De Luxe

by Lenny Bartulin

  ‘Good enough to eat, huh?’

  Kippax offered Jack a cigarette from a gold case that he slipped smoothly from his jacket pocket and opened with one hand. All without looking. ‘There’s a room at the end of the hall,’ he said. ‘Mick will take care of your cash and receipt your chips.’ He clicked a flame from a vintage Dunhill lighter.

  Jack leaned in with his cigarette and drew. Rich, high-quality tobacco hit his lungs and he blew it out slowly, savouring the flavour. ‘You always have a party when you’re running a game?’

  ‘Every now and then.’ Now Kippax fixed his reptile eyes on Jack. ‘But as a matter of fact, I was hoping tonight would be a celebration. Except somebody told me that Ziggy Brandt survived. Not a scratch, apparently.’

  Jack was impressed. Kippax knew how to slip the pill. ‘Survived what?’

  ‘Oh, come now. You didn’t hear about it?’

  ‘Some vague rumour.’

  ‘Waited in the car park and then let him have it. Managed to squeeze off four shots.’ Kippax shook his head. ‘Four, mind you, and nothing to show for it. Obviously an amateur.’

  Jack dragged on his cigarette and looked around at the party people and the hired bunnies, and at the glittering city through the window, host to it all. ‘Impossible to get good staff these days,’ he said.

  ‘That’s why when I find good people, Jack, I always pay for good people.’

  ‘Well, everybody looks pretty happy around here.’

  Kippax smiled. ‘Of course, the nice thing is knowing that I’m not the only man in the world who dislikes Ziggy Brandt.’

  ‘You and Duncan Beaumont, apparently.’

  Tobacco smoke streamed from Kippax’s nostrils. ‘And what about you, Jack?’

  ‘Peace, man.’ He held up a V. ‘Make love not war.’

  ‘Every hippy has his price.’

  ‘No doubt,’ said Jack. ‘What about ASIC investigators?’

  Kippax blinked, but that was about it. Then he looked past Jack and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Ah, look, it’s Roberto at last. Shall we get the game under way?’

  As Jack dropped his smoke into an ashtray and followed Kippax across the room, he was pretty sure that it had already started.

  18

  Five of them sat at the oak card table: Jack, Kippax, Florez, Lonergan and Noble. Small crowd in there, too, milling around. The formal dining room was full of antiques, paintings and sideboards topped with floral arrangements, nothing like the rest of the place, except for that view through the window of the city at night, an eye balm every time you looked. In truth, though, most peepers were stuck on a tall ashy blonde called Francine, dealer extraordinaire in her bunny outfit and fishnets, a tiny diamond stud sparkling in her left nostril. Jack was wondering if she was a good-luck charm and, if so, did she want to get married or something. Especially with the air over three hours old and Ol’ You-Gotta-Know-When-To-Hold-’Em Susko up nearly eight-and-a-half grand.

  Hell, they could tour the world together.

  Francine looked at Allan Kippax, her smooth hands ready on the deck. ‘Okay?’ she said.

  ‘Please.’ He tossed a one-hundred-dollar chip into the approximate centre of the table. Four more chips followed. Another round of hole cards slipped across the velvet.

  Lonergan and Noble were stooges, there to buffer bets and make the small hands tempting; no doubt in Jack’s mind that they were working for Kippax. They looked like a couple of bricklayers in good suits and Rolexes, rigid and nervous at first, then loosening up with the booze and making stupid bets while they stared at Francine’s rack. Jack took the money — it was okay with him. He knew what was going on. Thought he saw Florez grin last hand and suspected the roll was on soon: the boys ganging up and raising the cash each bet, lifting the stakes and drawing him in. Old-school hustling. Jack remembered what he had read in Hoyle’s Rules of Games that morning:

  Each group of Poker players is likely to set its own standards of ethical behaviour, and a stranger in the game is well advised to learn what these standards are, so he will not be thought unsporting.

  Jack reckoned he had the ethical standards on display pretty much sussed. He could also hear Faye telling him to get up and cash his chips. And he was thinking about it, too, because it was good money and as good as in his pocket: but he was also thinking about Claudia Brandt and how he wanted to see her again. Even if it was only to tell her something about Mr Fiancé. Christ.

