De Luxe

by Lenny Bartulin

  ‘It’s just old English, my boy. Ten cents an acre these days.’

  Lawsons — Auctioneers and Valuers since 1884 — was a long, redbrick warehouse that stretched along a slow-curving street called The Crescent, in Annandale. Jack caught a cab. For the first time since he opened Susko Books over four years ago, there was a little speculation cash in his wallet. Nothing to get excited about, just fifteen hundred dollars, but it was there, warm and pleasant to the touch. Jack had never been a venture capitalist before and here was his chance. He had been planning to take his time, but now thanks to Brandt the pressure was on. He only had sixty days to make the most of it: with a bit of luck, turn fifteen hundred into a humble fortune. Sure. He remembered Ziggy’s customised number plates on the Merc: EASY. Maybe one day Jack’s could read: NOTHIN’ TO IT.

  He reached into his coat pocket for the auction notice he had torn out of the newspaper: Lawsons, Friday 15 July, Estate & General — 9.30 a.m. To include a good estate matter from Petersham, comprising Steinway baby grand piano, quality furniture, books, art & collectibles. He wondered how much the baby grand would go for. Below there was another auction list for later the same day: Fine Wine & Spirits — 1.00 p.m. A whole itemised world of classy booze. More than enough to keep Jack happy for a couple of years, as long as Lois kept her paws out of it. One for next time.

  He paid the cab driver and stepped out. A patch of front lawn across the road glistened a rich green from the rain. The chill and the wet gave the impression of fresh air, but morning peak-hour exhausts were relentless down the City-Link lanes towards Anzac Bridge. Jack popped his umbrella and lit a cigarette. His nerves tingled with anticipation. If there was anywhere a man could lose his head, it was at an auction. He had to remember to keep cool.

  There was no denying the buzz inside. People hustled around as though on the floor of a stock exchange. Some were smiling, having scored a bargain; others frowned because of blown budgets; even more had the mesmerised look of drug addicts wondering where the hell they were as they tried to figure out what had possessed them to buy things they did not need. The pros were stern and poker-faced. It was a hard place to deny a genetic need to trade goods — and that most times, emotion was more powerful than the intellect.

  Not that Chester Sinclair ever had to worry too much about his intellect.

  Jack saw him in the crowd, hunched over an apricot danish, pastry crumbs raining down from his lips. He had put on weight; his tight paunch peeked out through an unzipped fleecy jacket like a pregnant woman’s belly. Baggy white pants bunched around his muddy ankles, no arse to hold them up. Blonde hair flat but tufting out over his ears and high collar. Jack thought of a beach boy gone to seed, only Chester had never breathed a sea breeze in his life.

  ‘You’re not supposed to eat in here.’

  Sinclair looked up from his crumbling danish. ‘Says who?’

  Jack grinned.

  ‘I’m still not talking to you.’ Chester put the pastry to his mouth again and turned his back.

  ‘What, starting from now?’

  ‘Our acquaintance is rebuked. Irrevocably.’

  ‘You mean revoked.’

  ‘I know what I fucking mean.’

  ‘Chester,’ said Jack. ‘It wasn’t my fault.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Buy you another danish?’

  Sinclair snorted. He had been seeking membership of the Association of Antiquarian Booksellers, lobbying a certain Amy Whalen, head of admissions. Jack had been lobbying her for other reasons and, as it turned out, was more successful.

  ‘It had nothing to do with Amy and me,’ said Jack, enjoying Sinclair’s frustration.

  ‘You told her not to let me in.’

  ‘No. She said that an original set of Encyclopaedia Britannica from 1984 did not qualify you as an antiquarian bookseller.’

  ‘Yeah? And what about the Agatha Christies?’

  ‘You understand they’re just modern reproductions of the old covers, don’t you?’

  ‘You could have put in a good word for me, Susko. You could have influenced her.’

  ‘She was a hard case, Chester. Look how she dumped me.’

  Sinclair held up his middle finger.

  ‘So what are you bidding on? Need a new fridge?’

  ‘None of your goddamn business.’ Chester moved off into the crowd.

  Jack watched him go, feeling … what? A little sorry for the guy? Jesus. The day had not begun well and was continuing along the same mountain-goat trail.

