The only thing that might turn a little cash was an incomplete set of leather-bound classics published in the late sixties. No doubt some exclusive mail-order offer, advertised in a current-affairs magazine and designed to prey on intellectual insecurities. Build Your Own Library of the Greatest Literature in the World! Month-by-month for only $6.95! (plus postage and handling) Novelty value? They were almost in perfect condition, telling Jack they had spent more time as decoration than reading material: The Greatest Masterpieces of Russian Literature in red leather, Poets of the English Language in yellow, and The Complete Works of W. Somerset Maugham in blue. All anybody needed to read in one lifetime.
Jack found Poets of the English Language (Volume III, Milton to Goldsmith) for sale on a couple of websites. One had a starting bid of $8.30. There were two days to go on the auction and so far nobody out of the five hundred million people on the net had made a better offer. The other was a site in the UK and it was asking a firm £6.40 plus delivery charges. He looked over the pile of books. Figures added and subtracted themselves in his brain. They were small, undernourished and dressed in rags.
He went over to the counter and picked up the phone. Two rings and then: ‘Ray Campbell Art, Books and Catalogues. Ray speaking.’
‘I thought you said there’d be some money in it.’
‘Is that you, Jack? Money in what?’
‘Realms, Ray. Remember the realms?’
‘Oh.’ Ray cleared his throat. ‘No good?’
‘You sure you had the right deceased estate? Whoever owned this stuff didn’t keep it in a walnut-lined library.’
‘No?’
‘No.’ Jack flipped through the volume he had brought over to the counter. Ray had recently turned sixty-three. He was thin and on the frail side of health but knew more about books than anybody in the country. Regarding everyday life, however, he was susceptible to moments of confusion. ‘I’ve got some mail-order stuff from the sixties, though,’ said Jack. ‘You can have it for a thousand bucks.’
‘That bad, huh?’
‘Even-Steven is not on my radar.’
‘I must have got the details wrong. Sorry, old boy. Why don’t you come around to the shop and share some gin with me? Bombay Sapphire, the Empire’s best. Small compensation, I know, but I’ve got Bix Beiderbecke playing as we speak.’
Jack could hear ‘For No Reason at All in C’ in the background. He pictured Ray’s shop out in Darlinghurst, no doubt with the fire crackling today and throwing shadow flames over the thousands of books that cocooned the place. Raymond Campbell was like some retired, bibliophile version of the Doctor and the shop his magic TARDIS. Time travel at the flick of a page. ‘Sounds terrific, but I’ve got to go find a house,’ said Jack. ‘Know anybody with a great pad who’s looking for a tenant?’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Notice to vacate.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Plus complications.’
A vague groan down the line. ‘Avoidable?’
‘I’m going to do my best.’
‘Mmm. Forgive me, Jack, but that does not inspire my confidence in you.’
Jack hung his head a little. Felt a flatness come over him. ‘It’s Ziggy Brandt,’ he said.
Silence. ‘Oh.’
‘Yeah. Oh is right.’
‘What … I mean why …’ Ray stopped, cleared his throat. ‘How?’
‘How? By my nuts,’ said Jack. ‘He wants me to do him a favour.’
‘Legal?’
‘So far. But highly awkward. And I’d say probably just the tip of some dirty iceberg, but I can’t be sure yet.’
‘Be sure, Jack. Assume and just run away. Go.’
‘Relax, Ray.’
‘He’s actually in the paper today. Throwing his weight around.’
‘At what?’
‘That multimillion-dollar wharf development. Barangaroo. Says the council are a bunch of corrupt communists and Lend Lease has them all suckling at the teat.’
‘You can say tit. I won’t be offended.’
‘Unlike Susko Books, there are customers in my place.’
‘I thought Lend Lease had all that sewn up?’ Jack had heard something about it. The proposed development of a former dockland area had been controversial for years now, bogged down by protesters, council bureaucracy and big business, with mayors and even ex–prime ministers weighing in on the debate. It did not surprise Jack that Ziggy Brandt might have a tentacle in there somewhere.
