Lenny Bartulin - Death by the Book

The phone on the counter began to ring. Jack drank some coffee before answering.

“Susko Books.”

“Yeah, I was wondering if you had a copy of a particular book.”

“What’s the title?”

“It’s by a guy called Edward Kass.”

“Kass?”

“Yeah. Got anything by him?”

Jack sipped his coffee again. It was a little too early for coincidences. “Not sure,” he said. “Let me check.” He held the phone for half a minute. Then: “Is that K, A, double S?”

“Yeah, that’s right. I’ll take everything you got.”

“Hang on.”

Jack put the phone down. He drank some more coffee. He did not feel so good. Kasprowicz might have twenty people out there working for him, all over the country. It was clear the old man did not play tiddlywinks.

“I’ve got two Edward Kass books,” said Jack. “A couple of copies of Simply Even . Want me to hold them for you?”

“I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“No problem. What’s the name?”

There was a spilt-second pause. “Steve.”

“Surname?”

“What do you want that for?”

Jack grinned. “Got a phone number?”

“I said I’d be there in half an hour.”

“No worries.” Jack glanced at the clock on the wall behind him. “So you’re a fan of this Kass then?”

Another pause. “They’re not for me.”

“Oh. Present for someone?”

“Yeah, that’s it, a present. For my niece. She reads a lot.”

“That’s great. Why does she need two copies of the same book?”

A couple of moments rowed by. “I got two nieces,” the man said. “Twins.”

“That’s nice, Uncle Steve,” said Jack. “The books are one hundred dollars each.”

“A hundred bucks! You’re joking.”

“Don’t waste a trip down if you don’t believe me.”

“Yeah? Well, fuck you then.” The man hung up.

Jack finished his coffee. So others were out there, snatching at Kasprowicz’s fifty-dollar bills. He needed to find thirteen more copies if he was to keep his advance. Maybe it was not going to be as easy as he first thought.

The old guy really wanted those books. Jack knew collectors could be eccentric, obsessed and sometimes plain crazy, but Kasprowicz was not any of these. He was calm and sure of himself. He was a man used to the driver’s seat. And he knew which way the numbers went, like an abacus. So what was it with this Edward Kass?

The sun was low, hidden behind the city’s cold steel buildings. So far it had been the warmest winter on record, but that was over now. Today something had shifted. Though it was bright and clear and dry, everything was as sharp as broken glass. The wind blew, cold enough to snap-freeze a two-year-old’s runny nose.

Jack stepped on his cigarette. The rear door at Susko Books opened onto Market Row, a narrow lane just wide enough for council garbage trucks to pass. Jack could smoke there with the door open and still see into the shop. A small alcove shielded him from rain and wind. Some mornings he found people asleep there. Often he had to sweep syringes away, or move old blankets and cardboard boxes so that he could open the door. This morning there was a twisted-up wire coathanger on the ground. Somebody must have tried their luck at free parking. Somebody else must have tried their luck for a free car. Lots happened down narrow city lanes at night.

Jack was thinking about places where he could not afford to live. Houses he could not afford to buy. Annabelle Kasprowicz. But too much thinking was not healthy. Especially when it had nothing to do with nothing. It deserved a government health warning. Jack went back inside and locked the door.

He made a few calls. None of the people he spoke with took much notice of his request for books by Edward Kass. Most just said, Come and have a look, I wouldn’t have a clue what we had . Maybe Kasprowicz had not hired too many more people after all? Maybe just one or two? Or maybe the phone call earlier had really been a coincidence? Either way, Jack decided to close the shop for a couple of hours and see what he could find. Fifty bucks was fifty bucks.

He began with the eastern suburbs. Kenneth Brown Bookseller, Surry Hills, was the first stop and a good start: one copy of Entropy House . Then Cassandra’s Pre-Loved Books, Darlinghurst: nothing. Phrase and Fable Book Basement, Woolloomooloo: nothing. Bentley’s Book Bonanza, Kings Cross: one copy of The Cull . Berlichingen Books, Paddington: nothing. Upstairs, Turn Left Books, Edgecliff: nothing. Numerous Editions, Bondi Junction: nothing. Peter’s Book Exchange, Bondi Junction: nothing. Rare Books and Music and Stuff, Randwick: nothing. Over three hours of his time, nearly thirty dollars in cab fares, and only two Edward Kass books and an eye-strain headache to show for it. Plus a greasy falafel roll he ate for lunch was taking its sweet goddamn time through his alimentary canal. Pick a good mood: Jack Susko was not in it.

He headed out to Glebe anyway. One last try for the afternoon. Jack knew the guy who ran a place called Jack and the Bookstalk. His name was Chester Sinclair. He had used Jack and the Bookstalk without telling Jack he had stolen his idea. Sinclair was that kind of guy.

He always wore tracksuit pants that sagged under the weight of keys, wallet, mobile phone and God knows what else. Sometimes he wore leather lace-up shoes with the tracksuit pants, the elastic cuffs gripping high up his ankles, revealing white socks that had turned grey with despair. He was in his forties, tall but soft in the gut. He had wispy blonde hair that curled a little around his ears and gave him a boyish look. Combined with his blue eyes, there was a suggestion that he might have surfed once upon a time, though this was very far from the truth. He was pale like an unripe strawberry and sweaty all over. And always grinning, always smiling, like he knew something that you were dying to know and there was no way he was ever going to tell you what it was. He was cheap and would not hesitate to confuse old ladies with their change. He never wrote prices on his books but made them up at the counter after he had sized up the customer. He did not possess a healthy aura.

Jack’s worry was that Chester would sniff out that the Kass books might be worth something. With the right kind of breeze, the man could smell Monopoly money buried at the South Pole.

Jack and the Bookstalk was located in an old warehouse building just off Glebe Point Road, its grey rendered façade peeling with fifty years’ worth of advertising posters. It had once been a smash repair business: oil stains were still visible on the concrete floor. The musty, damp air carried a whiff of resin and paint and petrol. Inside was chaos. There was a ground floor and mezzanine level, both sick with books. They were crammed onto exhausted shelves and piled on the floor like war dead after an offensive. Everything blended into the colour of mulch. It was a place where you could easily go insane.

It was colder inside than out on the street. Jack saw Chester at the front counter, sorting through papers. He wore a pink, long-sleeve polo top and a navy blue muffler, the collar up high around his neck. Jack could hear a fan blowing air. Music drifted softly from a radio somewhere.

“Here he is,” said Chester when he saw Jack. “The man himself.”

Jack nodded. “Mr Sinclair.”

“Taking the afternoon off, I see.”

“Nothing gets by you. You’re amazing.”

Chester shook his head and tapped a bundle of papers on the counter. He had soft, pale hands, with fingers that started wide at the base but then tapered into thin ends, crowned with long, narrow fingernails. He put the papers down and reached under the counter for a tube of moisturiser. He squirted a good amount in the palm of his hand and proceeded to rub the moisturiser in. His hands writhed together obscenely.