  Then Florez said: ‘I hear you’re back with Ziggy.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘How’s that working out?’

  Jack had been wondering when Florez would say something. And what. Up until this point the guy had kept it civil, only the barest eyebrow-raise when Jack scooped up the pot. They watched each other like guys waiting for the duelling pistols to arrive. It had been a while, but Florez had not changed much: mid-forties now but still youthful-looking, his neat brown hair with no grey, his olive skin smooth, his body lean and erect. He had come in wearing a fur-lined coat that he hung on the back of his chair, then sat comfortable in a cream, fine-wool turtleneck. Not quite Jack’s height, but just as broad if you counted the chip on his shoulder. He had dated Claudia, once upon a time; wanted to marry her, so she had explained to Jack, though their affair had been only brief. The guy was the jealous, possessive type. Obsessed, even, for some time. One night he had given Jack no choice but to put him in his place: even now he could see in Florez’s bloodshot eyes that the memory had not faded.

  ‘Ziggy?’ said Jack. ‘You shouldn’t listen to gossip, Roberto.’ He curled up the corner of his hole card and saw his namesake in diamonds.

  ‘Oh, it was nothing like that. I bumped into Claudia yesterday.’

  ‘And she didn’t call the police?’ The reply was too fast, too hot, but Jack could not help it. He kept his eyes on the cards and thought, Fuck it. ‘Wasn’t there a restraining order?’

  Florez smiled. ‘Nah. Matter of fact, we went to a bar.’

  Jack still did not look, just felt a flame flash through his guts. The guy was trying to get to him and was getting close, but deep down Jack knew Claudia. She might talk to the guy if she saw him, sure, but spilling her problems was a whole other thing. ‘Must have been lovely,’ he said. ‘What time did you wake up?’

  Kippax lit a cigarette. Jack looked up to see him grinning behind the smoke.

  The second round was dealt face up, cards smooth again across the tabletop. Seven of clubs for Jack; seven of diamonds for Lonergan; Noble, a six of clubs. Florez, a five of the same suit, and Kippax tapped a jack of hearts with his forefinger. It was up to him to open the betting. He checked his hole card again and seemed pleased.

  ‘Why not?’ he said and threw in another chip. Everybody in, already a grand in the pot. No raises yet.

  ‘You know what she told me?’ said Florez, casting out his line again. He straightened the edges of his cards. ‘She told me she’s worried about her fiancé — Duncan, right? Gone missing, apparently. And something about you hitting the guy? Yeah, she was pretty upset.’

  Jack flicked through his chips, leaning back in the chair. Kippax grinned again, though most of it was hidden in his beard.

  ‘She mentioned you were helping her find him?’ said Florez, his confidence growing through Jack’s silence. ‘Jesus, Susko. That’s kind of weird, don’t you think? Give the guy a clip and then help the ex get him back?’

  Kippax joined in. ‘Why’d you hit him, Jack? I mean, not that he didn’t necessarily deserve it, but … Well, look, I’m sure that he did, of course.’

  Jack sparked up a smoke, wondering where Florez had heard all the details. Remembered the guy was like a goddamn ferret, scuttling back and forth, picking up little bits of information here and there, then making them sound like a lot. ‘Yeah, he deserved it. Much the same as Florez here did once.’ A pause. ‘Or might
again, even.’

  No bite. ‘Temper, see? Too aggressive. It’s what Claudia said broke them up. She couldn’t handle the volatility.’

  ‘Never ends well, that kind of stuff,’ Kippax said as Francine dealt. ‘Seen it a million times. But Jack, I’m confused. Did you hit Beaumont before or after he tried to shoot Brandt?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Florez. ‘Were you working for the boss or yourself when you did it?’

  Jack tapped his cigarette into the ashtray by his elbow. ‘None of your business, Gonzales.’

  The guy stiffened now. ‘Who the fuck you calling Gonzales?’

  ‘Sorry, Roberto. I’m always mixing you up with the guy works down at the Spanish Club. You know, with the bung eye?’

  Kippax shook his head at Florez. The guy held his tongue.

