Lenny Bartulin - Death by the Book

He sat down in his Eames lounge chair and pulled on a pair of socks. Along with his small collection of blues and jazz vinyl, the chair was his prize possession, a 1970s number 670 that he bought at a garage sale last year while trawling for books. It was missing its base and the footrest, and the leather had a couple of scratches in it, but for seventy-five dollars he could not believe his luck. He happily spent five hundred getting it repaired. It was the most comfortable chair in the universe. Jack yawned. Maybe he should sit in it all day.

He went into the kitchen and poured a glass of water, dropped a Berocca into it and lit a cigarette while the thing fizzed. Normally he would wait until later for his first cigarette. Each day he had been trying to beat the previous day’s time, even if only by a minute. He was getting close to 8.00 a.m. But not today. Jack did not feel so good. He struck a match and drew deeply.

The damp Saturday morning streets were empty, except for some late-night boys and girls huddled under leaky awnings. They shivered, looked up and down the street, and silently wondered what to do. A few cabs drove by, searching for a last fare. Walk signals ticked loudly at intersections and bins overflowed with rubbish. Everything seemed to be suffering from a mild hangover, the sky, the buildings, even the trees. Rain drifted down in a grey mist.

Jack walked along Oxford Street. Punched in the gut . He felt the bruise to his ego. The worst thing about a sucker punch was the thinking afterwards: you should have done this, you should have done that. And the whole time knowing you had done nothing.

In the city he bought the weekend paper and a pack of cigarettes. He stopped at a small café in the Strand Arcade. It was a warm, timber-lined place with a few tables on one side and a row of booths on the other. Framed reproductions of old coffee and tea advertisements hung on the walls. Jack removed his coat and scarf and slipped into one of the booths. The waitress came over to take his order. Her honey blonde hair was done up in a loose bun at the back of her head. She was young and plump, her brown eyes were bright and her cheeks rosy. She made Jack feel a little better. He ordered a ham-and-cheese croissant and a long black.

A story on page four of the paper caught his eye. It was about a GP who had been supplying his receptionist with drugs. After everybody went home they liked to stay behind in the surgery and relax together, talk a bit and pop a few pills. Have some fun. Make a couple of home movies if they felt like it. Everything was going fine until one found its way onto the net. It was popular with a lot of people but none of them worked for the Medical Association of New South Wales.

Doctor Ian Durst . The name flashed into Jack’s mind. The newspaper story had reminded him of a similar episode about five or six months ago, involving Mr Fake Tan of the Sucker Punches, formerly Doctor Ian Durst, gynaecologist, Double Bay. He had been struck from the medical register after a sex, drugs and money scandal. It was on the evening news: his photograph had been in the papers. That was why Jack thought he had seen Durst before, when he glimpsed his face in the car in Kasprowicz’s driveway.

Durst . He said the name in a low voice. It sounded like a town in Austria. Or a type of sausage. Son of a bitch .

Jack paid for breakfast. It was nearly 8.30 a.m. Outside, the drizzly rain had stopped but the wind had picked up and whipped around in annoying gusts. Traffic was quickly filling the streets as Jack hurried on to Susko Books. He wanted to call Brendan MacAllister before opening up. Jack’s former boss at MacAllister’s Old Books knew a little something about everything that went on in old Sydney Town.

“Hello?”

“It’s Jack.”

A pause. “Jack?” MacAllister put on an exaggerated English accent. “I am sorry, but I do not believe I know anybody by that name.”

“Like that, is it?” said Jack.

“I am sorry, sir, but I suspect that you may have dialled the wrong number.”

“I suppose I’ll have to send you a written apology before you’ll speak to me?”

MacAllister laughed. “You can write?”

“You can read?”

Brendan MacAllister was a big man: fifty-five and fit, with dark red hair everywhere except his scalp. Handsome in a bald, bristly kind of way. His laugh was deep and resonant. Cups and cutlery shook if he happened to be at a table when something struck him as funny.

“Nice of you to call,” said MacAllister. “I thought you were dead.”

“It’s been a busy couple of months.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Then in a Scottish accent: “Did I not treat you like a son?”

“I was an abused child, your Honour.”

“Oh, that’s why you’re ringing: blackmail. How much?”

“Hundred thousand ought to keep me quiet.”

“Sure, sure. Cheque okay?”

“Only if it’s in a bag with the cash.”

“Funny bastard. Hang on …”

Jack waited. He flicked through a pile of mail on the counter. He could hear MacAllister calling out to his wife.

“Right,” he said, back on the phone. “My coffee shall be here directly.”

“How’s Denise?”

“Demanding as ever. What’s new with you?”

“I’m getting married.”

MacAllister grunted. “Really? What’s her name?”

“Annabelle Kasprowicz.”

“A millionaire’s daughter, no less! I presume you’ve met the father-in-law.”

“A gentleman and a scholar.”

“In the fifth rung of hell.”

“Know him well?”

“Used to be a regular. World War II stuff. Especially keen on anything Nazi. Funny, being Jewish, family run out of Poland, all that. Sold him some diaries by an SS man last year. Didn’t even want to bargain.”

Jack tapped the counter with the edge of an envelope. “What do you know about his brother, Edward Kass?”

MacAllister slurped some coffee. “Renowned poet. Recluse. Broke. And judging by his poetry, pretty pissed off about it.”

“Money the family rift then?”

“The perennial rich bastards’ classic. Back in the seventies Edward took big brother Hammond to court over the family millions. He didn’t get any.”

“Nothing?”

“Plus zero. You know mamma and papa Kasprowicz actually used to live in the same street as my parents, back in the fifties.”

“Anything else, apart from the court case?”

“A few days after the trial, Kass assaulted Kasprowicz with a fucking lamp. Hammond had to go to hospital, I don’t know, stitches to the head, concussion, that sort of thing. And Kass got a suspended sentence. Aggravated assault or something. Or did I get that from the television?”

“Nice family.” Jack picked up a pen and started doodling on the back of the envelope. “And now, years later, Kasprowicz is after as many copies of his brother’s books as he can get his hands on.”

“That’s what he’s after?”

“Yep.”

MacAllister scoffed. “The rich are weird.” He drank more coffee. “Is he paying well? Just take his money and don’t worry about it too much.”

Jack coloured in a rectangle but went over the edge and had to turn it into a square. “Something else,” he said. “What can you tell me about Ian Durst?”

“The famous gynaecologist? Jesus, you’re right in there, aren’t you?”

“I remember he got done for something last year.”

“You know he’s Annabelle Kasprowicz’s husband, don’t you? Or ex, I’m not sure if they’re divorced.”

“I don’t think she likes him anymore.”

“Why would she?” said MacAllister. “He’s the dirtiest dog in the pound.”

“What happened?”

“The usual. Champagne, cocaine, so and so’s perfect-breasted wife and her blonde best friend, the handsome doctor with hands the devil gave him in a special deal, and all after-hours in the surgery rooms. They’ve got those stirrups, you see.”