‘More court actions pending,’ said Ray. ‘The Battle of Prime Waterfront Real Estate.’
‘What else did the paper say?’
‘Just that Brandt vowed to fight the council all the way and would not stop until free and fair trade justice was rendered.’
‘That being his expanding monopoly in place as opposed to somebody else’s.’
‘It was the impression I gathered. He’s quite a … formidable character.’
‘It’s okay. I know his soft spots.’
‘Somehow I don’t believe he has any.’
Neither did Jack.
‘There is no shame in an honourable retreat when the might of our foes is insurmountable.’
Jack sighed. ‘I’ll keep that in mind. Meanwhile, if you could ask around and see if anybody you know has some kind of accommodation they’d be willing to rent me in the next month or so, it would be much appreciated.’
‘Mmm. Do my best, son. Need any money?’
Jack felt the small wad in his front pocket. A thousand bucks in crisp new one-hundred-dollar notes. Ziggy Brandt’s folding money, wrapped in a rubber band. After she got off the phone, Astrid had held it up between thumb and forefinger and grinned. ‘All you’ve got to do is talk to her,’ she had said. ‘And then she’ll say Go away, Jack. And that’s it. Easy money.’ Jack had been angry and probably should have thought about it more, but Brandt owed him from long ago. How much work-related stress had he endured driving the man around? And now Brandt was back, getting what he wanted, no price out of the range of his bank balance. So Jack had taken the money: but not a cent spent since the Friday he had put it in his pocket.
‘I’m good. Thanks, Ray.’
‘Just let me know, all right?’
‘Sure.’
‘Can I ask what the favour is?’
Jack thought about whether he should say anything. As he did, the front door to Susko Books opened. He looked over and stopped breathing for a second. Then he let the air out slow and straightened up. ‘I’ll call you later, Ray,’ he said. ‘The favour just walked in.’
6
Her honey-brown hair was longer than he remembered, way past her shoulders now, luminous with that just-out-of-the-hairdresser’s shine, and it billowed out like a mane around her as she strode into Susko Books, down the couple of stairs at the front door and towards the counter where Jack stood. He did not move. Not that he wanted to, anyway.
She glanced around the shop as she got closer and Jack felt the first bright wave of her presence pass over his face: perfume and fresh air, shampoo and the late-afternoon chill. Like walking through a Scandinavian spruce forest. He leaned forward and put his hands on the counter, just to steady the ship.
Claudia Brandt stood before him, tugging the straps of a bag to her shoulder. Two words. ‘Hello Jack.’ The tone was very similar to You prick.
He nodded. ‘Claudia.’
She looked away, down an aisle of books. ‘I’m only here because of Dad, so don’t get any ideas.’
Nipped in the bud — with a machete.
‘I want to make sure you don’t do anything stupid,’ she added.
‘Thanks for taking the time.’
Eyes at him now. ‘You’d only embarrass yourself.’
‘No, I
really appreciate it.’
‘Oh, why don’t you just cut the crap, huh? This isn’t funny.’
Jack smoothed the edge of the counter with his hand. Claudia had always been two parts talking and one part listening. Same as him. Maybe that was why it had never worked between them. He said: ‘I’m not laughing.’
The end of her petite nose was red from the cold. She sniffed and dabbed it with a tissue from her bag. ‘I don’t have the time or the desire to fuck about with you.’
There was a customer browsing at the back of the shop. He walked out from between the shelves, gave them a nervous smile and headed for the front door. Claudia watched him leave, giving Jack a good view of her ear and the long smoothness of her neck. He remembered the terrain.
‘Now look what you’ve gone and done,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry. I won’t be long.’
‘How many customers do you think I get?’
‘So close down and put yourself out of misery.’
Bam. Boom. Pow. Jack looked her over and it was all good.Every item considered. Pearl stud earrings, silk blouse under an olive-brown military-style jacket, and a gold-clasped brown leather belt around the middle. Black miniskirt-length cardigan and satin leggings all the way down into knee-high leather boots. A fortune in polish. Cool class and the budget to match.