  He went and waited in line for the allocation of his bidder’s number, hoping it was lucky. He looked around at all the faces from all the places that made up beautiful Sydney town. The young and the old, the well-off and the poor, the honest and the crooked. Every human variation there was, including Jack, who fell somewhere on the lonely borderlands between them all. Always waiting for his luck to change.

  Somebody tapped him on the shoulder. Jack turned to see a tall, broad man in a suit. He stroked the length of his tie, then buttoned his jacket over it. Clasped his hands before him like a bare-knuckle heavyweight who moonlighted as a butler. Small blue eyes and a meaty nose and a head as raw as a chopping block. Neat, side-parted hair. ‘Mr Susko?’ he said after clearing his throat. ‘Mr Kippax would like to say hello.’ The guy nodded vaguely over his shoulder.

  Allan Kippax was standing in the crowd, smiling. He touched a forefinger to his temple and gave a small salute.

  ‘I’m waiting for my number,’ said Jack.

  The big man almost bowed, then walked down the line towards the desk. He went around behind. Jack watched him say something to the young guy there, who frowned, listened, and nodded his head in earnest agreement. He typed something into a laptop, filled in a form and handed Kippax’s man a card.

  He walked back over. ‘There you go.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Jack thought that maybe after the message from Brandt, two more hoodlums in one day was getting unhealthy. ‘Can you do that with any line?’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go to the post office later.’

  Mr XXL Suit did not smile. He motioned with his hand. ‘This way.’

  Kippax had moved to the edge of the crowd milling about the room. He was a smallish kind of guy, average height but thin-framed and wiry, with more than a little of the dandy about him. He had made his start touring bands around the country in the early sixties and thought nobody had dressed better since. He wore a dark-brown suit with stovepipe pants, jacket flashing a lot of white cuff. Striped blue tie and matching silk handkerchief. Wavy hair slicked and beard flecked with grey, eyes small and beady as ever. In his day, a well-dressed hard man: thick wad of cash in one pocket, flick knife in the other. Now there were two wads and his guy carried a gun.

  ‘Susko.’ Without looking at him. ‘A lovely surprise.’

  ‘Allan.’

  ‘What’s the bid?’

  ‘I was after a little Royal Doulton,’ said Jack. ‘Egg cups and cake plates.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘My mother’s influence. It’s like a drug now.’

  Kippax nodded. His assistant had resumed the thug-butler stance beside him. Eyes cold and straight at Jack.

  ‘You look shorter, Allan. Or is it just this guy standing next to you?’ Nerves got the better of Jack for a moment. He had to remember that Kippax was not to be fucked with.

  The man smiled, hands in his pockets now. ‘I might think you’re working for Ziggy again, the way you’re talking.’ Now he gave Jack his heavy-lidded eyes. ‘Eh? Not peddling old books anymore, then?’

  The last time Jack had seen Kippax was at a poker game at Ziggy Brandt’s house in Balmoral. Kippax had gone to the cleaners for a cool eighty-odd thousand.

  ‘After something to read, Allan? Hoyle’s Rules of Games?’

  ‘Careful, Jack
. Mind your manners.’ Kippax glanced down at the Cuban heels he always wore and twisted the leather soles over the scratchy concrete floor. ‘How is Ziggy these days? Ticker okay?’

  ‘Wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Oh? Don’t keep in touch?’

  Jack flicked the edge of his bidder’s card over the stubble on his chin. ‘I was just the driver, Allan.’

  ‘What? Noooo …’ Kippax grinned at his goon. ‘Practically family, I remember. Ziggy loved you.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Jack wondered what the hell Kippax wanted. ‘He was like a cruel stepfather to me.’

  Another smile crept over the man’s face. He reached into his coat pocket. ‘I’ve always liked you, Jack,’ he said, and held a card out between two fingers. ‘Let me know if you’re ever looking for something to do.’

  Jack took the card. Kippax Entertainment Enterprises Pty Ltd. He nodded towards the registration desk. ‘Looking for old records, Allan? Val Doonican, something like that?’

