He recited the number, thinking as he did how it would probably end up as some kind of evidence: Kippax’s phone confiscated and used by the cops in court, Jack being asked how it was that his number happened to be recorded there. Jesus. He was getting paranoid now. Not good, especially when he was about to sit down at a card table with a bunch of sharks.
‘See you, Jack. Have a nice Friday night.’
He put the handset down. Moments later, his mobile beeped with Kippax’s text message. Time to go buy a fresh deck and limber up.
16
The plan was to get mind and soul in perfect balance. Or somewhere thereabouts. But an hour into the effort and Jack was still short of an entente. There was a lot on his mind and he was having a little trouble getting into the mood. Harmony had always been an elusive state in the Susko world — mostly down a rough dirt road and forever on the horizon.
Okay. Try again. Light cigarette. Drink brandy. Breathe slowly.
He held the pack of Queen’s Slipper playing cards in his hand. Thinking. Not thinking: being. Opened the box on the casino-quality high slip, all for just $5.95 at the newsagent’s down the road. Low budget, but still, they felt nice. Smooth and crisp, stiff and giving. Jack fanned them and flicked the edges, quick as a zipper, the sound taut and sharp and satisfying. Under the jokers each suit was in order, lowest to highest, hearts first cab off the rank. He shuffled them for a while, calm, letting the cards do the work. Then split the deck and popped a two of spades.
Not a time to look for signs.
On the counter at Susko Books was his stash: the $1175 remaining of his speculation cash, $325 out of the till at Susko Books, $620 out of the bank, and $200 from his wallet and the rainy-day top drawer in the filing cabinet under the desk. Plus Ziggy Brandt’s grand, still with the rubber band around it. That made $3320, a way-too-lean bank for good game with the high rollers, let alone for somebody as rusty as Jack.
So next to the available cash was the padding he needed, to at least see some distance and have the whiff of a chance to make some play. It was the high-risk component of his portfolio: $1600 of next month’s rent for Faye’s place on Louisa Road and $4500 for Susko Books, both amounts pulled from his credit cards; $310 of overdue phone, electricity and gas bills; and the $150 for Lois’s vaccination booster and worming budget. Insurance on all this uncalculated risk was his first edition of The Tale of Jemima Puddle-Duck by Beatrix Potter, which would stay locked away for the stormy time that might well follow.
A touch under ten grand. Part of his brain was saying, Buy some new furniture and set yourself up nice at Faye’s place, my friend. Another part whispered, Look, it’s your caravan fund, your ticket to the life on the road, with your house on your back and away from the troubles. But the money and the cards had soda-streamed his blood, and a whole other area of his brain was driving. The one without a licence.
Maybe he could find out about Duncan Beaumont and win some cash?
There it was. The old spark. Smoking up some sawdust as Jack blew a little air over it. He told himself: Easy, son. Cigarette. Brandy. Breathe.
Still no good. He went and found the books.
Well-thumbed and faded, underlined and sometimes even annotated, mostly dented and greasy as a pack of old cards: The Book of Bluffs by Matt Lessinger; The Brunson School of Attack! by Geoffrey Reece; The Theory of Poker by David Sklansky; Harrington on Hold ’Em, volume 1, by Dan Harrington; Paul Leibovitz’s 1972 classic Making the Bet; and Just a Regular Pack of 52 by Clyde Emerson Jnr.
Jack glanced up at the clock. He only had until tomorrow night. He was going to have to cram.
When the phone rang the next day, Jack answered and Ziggy Brandt said: ‘Do you know where the cunt is?’
There were maybe half-a-dozen people in the shop. Milestones playing, warming the air. Jack was flipping Queen’s Slippers at the counter, five-card stud, playing hands and making bets in his head. He was down around fifty thousand bucks. He tried to stay positive, though, thinking it was good to get all the bad luck out now, before the real thing at Kippax’s later on.
‘You’re talking about your future son-in-law, right?’ he said.
‘Top of my motherfucker list.’
‘Must be three or four volumes by now.’
‘Don’t make me add your name, Jack. I could slot you right in at number two.’
