Lenny Bartulin - Death by the Book

Jack tried not to listen to the sound they made. “Did you get my message?” he asked.

“Yes I did. And I found a few copies, too. Four in fact. That make you happy?”

“How did you find them in all this?”

“There’s a system in operation here, compadre . Just ’cause you can’t see it.” Chester looked down at his hands as he massaged in between his fingers with his thumb.

“I wouldn’t want to go blind with the brilliance of it,” said Jack.

“Genius is like that.” Chester’s grin tucked into his right cheek. “So, who’s this Edward Kass then?”

Jack picked up a book from the counter: The Book of Miracles — How to get to Heaven AND make a Profit! “He’s a poet,” he answered, dropping the book.

“Famous?”

“Unhappy.”

“But, of course. There’s no money in poetry.” Chester began searching under the counter. “They’re down here somewhere, hang on.”

A young guy came in the front door. He wore black jeans, a black denim jacket, a red-and-black striped scarf and a tight black knitted beanie. A dark green knapsack was hooked over his shoulder. He was as skinny as an incense stick. Jack guessed a university student: his face was white and pimply and wore all the burden of global injustices perpetrated by multinational companies.

“You work here?” he asked Jack.

“No.”

Chester stood up. He put the Edward Kass books onto the counter. “Can I help you?” he asked in a stern voice.

“Have you got a philosophy section?”

Chester pointed toward the back of the shop. “Straight ahead, on your left. And what’s there is what I’ve got so don’t ask me for anything.”

“Right.” The kid gave a pained look and walked off, shaking his head.

“Now, Mr Susko.” Chester leaned on the counter and spread his grin to both cheeks. “You know, there was a guy in here yesterday asking for the very same author. Bit of a coincidence. I was tempted to sell, I have to tell you. A man’s got to eat. But it wouldn’t have been too professional of me, would it?”

“Your integrity has always been impeccable.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear.” Chester picked up one of the books and flicked through the pages. Jack leaned on the counter with both elbows.

“When you’re ready, Chester,” he said, looking down at the scratches in the wood.

“I’m thinking.”

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

“So who was this other guy then?”

Jack looked up and sighed and tried to look bored. “How the hell would I know?”

“I can smell something that’s all.” Chester scratched an armpit. “Why do you want ’em?”

“I got a collector.”

“What are you getting?”

“Do you think I’m going to retire on the sale of four books of poetry? It’s not fucking Lolita , signed by Nabokov and dedicated to Graham Greene.”

Chester scratched his other armpit. “Ten bucks each.”

“Come on, Sinclair. This isn’t Sotheby’s.”

“Take it or leave it.”

“Leave it,” said Jack. He turned to go.

“Thirty bucks for the lot.”

Jack pulled out his wallet. “Don’t spend it all on jelly beans.”

Back in the city, there was a note pushed in under the door of Susko Books. It was from Annabelle Kasprowicz.

I waited. Interesting concept of running a business. I’ll try tomorrow. 2pm.

It was all happening today. Jack held the note to his nose. Her pricey perfume was all over it. He folded the note and put it in his coat pocket. Nothing like having something to look forward to.

Another cool morning. On the bus people sat a little hunched over, sniffing and sneezing into tissues and handkerchiefs. In the city streets they pulled their collars up and leaned into the cold. The sky was clear but looked to be coming down with something: watery clouds soaked the horizon. Down by the Queen Victoria Building, a homeless man had found a sunny spot and pulled his trouser legs up, as though he were working on a tan. He had no shoes, his ankles were swollen and he was as grimy as diesel exhaust. Jack dropped a couple of dollars in his paper cup. The authorities said not to give the homeless money because they only spent it on booze. Better than Jack taking the guy home and giving him a bath.

Susko Books was an icebox. Being underground kept it cool in summer, but winter was a whole other disaster. Two fan-forced heaters made as much difference as striking a match. The best Jack could do was play a little smoky jazz or blues on the stereo and hope the shop at least sounded warmer. Miles Davis and Muddy Waters had worked overtime this winter. No doubt they would soon ask for a raise.

It was 10.30 a.m. Jack had placed one of the heaters behind the counter and he sat beside it, pretending he was warm. He was on the net, doing a search on Edward Kass. He was trying hard not to think too much about Annabelle Kasprowicz and their afternoon rendezvous. He was not doing a very good job. Even a monkey could tell she was only coming to see Jack because of her father, but this did not prevent fantastic thoughts rising in his mind. Every time he entertained the idea that she had a thing for him, he had to step outside and smoke a cigarette and talk himself out of it. The cigarettes had not helped his nervous stomach. And now the net was inducing its own brand of nausea.

There were over 382,000 references to Edward Kass. So far, none were about the poet. He found an Edward Kass who had written a comparative empirical analysis of theoretical formulations of distrust. He found an Edward Kass who had written a paper titled: Are Negotiators Overly Optimistic After All? It Depends on the Question and the Negotiation Structure . He found an Edward Kass who was a specialist in urinary tract infections and one who was married to a famous mountain climber. There was an Edward Kass mentioned in the minutes of the 2002 annual meeting of the Stirk Group of Companies. A couple of people had even won an Edward Kass Award. But still no poet.

Jack could not take anymore. He double-clicked one last reference. A black-and-white photograph appeared on the screen: Edward Kass, poet (b.1934). It was a grainy headshot, slightly out of focus. Kass wore a heavy, large-collared coat and a striped scarf. There was no date but it looked like a reject passport photo from the 1950s. He had a long rectangular face, the skin drawn drum-tight over bones that appeared to have been sculpted with a Stanley knife. His hair was receding and cut short. Kass might have been handsome from another angle but the photographer had not been able to find it. He had a strong straight nose and ears set low on his head. His eyes were cast down, sunk deep in the sockets and crowned with heavy brows that made them look bruised. His fleshy lips were parted as though he were about to say something to himself. The light caught him like grey rain from an Eastern European cloud. Sadness seemed to drizzle all over him.

Time might pass but Edward Kass would remain vulnerable forever, caught just like this. Jack was sorry for him. Never put your dukes down, even outside the ring. There was always somebody in the crowd ready with a king hit.

Below the photograph there was a list of publications and links to reviews in newspapers and literary journals. Biographical details repeated what Jack already knew. That was about it. Hammond Kasprowicz’s interest in the man remained a mystery. Jack was tempted to keep searching but had to get some food. He did not want his stomach rumbling in front of Annabelle Kasprowicz. He printed off the photograph and smoked another cigarette while he waited.

She was wearing a dark brown gypsy skirt and red leather cowboy boots. They were slightly worn, no doubt a favourite pair, purchased on an unforgettable trip to Mexico. The rest of her was kept warm by a coffee-bean cashmere turtleneck that did everything it could to draw attention to her physiology. There was not a straight line anywhere. Long red earrings flashed through her hair. She took off her sunglasses and pushed them into a large leather shoulder bag worth more than Jack’s architecture and design section when it was new. She was an hour and a half late but did not look like she was going to apologise.