  Jack watched a three of spades skim across the table and land beside his cards. A jack in the hole, a seven, and now the three: still nothing. Lonergan, two of diamonds, Noble with a five of spades, Florez a four of clubs and Kippax now tapped a nine of spades with his finger. He sucked at his teeth and did not think too long before lobbing another chip into the pot. Everybody went the same, until it got to Florez, who threw in the hundred, then another chip for spice. Nostrils flaring.

  A thoughtful pause for show, then all the boys in, too. The hustle on. Florez tapped a chip on the table, waiting. ‘You in, Susko, or what the fuck?’

  Jack took his time, knowing that it was best to fold, any fool could see: but lobbed in another hundred bucks, the woody click of the chip on the pile an ominous and lonely sound, as though sealing his immediate fate. He suddenly felt stupid, succumbing to impulse and flushing the brainwork. Hopefully his money would not follow it down the toilet.

  ‘I heard Duncan Beaumont had a vendetta against Brandt,’ said Kippax, stroking his beard. ‘Something to do with his father. You hear that?’

  ‘No.’ Jack looked bored but listened.

  ‘Yes, apparently. Been stewing it for years. Working himself up, you know? Into a lather.’ Kippax gave a thin smile.

  ‘And where did you hear about it?’

  ‘Oh, around. The traps, as they say.’

  Francine dealt the fourth-round cards. Florez pulled a six of diamonds and grinned, maybe because he had a possible low straight. Lonergan got a five of diamonds, now three red rocks showing, no doubt working a flush. Noble frowned at a six of spades giving him two, and Kippax ignored the nine of hearts that set up his own pair: or maybe a third in the hole? Or another jack for two?

  Everybody with something: everybody except Jack Susko. A growing headache did not count. His fourth card was another namesake, this time in clubs: a decent pair but not nearly enough. He could see the wolves salivating around the table. Time to go, but he made no such movement.

  ‘So, what kind of vendetta, Allan?’ he said, as another bunny came past and topped up his drink.

  ‘Dickensian. Ziggy swindled the father out of a priceless bit of real estate, some waterfront land up north somewhere. Left him destitute and alcoholic, roaming the streets of Darlinghurst with a plastic-bag collection strapped to his elbows and knees.’ Kippax held up his glass and swirled what was in it. ‘And then one day … dead. And poor Duncan wasn’t told until the University of Sydney had already had a good pick at the remains for its medical students. A sad, sad story, no?’

  ‘Never knew you were a sentimentalist.’

  ‘I have moments, Jack. One or two every leap year.’

  Noble shook his head, staring at his pair. ‘I’m out.’

  ‘And just when I’ve got the good cards, hey?’ said Kippax. He picked up a pile of chips, counted out four and pushed them into the pot. ‘Don’t everyone else leave me hanging.’

  ‘I’ll stay,’ said Lonergan, matching the bet. Then he picked up two more chips and dropped them in. ‘But let’s not be boring.’

  ‘Reckon I know what I’d do if I was Beaumont,’ said Florez. He matched Kippax’s four, thumbed in Lonergan’s two, then shook a couple more in his fist, like he was going to roll some dice. ‘I’d have Brandt for breakfast.’ He tossed them in, one after the other.

  Three thousand eight hundred smackers now on the smooth green felt.

  ‘Nothing worse than boring,’ said Kippax and added his four chips to stay in the game. ‘Is there, Jackie boy?’

  Eight hundred to keep playing. Everybody’s eyes on him now.

  Jack said: ‘You think you’d have Ziggy Brandt for breakfast, huh?’ Counting out the chips, not thinking about money, because you could not think about them as money, every gambler knew that. Just some pieces of cheap wood and paint made in China. Worthless. He tossed them in, making it five grand even.

  ‘Well, I’ve already had his daughter,’ said Florez, slimy lips stretched across his fluorescent teeth. ‘So why not?’

  The room seemed to grow darker. Cigarette smoke hovered in the air, barely moving. Tension bulged like a thousand landmines under the carpet around the table, every next step a move in the wrong direction.

  Jack stood up.

  Florez reached behind and slipped a hand into the pocket of his jacket. Jack was pretty sure the guy was not after a handkerchief. They stared each other down for a couple of long, slow seconds. Then, before anybody made the next move, shouting erupted from somewhere out in the apartment.