  Kippax sighed, unamused. ‘No.’ He shot his cuffs. ‘Nice lot of Bakelite radios coming up later, actually. I collect them.’ He turned and took a step. ‘Good to see you, Jack. Be good, yeah?’

  Jack stood where he was for a moment and watched the two men leave. He slipped the card into his pocket. It was probably nothing, but he thought it might be handy to remember Kippax’s interest in Brandt. In case Ziggy wanted to put Jack in the headlights. In case he needed something to trade.

  But it also gave him a sick feeling in the guts. He knew the way that world worked and here it went again, all over him. And it was his own fault for ever wanting to find out.

  3

  Jack got one of his bids: eleven boxes of books for three hundred and twenty-five dollars. He organised delivery for the coming Monday. Not having been at the viewing earlier in the week, he was nervous. And not seeing Chester there gave him more to worry about. That bad? He could only hope Ray was right about how good the stuff was. While bidding, he had seen the boxes on the floor in front of the auctioneer’s lectern: sure, the books were stacked high, generously climbing up and out of the cardboard, but Jack had also noticed they were mostly paperbacks. Frayed and sunstroke yellow-brown. Plenty of dust but no leather that he could see. Maybe the ripe fruit was hiding underneath? First impressions were hard to rate any higher than not great.

  He got into Susko Books a little after eleven. With Ziggy Brandt kicking around in his head. And Ziggy Brandt kicking him out of his home. The full impact of this new turn in his life had already moved in from the horizon. Jack had heard it said that having no choice was a kind of freedom. A hard-sell idea if ever there was one, but he had to admit to a fleeting excitement when he first read the Notice of Termination. For a brief instant, life was out of his hands. Nothing to do except go along with it, see what happened next. But the more he had started to think about what happened next, the less he appreciated the situation Brandt had forced upon him.

  Jack flicked the lights. For a moment he contemplated setting up a bed right here at Susko Books, but realised he would have to start burning stock if he was to survive the winter. He walked around and turned on the three small fan-forced heaters that were strategically placed around the shop. They sent a slight ripple through the concrete chill, but that was about it. All the books seemed to huddle on the shelves. At the stereo he slipped some Miles Davis into the machine. Porgy and Bess. Nothing like a tragic love story to warm the heart.

  He sat down at a small table that served as a desk behind the counter and switched on the computer. Logged on to the net and searched for rental properties in Sydney. Thousands of listings came up. Narrow your search. Select a suburb. Where did Jack want to live? It had been a while since he had thought about that. The idea of someplace new perked him up a little again and he straightened in the chair. He typed in a couple of inner-city suburbs that he had always liked. When the results scrolled down the screen, the shock was smooth and stunning. Then nausea took hold. And then Jack began to sweat.

  Somewhere along the line, renting had become something that rich people did.

  He saw out the rest of the day at Susko Books without repartee. A few sales, a couple of nice customers, half-a-dozen obnoxious ones, and two pretty foreign students who Jack hoped could read better than they spoke. It only took a few phone calls and another shot at searching the net to understand that being forced to look for decent, affordable rental accommodation in Sydney was a punishment straight out of Dante’s Inferno: circle VII in Lower Hell, somewhere between the Wood of Suicides and the Burning Sand. All this and Jack had not even stepped foot inside an open-house inspection.

  The next morning was Saturday. Jack thought he had better take a look at something to live in, though it was the last thing he felt like doing. The apartment was cosy, the windows were foggy and there was the sound of rain streaming down the eucalypt outside, its leaves flimsy as crinkled foil. Jack was feeling melancholy and it seemed to go with everything around him. He poured a coffee and lit a cigarette and sat down. He thought about which album might complement the mood. Lift it a little but not shake it away. Before he could decide, somebody was knocking at the front door.

  He parked the smoke and opened the door. It was Leather Girl again.

  ‘Good morning, Jack,’ she said. ‘Sleep well?’

  ‘Not particularly.’ She had taken him by surprise. He smoothed down his morning bird’s nest. ‘You should have come earlier.’

  The rain had caught her hair and shoulders, the cold her cheeks. ‘You should have called,’ she said.

  ‘No name, no number.’

  ‘Astrid. Got a pen?’

