De Luxe

by Lenny Bartulin

  ‘Oh, you’re in it. Illegal gambling, known associations with underworld figures, obstructing justice. What else can I add for your entertainment?’

  ‘How about the Great Train Robbery?’ Jack poured.

  ‘Not to mention the assault charge by Duncan Beaumont.’ Glendenning drank the grappa in one go, sliding the whole shot down his throat like it was an oyster. Wiped his lips. ‘Unless, of course, you cooperate with us.’

  ‘You want the guy for taking a shot at Ziggy Brandt and I’ve got to worry about an assault charge?’

  ‘Crime is always complicated, Jack. A defence lawyer could make a meal out of it, if he wanted to.’ He picked up the bottle of grappa and poured himself another shot. ‘This is good stuff. You got spaghetti in the family?’

  ‘Neighbour.’

  ‘Tell him I’ll buy a couple of bottles.’

  ‘What about telling me what you want with Beaumont?’

  ‘Like I said. All you’ve got to do is tell me where he is. In the good books, simple as that.’ Glendenning smiled. ‘No pun intended.’

  ‘Okay. How’s this: I wouldn’t have a clue. Drink my liquor and the front door’s that way.’

  The detective frowned. It was not quite the Keith Glendenning that Jack remembered from a few years ago. The self-assurance was still there, but all his smooth edges were now ragged and chopped, like he had been hung out in a raw wind for too long. The drink had already rimmed his eyes red. Jack was not a fan of the law, but had to admit to a little sympathy for the copper. The guy had saved his life once, after all.

  ‘You want him for attempted murder?’ said Jack, pouring the cop another drink. ‘Or something else?’

  ‘I wish I fucking knew. Beaumont works for ASIC, the securities commission, investigating white-collar financial stuff. He was on to Kippax and had come across something that he wanted to give us.’ Glendenning was opening up like an old friend, but then held his hand out like a traffic cop. ‘And don’t even fucking ask because I’m not going to tell you what it’s about. Suffice to say, it was going to put Allan Kippax in the big shit. Money laundering, bribes, corruption.’

  ‘Murder?’ said Jack, wondering why a white-collar investigation might be handed over to the coppers.

  The detective sergeant neither denied nor confirmed this. ‘Just the usual scenario in our wonderful fair state of New South Wales. Then, before Beaumont could hand over the evidence against Kippax, what I’ve got now. Beaumont trying to shoot Brandt and no fucking evidence at all.’

  ‘And no Beaumont.’

  ‘Yep. No nothing.’

  ‘I heard Beaumont had something against Brandt.’

  ‘Who the fuck doesn’t?’

  ‘Old-school revenge, they tell me. His father was ruined financially, forced onto the streets. All Ziggy’s fault.’

  Glendenning shrugged. ‘More for the pot then, but we’ve got nothing to stir with.’

  ‘You never heard anything about Kippax offering up Brandt to ASIC?’ Jack remembered the story as told by Claudia. Maybe Beaumont had changed his mind about handing Kippax over to ASIC and the cops for the chance of a shot at Brandt.

  ‘What’s that?’ The detective sergeant’s eyes seemed to clear instantly.

  ‘Just something I heard floating around.’

  ‘Yeah? Mind telling me where?’

  ‘Morning rush hour on the train, some people talking. I probably misheard anyway.’

  ‘Susko, anything you know right now is very good for you, yeah? As long as you tell me. And then maybe we can wrap this shit up.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘You could help me find him.’

  ‘I’ve got no idea.’

  ‘Come on, Jack. You know the fiancée. You’re there with Brandt and Kippax. Practically one of the boys.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Look, we both know your stuff ain’t the cleanest pillowslip in the laundry. But I know deep down you’re a good guy. Doing a favour for the police could be a very healthy thing to do.’

  Christ. Jack was feeling the pain from every angle now. ‘You moved into stand-up? How come you never told me?’

  ‘Fuck!’ Glendenning got to his feet. ‘You’re headed nowhere with this shit other than more shit. I know I don’t have to give you the picture on these guys. You want to stay out of the crap you do what I’m asking. Clear enough?’

  Jack slid another cigarette out of the pack and lit up. He tried to remember what day it was. Monday? Yeah. Already the weekend gone, no respite for his woes. His stake, off with the bunnies. His peace of mind, departed. His future, the Bermuda Triangle in a storm. And his old lonely heart … in the fucking wringer.

  ‘You think me being your middle man is staying out of the shit?’ Jack could not help the weariness in his voice. If he was going to be in it, why not Kippax’s five grand for the same information Glendenning was asking for?

  ‘We’re the good guys, Jack. Remember?’ The detective sergeant killed his drink and stood up. He slipped a card out from his wallet and placed it on the coffee table. ‘And I reckon you’re there, too.’

  The cop let himself out of the apartment.

  Jack tilted the bottle and knocked the glass back. Same again. He felt like a broken twelve to everybody’s hour hand. For once, it would have been nice to be the guy winding the goddamn clock.

  22

  He caught a bus into the city. The sky sagged low with clouds, filtering a blue-grey light that seemed more appropriate to dusk. The rain held off for the moment, but everything was already wet anyway. An indoor day, with a book and a bottle of wine and the heat turned up to sleepy. Jack thought of the flat at Faye’s place in Birchgrove, the window that looked out over the lush lawn and the magnolia and the honeysuckle; all around, the light off the harbour moody, its dark hues restless and swelling in the wind. He wanted to be there now, safe and sound in front of the view, maybe some Bessie Smith on the player, singing his blues away.

