Lenny Bartulin - Death by the Book

“It’s neat,” she said as she looked around Susko Books.

“I have tendencies.”

“I see.”

She walked over to the counter and put her bag down. She looked around some more. Muddy Waters sang: You’re gonna need my help I said . Jack put his hands in his pockets. She smelt like cinnamon.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

“No, not at all.”

“My heating is on holiday.”

A smile came and went like a blink.

“Far north Queensland,” said Jack, hoping for more.

Her face remained serious. “Can you tell me what my father is paying you for, exactly?”

“Want to grab some coffee? Tea? Smoked salmon bagel? There’s a nice café up the road.”

She shook her head. “I’d rather you answered my question.”

“Why didn’t you just ask your father?”

“My father …” she began, but pulled herself up. She looked down at her boots. “I know he’s after some books by Edward Kass. Did he tell you why he wanted them?”

“No. Why?”

“Are you sure?”

Jack frowned. “I’m sure.”

“I just thought that … he might have mentioned something. He didn’t say anything then?”

“Why don’t you tell me something?”

Annabelle hesitated a moment. “It’s not the first time I’ve caught him buying Edward Kass books.”

“Caught him?”

“Discovered them in his possession.”

“I didn’t know they were illegal.”

Annabelle looked away. Little Walter’s harmonica moaned. Muddy sang. Gonna need my help I said.

“Does your father know Edward Kass?” asked Jack.

Annabelle reached into her bag and pulled out a small black case. Inside were some reading glasses with narrow rectangular frames and pale pink arms. The lenses were slightly tinted. They suited her. No doubt everything suited her. She slid them on and walked over to one of the bookshelves.

“Susko,” she said, running her finger down the line of books. “That’s a strange name, isn’t it?”

“Should’ve seen what it was before I changed it.”

She looked up, her finger stopped on a book.

“Jones,” said Jack and shook his head in despair. Her smile lasted longer this time.

“Jack Jones does have a certain ring to it,” she said, returning her attention to the book spines. “You could have called yourself Jay Jay.”

Jack came out from behind the counter. He leaned against it, crossed his arms over his chest. “What about Kasprowicz? Bet you’ve had fun spelling that.”

“Sure have,” she said, coolly. “It cashes all the cheques.”

“That’s handy. Polish?”

“Very good, Jay Jay. My mother hated it and never took it as her own. She stayed Temple. Except when she signed the cheques.”

Jack walked over to the bookcases. He could see Annabelle through the gaps on the shelf. Her cowboy boots clicked across the polished concrete floor. Muddy started the riff to “Whiskey Blues”.

“Australia via … ?”

“London,” she said. “The old story, running away from the Nazis. Easy when you’re loaded.”

“What isn’t?”

“Love.”

“Let me guess. Your favourite Beatle was Paul.”

She did not reply. Jack tried again. “So who’s Edward Kass?”

Annabelle walked around the end of the aisle. She stopped beside Jack and passed him a book.

“This looks interesting. Do I get a discount?” Jack took the book without looking at it.

Annabelle lingered beside him. “He’s my uncle,” she said. “On my father’s side.”

The door to Susko Books swung open and a customer entered. Cold air rushed down the steps: dead leaves and a page of soiled newspaper blew into the shop. Jack looked around to see who had come in. A man was closing the door behind him.

Annabelle gathered her bag off the counter. When she turned towards the front door she froze.

The guy was grinning like a cartoon cat. He had a lean, tanned face, all blue-eyed and square-jawed. Except the tan looked a little tandoori to Jack. His straw-coloured hair was short and thinning, styled to look like all he ever did was run his hand through it, casually. A tight little paunch said that he was not as young as he wanted to look. He had splashed on about a hundred bucks’ worth of aftershave. He wore faded blue designer jeans, pale yellow leather slip-ons, and a loose grey blazer over a white T-shirt and black knitted vest. Overall, he seemed pretty fit. He had a couple of inches on Jack, both up and sideways. A BMW key ring dangled between the fingers of his clenched right hand.

Jack recognised him. It was the guy he had seen in the car with Louisa at Kasprowicz’s house.

“Hello, Annabelle,” he said, still grinning. His teeth were as white as cream cheese. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Annabelle looped an arm through her bag. “I suppose you expect me to believe it’s a coincidence.” Her voice was cold. “Leave me alone, Ian.”

Ian walked towards her. He jingled the keys in his hand. “I was driving past before and saw you come in. Thought we could have a coffee.”

“You’re joking.”

“You know I never joke, Annabelle.” He turned to Jack. “You got to watch this one. Needs a tight leash.” His voice turned slimy, like warm suntan lotion. “Yep, a real tight leash.”

“Fuck you,” said Annabelle. She pushed past him to the door. Ian smiled as he watched her disappear up the steps.

“You need some help?” said Jack.

The man’s smile dissolved. He ran a hand through his hair, walked over and put his finger in Jack’s airspace. “Keep away from my fucking wife.”

Two seconds went past as Jack considered his next move. Two seconds too long. The man shot a dirty right fist into Jack’s stomach, BMW keys and all. He stepped back. All the air inside Jack blew out fast enough to break the sound barrier. He moaned and doubled over. He tried to suck air back into his lungs but they had collapsed like a beginner’s soufflé. The man went to the nearest bookcase and began to pull all the books off it. They hit the floor like a net full of wet fish. When he had finished, he gave Jack a parting knee to the ribs.

Business was slow that day. Nobody came in and saw Jack crawl over behind the counter and lift himself up into a chair. Nobody got him a couple of aspirins and a glass of water, or a stiff drink and a cigarette. Nobody helped him clear up the mess. And nobody made him chicken soup that night either.

But that was okay. Jack Susko could take care of himself.

Lois had appeared in the lane behind Susko Books about six months ago. Her right paw was off-white, like a dirty sock, the rest of her was a cheap, stripy ginger. Her ears were stubby and her tail was too long. Just a run-of-the-mill short hair, but she flounced around like Marlene Dietrich. No name, no past, and nothing to lose. A free agent with time on her paws. Jack made the mistake of tossing her some bacon out of his breakfast roll: after that, she was there every morning. He could not remember what had possessed him to take her home. She was a bedraggled thing, with no breeding or manners. She had the gall to refuse tinned pet food. But Jack could not deny there was something about her. He thought it was style. He never guessed that it was trouble.

It was a little before 6.00 a.m. Jack pushed Lois off his head and got up.

In the lounge room he turned on the heater. Lois stood in front of it and waited for the warm air to start blowing. Their ground-floor flat in Leinster Street, Paddington, was comfortable, but cold in winter. It was part of a large, double-fronted terrace that did not receive a lot of natural light. The last time it had received anything was a paint job in 1955. Its main features were a shabby ambience, high moulded ceilings and some fancy ironwork. It was apparently a fine example of the architecture of its day. Considering the rent for all this unique charm, Jack probably should have paid it more attention.