  She was wearing a short black denim jacket and a red turtleneck underneath. No chauffeur’s hat this time: her hair was combed straight down, the fringe high and slightly curved over her forehead, fifties-style. Mascara tapered her eyes, her mouth bright with candy-red lipstick. She hooked a thumb into the pocket of her tight black jeans and leaned out a hip. The toe of her black leather boot pointed straight at him.

  He swung the door open further. ‘Should be a Bic lying around here somewhere. Mind waiting while I look?’

  Astrid walked into the apartment. Jack watched, wondering if he should ask her to do it again. She went to the centre of the lounge room and put her hands on her hips and looked around, nodding her head. ‘Oh, yeah,’ she said. ‘Mr Brandt can fix you up with something better than this.’

  ‘I’ve got feelings, you know.’

  She turned. ‘No offence. Your stuff looks okay but … No light in here. And that isn’t much of a view.’ She pointed through the glass sliding doors at the small, half-paved rear courtyard. Rain belted the large orange tiles and the tinny eucalypt and the acacia leaves that had fallen to the ground. Soil streaked the white-rendered wall that stood over the space. ‘You could have put some nice pot plants in there. A little herb garden in the corner.’

  ‘You don’t look like a home-improvements kind of girl.’

  ‘Not your type?’

  Jack picked up his cigarettes, flipped the lid and offered her one. ‘I didn’t say that.’

  She said no to the tobacco. ‘Only when I drink.’

  ‘Perfect. I was just about to have one.’ He reached for his neighbour’s grappa on the smoked-glass-and-chrome drinks trolley beside the couch.

  Astrid watched him. ‘Who are you?’ she said. ‘Hugh Hefner?’

  He placed two coloured shot glasses on the coffee table and poured. Red for her, green for him. The clear spirit gurgled out of the bottle, the sound illicit, and more so for the hour. Then he sat on the couch and retrieved his cigarette from the ashtray. ‘Welcome to the Grotto.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘That makes two of us. Why don’t you explain what the hell Ziggy Brandt is talking about.’ Jack held up his drink, nodded once at Astrid and
threw the fire down his throat.

  ‘Get some clothes on and I’ll show you,’ she said.

  ‘How about you just let me know now. Then I can tell you no.’

  She smiled and picked up the grappa. Approved of the bouquet, then tossed the shot down her slender neck. Her eyes welled and sparkled for a moment. ‘Mr Brandt understands he’s putting you out during difficult times. And he’d like to help. It so happens he has an apartment in Mosman Bay that’s empty at the moment. Some interim accommodation, Jack, long as you need it. To ease any strain.’

  ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘And he’s doing this for the whole block?’

  Astrid took out her keys. ‘Ready?’

  Jack rubbed his face. He knew the score and accepted defeat. When one of the biggest crooks in town wanted you to do something, stalling only ever made it worse. He stood up. Better a pulled tooth than a toothache. He just hoped his head did not go with it.

  ‘What’s at the apartment?’ he said, killing his cigarette. ‘A body you need to pin on somebody?’

  Astrid sat down in the Eames chair and leaned back, getting comfortable. She stretched out her legs and crossed her high-heeled boots. ‘Get changed, Jack. I want to beat the traffic.’

  4

  She drove a red Porsche 911 Turbo. Fast. And well. Heel-toe gear changes and every apex on the money. The streets were wet, traffic stupid, and the rain swung between heavy and light, but she was in total control. Flirting fishtails when the corners opened up, quick shifts into slip lanes and back streets when she knew there was a way through. Precision and poise, beautiful to watch. The motor singing under her sweet right foot. Jack thought if she did a good chilli con carne, he might be in for the hard fall, big time.

  ‘You’re not going to give me a go, are you?’

  She smiled but said nothing, eyes on the road.

  ‘At least take the long way, then,’ said Jack. ‘Down through Melbourne.’

  They hit the Harbour Bridge, a million rivets through the curving iron high above their heads, beams reflecting and flashing over the windshield glass. Jack almost forgot that he was being delivered to an ultimatum, or some kind of deal, or demand, or favour or threat — whichever, but none of the possibilities likely to be to his benefit. At least he was being delivered in style.