‘So whatever Dad said, just forget it.’
‘Okay.’
‘I mean it.’ Her voice hardened. ‘I can’t even believe you’d consider something so … so fucking ridiculous.’
Jack saw the gap between her front teeth. The one she hated so much. Claudia had never understood the power of her imperfection. ‘And who said I’d considered it?’
‘I know you, Jack. Remember?’
He grew a little irritated. ‘Remind me.’
‘It’s unbelievable!’ she said, frowning now, her face warming up, good and flushed. ‘The fucking arrogance.’
‘Maybe it’s genetic. He can’t help it.’
‘I wasn’t talking about my father. I was talking about you.’
Jack sighed. He thought he should be angry, but the feeling would not take. ‘Happy birthday for last week,’ he said. ‘The big three-four now, isn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘Do anything special?’
She blinked, then frowned some more and looked like she was about to swing her bag at his head. Instead, she held up her left hand. Diamond on the ring finger.
‘Nice,’ said Jack. ‘Not too big, not too small. Classy.’ A circle of emeralds around the ice, all twinkling and bright and cool-green. Maybe Duncan Beaumont had taste.
‘You get it, then?’
He grinned. An involuntary reaction. ‘Congratulations. When’s the big day?’
‘None of your business.’
‘Can you stick me on a table with your single friends?’
‘Still with the routines.’ Claudia eased contempt into her tone.
Jack shook his head. ‘Straight for the jugular. That’s lovely. Meanwhile, it’s you who came to see me. And before that, it was your old man, kicking me out of my pad. You Brandts are relentless in your quest for power.’
‘I know you took the money, Jack.’
He stopped, narrowed his eyes at her. ‘So what? He owes me more than that. So do you.’
‘Okay, fine.’ She brushed her hair away from her face. ‘Let’s leave it there. You tell Dad that you spoke to me and we even went to dinner and you really tried and I wouldn’t have a bar of it. You did your job and you can keep your money and —’
‘Where did we go?’
‘What?’
‘For dinner. In case he asks.’
‘Forgotten my favourite already?’
‘What would have been the point of remembering?’
It pulled her up, but only for a moment. ‘Fuck you, Jack. And stay out of my life.’
Jack chewed some lip, surprised to find the words stinging. He lowered his voice. ‘Off you go, then.’
Something softened her grim, determined face. Jack watched her shoulders rise with a deep breath, then drop as she exhaled.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Jack. I’m sorry. But this is my life now. With Duncan.’
‘I wouldn’t want it any other way.’
She looked at him, unsure. ‘Thank you.’
‘No need for thanks,’ he said. ‘I haven’t done anything.’
As she made her way to the exit, Jack called out: ‘So what’d he do to your old man?’
Claudia paused, turned back with concern in her eyes. Or regret? Either way, not for Jack, of course. Which only made them harder to hold with his own.
‘Duncan wants to marry me.’
‘Yeah, I heard. But that’s all? He’s taking Daddy’s girl away?’ He glanced over her shoulder. ‘Come on, Claudia.’
‘It’s the truth. You know my father.’
‘That’s why I’m asking.’
Claudia sucked at her bottom lip. Jack tried not to notice. Then she said: ‘He works for ASIC.’ Like admitting she had stolen a Snickers bar from the corner shop.
‘Who?’
‘The securities commission.’
‘Financial crime?’
She nodded.
Once again, Jack could not help but grin. ‘And you knew?’
Claudia shifted her weight to the other leg.
‘You thought maybe Ziggy wouldn’t notice?’
The fire back now. ‘It’s called love, Jack. Get it?’
She turned before he could reply, walked hard for the door. Opened it and left. Short and sweet.
Jack got it, all clear. At least this time he did not have too far to walk home.
7
He called, just to be sure. It was important to have your facts straight before you told Ziggy Brandt where he could stick it. A bright, perky voice answered the phone.