He could feel Brandt’s heat, even through the phone. ‘The cops said you were in Malaysia.’
‘Don’t worry about the cops. Just tell me where Beaumont is.’
‘No idea.’
‘Then you’d better go and find the fuck out.’
‘Didn’t you get my message?’
‘Yeah, I got it. So what?’
Jack frowned. ‘I’m out, Ziggy, that’s it. Christ, the guy works for ASIC? And then he tried to shoot you in a car park?’ He paused, Claudia on his mind, realising that helping her find Mr Fiancé was the same as helping Brandt. Every out a dead end. ‘Why’d Beaumont try to shoot you, huh? What, you won’t let him marry your daughter? I know there’s more to it than that.’
‘The guy’s retarded.’
‘Thanks, that’s great. Cleared it up for me.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘I’ve got an assault charge pending, the cops are looking through my windows, and I’m on the phone to you but you won’t tell me anything that I want to know. This is not a hobby I want to get into.’
‘Maybe you’ll find something out at your card game tonight with Allan Kippax.’
That pulled Jack up. ‘Who told you that?’
‘The important thing now is not to waste my time asking stupid questions.’ Brandt still hardball, but smooth as. Like he had not been listening to a word.
‘Uh-huh.’ Jack flipped a card. Queen of hearts. ‘Fuck you.’ Let it hang, turned another card, two of clubs. Nothing in the tank. He was going to have serious trouble towing that dream caravan out of here.
‘Aw, Jesus, come on.’ Brandt’s tone suddenly shifted. ‘Easy with the temper, eh? You can understand that I’m pretty upset about all this?’
‘Sure.’ Jack only understood that Ziggy Brandt was not a man but a giant octopus from the deepest deep, tentacles curling and twisting and gripping all over the goddamn place. There was one on Jack’s ankle now. ‘So what’s the deal? Beaumont’s got something on you? Or Kippax? Or both? Or —’
‘All these years, and still you don’t trust me.’
‘Sniffer dogs in Iraq wouldn’t go near you, Ziggy.’
‘I’m only thinking of Claudia, you know? How she must be feeling with all this.’ Brandt juicing the sincerity lemon. ‘I need this sorted. I don’t want her going through any more pain, especially with the cops.’
‘But me you throw to the boys in blue.’
‘We’re men, Jack.’ A pause. ‘She’s my daughter.’
‘You were always a good father.’
‘Do my best. That’s why I’m not going to lay any charges against Duncan.’
‘Five minutes ago you called him a cunt.’
‘I’ll sort that out later.’
‘With a trip down GBH lane in the Merc?’
‘Like I said, we’re men. Law of the jungle. None of this police-and-lawyer shit.’
‘The jungle, right.’
‘Go to the game and listen, that’s it, all I ask. Anybody mentions Beaumont, you tell me. Kippax says anything, asks you anything, picks his nose, you tell me. Easy.’
Jack wanted to believe it, but the Tooth Fairy had a better shot with him than Brandt. ‘No.’
‘You trying to hurt my feelings?’
‘Yes.’
‘Crack me up, Susko. Every time. Hey, you need any money for the table?’
‘Hundred grand ought to do it.’
/> Ziggy Brandt killed the line, laughing.
After work Jack trudged it home, annoyed at the wind that seemed to bluster about his head every time he thought it had died down. Leinster Street was dark, sullen; inside the apartment it was cold and empty. Nothing in the pantry but red wine, coffee, a tin of tuna, some flour and a packet of almonds. No worthwhile combinations there. Jack glanced at the tin of gourmet roast chicken and vegetables cat food on the lower shelf.
He poured wine and lit a cigarette. Crunched almonds for dinner. Hours to go before the card game. All alone and feeling it. Even Lois had taken off for the evening, party down a drain somewhere in Darlinghurst. He did not want to sit around at home doing nothing either. Thinking about how it was not going to be his for much longer.
Ray had the shop looking romantic. Two lights on down the back, candles on the bookshelves with a flicker to them, fireplace going. Bach’s cello stuff soft in the background, moody and a little serious but — in this atmosphere — kind of sexy, too. Jack had knocked on the door and waited longer than usual for it to open. Ray had given him a strained smile as he stepped aside. ‘After you.’