  Everybody looked towards the door as Mick came bounding through it. Everybody except Francine. Behind him, Jack heard Florez say Fuck and turned: Francine was holding a Glock to his head and another aimed at Mick by the door. Time froze and everything in it.

  ‘Guns out, boys, and hands on the table,’ she said. ‘Now, thank you.’

  19

  The lights of the city flickered icily. A stiff wind beat the balcony with an irregular but relentless rhythm, and sent an ache through the steel and glass and half-frozen guests of Allan Kippax’s little do gone wrong. Jack had given his coat to a young woman in an evening dress who was crying and had started to turn blue, which was pretty much how he felt right now, too. All his money gone, winnings and stash just like that. Jack’s head like a broken egg.

  Though maybe not quite as messy as Kippax and Florez.

  The armed bunnies — Jack had counted five of them — got everyone on the floor and took the lot: wallets, money-clips, watches and jewellery. Not to mention the suitcase full of cash in Kippax’s bedroom-cum-money-exchange-office. Professionals, from heel to tail to mascara. The whole thing took about ten or twelve minutes. Then mobiles confiscated and everybody locked out on the balcony. One of the bunnies stayed behind, stood guard as the others cleared out. Watched the time, waited maybe half an hour, with Kippax stone-faced on the other side of the glass but standing right up to it. Quiet, not going nuts, just staring at the bunny and every now and then asking, ‘Who do you work for?’ and each time being completely ignored. Eventually she left without a word, closed the apartment door, gone. It was a big suitcase those girls hauled out of there. A hundred grand? One fifty? Jack had briefly seen the thing open on the bed, lined neatly with cash, but could only speculate. The look on Kippax’s face said there had probably been more.

  But as much as it was no doubt hurting the guy, nobody on that twenty-third-floor balcony was hurting like Roberto Florez. Most of his face was a dark bruise. And that was not including his mood.

  Jack remembered because it was impossible to forget. Francine still had Florez’s head stuck to her Glock when she reached down to his jacket pocket for the gun he had been about to pull on Jack. Because of the angle, her perfect cleavage was nearly in his face as she gripped the .45 automatic and tugged it out. Florez lifted his head forward a little and Jack saw him moisten his lips. Then Roberto Florez stuck out his tongue and licked the exposed flesh of Francine’s breasts.

  Jesus.

  She had pulled back and her face ha
d turned brutal. Florez gave a lecherous smile. As Jack wondered if the guy had truly lost his mind, the Glock came crashing down and caught the side of his head, pistol-whipping him half out of the chair. His cheek split open and began to gush red. Christ. Francine did not say a word, holding the .45 and the Glock up and aimed at the room, everybody in it giving her their undivided attention.

  Over by some potted palms, snapping their leaves in the blasts of air that rushed the balcony, Florez held a towel to his pain. His turtleneck was probably ruined.

  Kippax stood by and watched Mick crouch beside the sliding glass door, trying to work the lock. The whole thing shook loudly as he gripped the handle and pulled and pushed and grunted. He put his shoulder into the aluminium framing: the boom made the woman wearing Jack’s coat jump. A couple more times, but the door would not yield. Jack made a mental note never to get into the guy’s grip.

  ‘Smash it, Mick,’ said Kippax. ‘Use one of the pot plants or something.’ He turned to the crowd. ‘If everybody could just step back, please. There’s going to be a little bit of flying fucking glass.’

  Mick went over to a corner of the large balcony and came back with an ornate metal outdoor chair.

  ‘Good thinking.’ Kippax stepped back, too. There was a hush as Mick positioned himself. He picked up the chair and readied to swing, but stopped and placed it down again.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ said Kippax.

  ‘Don’t want to tear the seams in my jacket.’

  Big Mick removed his suit jacket and handed it to one of the guests. Then he picked up the chair and without ceremony swung it at the sliding glass door. The noise was terrific and everybody flinched as one. The glass splintered but did not shatter. Without too much pause, Mick swung again, a low grunt escaping his throat. Glass rained down and Jack felt a wave of warm air over his face as it rushed out of the apartment.