‘Australian Securities and Investments Commission. Michelle speaking.’
‘Hi, Michelle. I was wondering if I could speak to Duncan Beaumont, please.’
‘Who can I say is calling, sir?’
Jack thought quickly. Money Jungle was playing through the speakers. ‘Duke Ellington,’ he said.
‘One moment, Mr Ellington.’
On-hold music. Jack was not exactly sure what he was going to say. So, I hear you’re a friend of Ziggy Brandt’s? See how the guy responded. He grinned, almost having fun now.
Michelle came back on the line. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Ellington, but Mr Beaumont is not in his office. Would you care to leave a message?’
Jack laughed, like Beaumont was an old friend. ‘They gave him an office, huh? What, he’s been promoted? What’s his new role?’
‘I’m … not sure.’ A pause. ‘I can check for you, if you like?’
‘Please, Michelle. That would be great.’
More music. Then: ‘Mr Ellington?’
‘Call me Duke.’
‘Thank you. Mr Beaumont is still working in the investigations area.’
Jack leaned over the Susko Books counter and rested his head in his free hand. ‘Oh, good, glad to hear it. Thanks for that.’
‘Would you care to leave a message?’
‘It’s okay. Just tell him the Duke called. I’ll try him at home later.’
‘No problem. Have a lovely day.’
‘Yeah, you too.’
So Ziggy Brandt’s daughter was sleeping with the enemy. Jack liked the idea of the little big man squirming, unable to do anything about it. Small compensation for Jack being kicked out of his home, but overall he felt better about everything. Once he told Ziggy he knew what was going on and see you later, he could get back to his own life. And as long as he made
sure his new dwelling was not administered by any entity connected to the Brandt Group, he might just climb out from under that shadow once and for all. He could deal with the sour memories of Claudia slowly. Dry them up over time. Maybe.
No answer on Brandt’s phone. Jack left a message: ‘I’m not messing with ASIC either.’
At six he flicked the Closed sign on Susko Books and poured himself some wine from a fresh bottle of sawdust shiraz. Found the ashtray below the counter and lit up. Made a selection at the stereo: Bill Evans, live at the Village Vanguard, 1967. California Here I Come. Turned up the volume and let it spill around the place: Evans’ piano playing was like the clean sound of ice in a glass. Considering it was a Monday and the weather was bitter, trade at the till had been okay. He took his wine and ashtray over to the boxes from the auction to have another look. See if in fact his luck was changing.
He shifted out one of the bottom boxes. First off the rank, a small green hardback, title and author in white: Caravanning by John Vincent Brittain. An old library reference number was stamped on the spine: E796.7/BRI, State Library of New South Wales. Jack sat down on the two stairs inside the front door and slugged some wine. He flipped the book open to some photographs in the middle: black-and-whites of 1950s caravans. The Sprite Saracen, Mark II. The Thomson Glenalmond. The Lissett Astoria. The Fairholme Symphony, Mark I. The Pemberton Hacienda. Maybe that was the solution to his pending accommodation difficulties? Jack thumbed through the book some more. Paused on page 10:
The Lure of Caravanning
The attraction of a caravan, either as a permanent residence or for holidays, is not easy to explain, but essentially it is the freedom aspect which makes it so popular. This freedom aspect includes freedom to move from one place to another, freedom from crowded spaces should you want this, freedom from too much housework, and, in some cases, freedom from landlords …
Jack flicked to the pictures again. Found the Pemberton Hacienda. Thirty feet long. Features included a fully sprung double divan bed with Continental headboard, a three-piece suite covered in a choice of material, and a cocktail cabinet with recess for a television set. Nice stuff. Dressing table, food pantry, venetian blinds and a bath with hot and cold water. Not to mention eye-level Chinese cabinets in the lounge and melamine benchtops in the kitchen. There was a model posing in a photograph of the bedroom. She was smiling. Her expression was clear: who the hell wants a house when you can live de luxe in the Pemberton Hacienda?
De Luxe Page 4