Faye came over to hug him. Ray walked to the counter, no smile now. Picked up his drink and toasted Jack with a small nod.
‘If it isn’t my new flatmate,’ said Faye, holding him by the arms, her grip firm. She was wearing a white skivvy under a pale-blue oversized shirt, hair out and combed neatly down to her shoulders, which made her look younger. Jack grinned, the woman making him feel good just by looking at him.
‘Sorry to disturb you guys.’ He glanced at Ray.
‘Nonsense. And don’t worry about him.’ She let go of his arms and raised an eyebrow. ‘He thinks he might get some action this evening. And the candles are lovely. I appreciate the effort. But he’s wearing corduroy pants, Jack. A size too big? What am I supposed to do with that?’
‘You prefer me in leather?’ said Ray.
‘No, dear. I want you to be comfortable, really, but —’
‘Then tell the young man to leave. He’s spoiling everything.’
‘It’s okay,’ said Jack, wondering how long they had been dating, Ray and Faye the rhyming couple, easy with each other like that, straight-faced shit-stirring. He remembered Claudia, the same clicking into place. And then the un-clicking. ‘I’m off to a card game tonight. Just stopped by.’
‘Cards?’ said Faye. ‘What kind?’
‘The kind that like money.’
‘Poker?’
Jack nodded.
‘How exciting!’ She found her drink on a table stacked with books, touched Ray’s arm as she walked by. ‘You know, Jack, I’m not a bad player myself. Might even have made a living out of it once, but my daddy wouldn’t let me run away on a Mississippi river boat.’
‘In Wagga Wagga?’ said Ray.
‘You don’t know everything about me, Raymond Waylon Campbell.’
‘Waylon?’ said Jack.
‘My mother liked it. I don’t know why.’
‘Have you got cards, Ray? Let’s deal a few rounds.’ Faye drank a good sip of what looked like cognac, then rubbed her palms together. ‘Texas hold ’em or five-card stud?’
‘Now?’ Ray sighed.
‘To help Jack out. Warm him up, and I can show him a few tricks, too.’ She smiled, candlelight caught in her eyes. ‘What should we use as chips?’
‘It’s okay,’ said Jack again. ‘Really. And I hate it when he sulks.’
‘See, he’s in a hurry,’ said Ray.
‘He is not. You need to pay more attention to people, my love.’
‘So what are you getting over here now, m’lady?’ Ray crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. ‘What am I thinking?’
Faye turned away and started to get busy, looking around the shelves and tables and wall hangings. ‘Cards, betting chips, drinks, chop chop, Raymond. What kind of shop is this?’
‘Everything is collectable and cannot be touched.’
She ignored him. ‘We’ll start at twenty cents a hand, two-dollar limit, see how you boys go. Up the stakes in a little while and then I’ll reel you in nice and slow, like a couple of fat squid.’
Jack felt as though he had known this woman for years. Ray was a lucky man, with such a blooming love late in life: and Jack understood how a man would want to hold it close and keep it there. Love like a ship’s keel.
‘Jack, let me take your coat.’ He passed it over and Faye immediately began patting down the pockets. ‘Now, where have you got your cigarettes, eh? Or do we need to send Ray out into the cold for more supplies?’
17
The churning, fluoro blue–lit water feature in front of the Lumiere apartment building was loud. It cascaded down with cool abundance. An array of lights reflected off the flooding delta and all the glass and marble and polished steel of the Lumiere’s entrance. There was enough flash and tinkle going around to disorientate a man with a slight headache. No contest on a relatively drunk one.
Faye had taken them to the cleaners. She played poker with a killer instinct, cold and focused. Jack had enjoyed watching her at first, relaxed and sipping Ray’s fine cognac, not thinking too much about anything at all. And then suddenly it was too late and Faye Montgomery had all the money, smiling at him, saying, ‘What time is the game tonight? You might want to smarten up, Jack.’
The front doors slid open: inside it was terrifically warm. Big red couches surrounded by lots of hard-edged, flashy design under very high ceilings. The concierge was an attractive blonde in a cream uniform, her healthy tan making Jack think of beaches. He told himself not to walk into any furniture.
