviously watching every cent.”

“So? We in business?”

Jack took his scarf off. “Not for sixty per cent.”

“Half.”

“Sinclair, if this isn’t a big load of some kind of Swiss–Japanese bullshit, I’ll pay you a finder’s fee. Five per cent.”

“Fifteen.”

“Seven.”

“All right, a nice even ten.”

“Eight,” said Jack, pulling a cigarette pack from his pocket. “Call me when you’ve worked out it’s the number before nine.”

“Wait! Okay, okay. Done. I’ll give you her number. Let me get the card.”

Jack lit a cigarette. His brain ticked over some figures. The Fleming book was worth anything between ten and fifteen grand. Maybe Sinclair was right: a lucky day after all.

“Here, you got a pen?” said Chester.

“Ready.”

“Her name’s Leroux. Annabelle Leroux.”

Jack stopped writing. “Are you trying to be a smart-arse, Sinclair?”

“What? That’s her fucking name.”

“You sure?”

“Annabelle Leroux for Christ’s sake! Come an’ have a look at the card if you want.”

“Fine, fine.” Jack tapped the pad with the end of the blue pen. “What’s the number then?”

Chester gave him the number. “Wait till you see her. A knockout. I love those Eurasian chicks.”

“You should have asked her out. Or were you wearing your tracksuit pants?”

“Eight per cent, Susko. And don’t try and bullshit me about how much you get. I want to see the receipt.” He hung up the phone.

Jack walked over to the reference section and picked up the OED . Then he changed his mind. Today he would try the Chambers dictionary. What kind of day? Good or bad?

Bright or cloudy? He closed his eyes and opened a page. He ran his finger down the paper then stopped. He opened his eyes and read.

fain 1/ fn / ( archaic and poetic ) adj : glad or joyful; eager (with to ); content for lack of anything better; compelled; wont ( Spenser ). • vt ( Spenser ) to delight in; to desire. • adv gladly.

Jack Susko smiled. That the name Annabelle Leroux had slipped into his mind the moment before opening his eyes had nothing to do with it.