‘For Mr Kippax?’ she said as he approached the front desk.
‘Yeah, that’s right. Twenty-three-oh-nine?’
She picked up a phone. ‘I’ll get somebody to take you up. What was the name?’
‘Susko, Jack,’ he said. ‘The third.’
The concierge smiled, her face open and friendly. Jack liked her some more. She repeated his name down the line, nodded and replaced the handset. Pointed down to his left. ‘Just go around the corner and wait by the elevators,’ she said. ‘They’re on their way.’
‘Thank you kindly.’
‘You’re very welcome.’ She began typing at a computer.
An elevator was already arriving as Jack got there. A bell sounded and mirrored doors split open to reveal Kippax’s main man, spread-legged and erect and mountain-high, with his boxing-glove paws clasped and resting before him.
‘Mr Susko.’
Jack stepped in beside him. ‘Hello, Mick.’
The big guy slid a security card into a slot on his right and pressed a number. They began to ascend, fast and almost silently.
‘Having a good night?’ said Jack.
‘Don’t know. Only just started.’
The tone was unenthusiastic: to paranoid ears, even vaguely threatening. Jack remembered running away from the guy at Beaumont’s place. ‘I wish you luck, then,’ he said.
‘You’ll need it more than me.’ No grin, just a small movement of his shoulders beneath the pinstriped grey suit. Jack tried to look elsewhere but the guy’s reflection was coming at him from all over the place.
The doors slid open on twenty-three. Jack followed Kippax’s man down to the apartment. The carpet was springy underfoot and the place smelt new. He tugged at his cuffs, brushed down his arms lightly. Reached for the wad in his inside pocket and felt the thickness in his fingertips. Told himself: Hold it together in there. Do not leave anything behind. Especially money.
They walked in. Through the speakers Tom Jones was belting out ‘Delilah’. Mick disappeared somewhere as Jack made his way across the room. Party night at Kippax’s. Open-plan, penthouse-style, everything modern and sleek, lamps soft in a constellation around the
large room. Floor-to-ceiling windows straight ahead, filled with wet blinking lights. There were at least twenty people Jack could see, standing around by the view sipping their drinks and looking attractive, or lounging back on a big L-shaped sofa, the guys suave and the girls flashing thigh. A few more chatting here and there in twos and threes. As he looked for Kippax, a brunette in a Playboy bunny outfit appeared, carrying a tray of drinks.
‘Champagne?’ she said.
For a second, it was Jack who was the rabbit caught in headlights, eyes wide. He tried to keep it cool and took a glass. ‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’ She winked and he watched her walk away, fluffy white tail swinging left and right and back again: Jack staying with the view. Then a hand on his shoulder and he turned to see Allan Kippax standing beside him.
‘Jack. You made it.’ The guy was wearing tan Cubans with the big heels again and a suit the colour of blueberry juice. Dark-purple shirt and matching silk kerchief, bunched up and blooming beneath his bearded chin. ‘I’m so glad.’
‘Allan.’ Jack watched another bunny walk by, this one a curvy redhead. ‘You didn’t tell me it was fancy dress.’
‘Very funny.’
‘You got a licence for the girls?’
‘Hugh’s an old friend. He wouldn’t mind.’ Kippax held him by the elbow. ‘Come here. I want to show you something.’
They walked towards the far wall, Kippax greeting his guests along the way as they raised their glassware at him. On the other side of the room he pointed at a cabinet and beamed. ‘Some of my babies,’ he said.
Jack saw a bunch of Bakelite radios on display, every shade of the rainbow.
‘Do they work?’
‘Yes, Jack. They work.’
‘From the other day at the auction?’
‘Those two there,’ he said. ‘That’s a 1936 AWA Fisk Radiolette Empire State. You might remember it from the cover of that book you kindly offered me.’
‘The very one?’
‘The very one. And there is an even rarer pre-war American Fada Bullet. Look at that maroon-and-butterscotch finish.’ Kippax smiled proudly, capped teeth flashing bright through his beard, like opening a fridge door in the middle of the night.
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