  The weather had blown some of the city’s rubbish down the front steps of Susko Books. Jack nudged the flattened takeaway containers and crushed coffee cups aside with his foot. He let himself in and shivered: it suddenly felt like months since he had been there. He quickly switched on the heaters and hit the stereo, then palmed the counter and looked around, as though resuscitating the place, waiting for a pulse. All the books were like heads hanging down at a funeral. Jack looked at the stereo, waiting, anxious for the sound: he did not realise he was holding his breath until he heard Monk’s Dream start with the title number, then exhaled and relaxed and felt a little better, with Mr Thelonious striding in all over the keys like Charlie Chaplin as the tramp, and Charlie Rouse warming the air with his tenor sax. Sunshine through a dirty window.

  The phone started ringing. Jack closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head. There was the truth of it, the fact to his fantasy — even down here, the world never left you alone for too long.

  He picked up. ‘Susko Books.’

  ‘Hey, it’s Astrid.’

  The voice carried her body, the usual sly grin and the cocked hip. Jack was glad to hear it. ‘Wanna take me out to dinner tonight?’

  ‘Haven’t you got that the wrong way round?’

  ‘Then you’d be assuming I had any coin left in the world.’

  ‘Bad run at the card game?’

  ‘How come everybody knows I went?’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘I’m an empty sardine tin that’s fallen out of the garbage truck.’

  ‘Cards wouldn’t come, or was Kippax playing the sleeve?’

  ‘Yeah, he was playing it. But I was up nicely before anything took hold. Just thinking about cashing in, too. Then the catering company pulled some guns and bagged the lot: lock, stock and bus fare.’

  ‘What?
’ Surprise in her voice. ‘The place got rolled?’

  ‘Kippax reckons it was Ziggy.’

  ‘He would.’

  ‘Was it?’

  Astrid laughed. ‘Don’t be silly, Jack.’ A pause. ‘Tell me what happened.’

  ‘Five Playboy bunnies, believe it or not. Just like I said, out with the guns, away with the cash. I was up over eight grand.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘And more ouch to come,’ he said, thinking of Kippax’s man, Mick.

  ‘So they were organised? I can’t believe it.’

  ‘No fucking about. I’d say they’d done it before. And good-looking, too. Ever heard of anything like it when you were in blue?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I was hoping they’d kidnap me. Though Lois would have had trouble paying the ransom.’

  ‘If you need cash, you know Ziggy can help.’

  ‘Thanks, but I think I’ll be fine.’

  ‘That reminds me,’ said Astrid. ‘Anything on Beaumont?’

  Jack frowned. ‘No.’

  ‘Ziggy’s keen to hear.’

  ‘I already told him to go and find his own attempted murderers.’

  ‘Come on, Jack.’

  ‘Look, I’ve got the cops on my arse and with the pieces already taken out of it there’s none to spare for anybody else, okay? Just enough left to sit comfortably on my favourite chair.’

  ‘How about doing it for me?’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ His arm twitched with pain. ‘Anyway, I don’t know where he is. Why don’t you ask Claudia?’

  ‘Aren’t you helping her find him?’

  Jack felt the world tighten around his little bookshop again, heard the faint crack and creak of the walls. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘She just mentioned it in passing at the office.’

  ‘Of course. In passing.’

  ‘So you’ll let me know, too?’

  ‘You taking me out to dinner?’

  ‘Never know. Maybe I can get Uta to come along as well.’

  Jack almost scoffed but pulled a sigh at the last second. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Thinking, yeah, maybe next year.

  ‘Good boy. Call me later, okay?’

  Jack put the phone down. Brandt’s gratitude, or five grand from Kippax, or dinner with Astrid and her hot friend, or a get-out-of-jail-free card from Glendenning: all on offer for the whereabouts of one Duncan Beaumont, Esquire. He wondered what Claudia’s bid would be. Maybe a CD gift voucher from JB Hi-Fi? Or his way with her in the presidential suite of a downtown five-star? You never knew your luck — then again, sometimes you did. And Jack had already moved way outside of long shot territory.

  He glanced up at the wall clock: 9.45 a.m. Quarter of an hour, then time to swing the doors open to the ravenous book-eating masses. He thought he heard knocking at the rear door and decided to go have a cigarette out in Market Row. Probably a courier for the porn shop upstairs, boxes full of DVDs on his trolley. He remembered Deepak telling him there were always two or three missing from the order, usually the lesbian stuff. Sliding around in jelly. Jack wondered if he was about to meet the guy.

  There was a metal click as he unlocked the door. He pushed it half open and a harsh gust blew in, whipping up dust and part of an old Sydney Morning Herald abandoned on the storeroom floor. Jack swore and leaned forward to look past the door’s edge, face already tight and straining against the cold. It stayed that way: along with the weather, Market Row was full of nothing but bad news.

  No porn courier, just Duncan Beaumont pointing a gun. The guy stood there and smiled, said: ‘Mind letting me in?’

  23

  Jack looked down at the gun in Beaumont’s hand, held in close to the body, about hip high. He stared, expressionless now, almost devoid of thought, except for a fucking hell that briefly lit up the billboard in his mind and flashed a couple of times, blinding him. He re-focused. Okay. It was Monday morning, a quarter to ten on the wall clock. This was happening. In a city of over four million people, right now not one of them was walking down Market Row. It was just the two of them there. He stepped back.

  Beaumont came inside and pulled the door shut behind him. The wind was squeezed out and a kind of silence returned to the storeroom: ominous, heavy and full of blood, like a heartbeat in your ear. Jack tried to read the look on Beaumont’s face but the print was too small.

  He said: ‘How goes the undercover financial-crime business?’

  Duncan Beaumont was unshaven, crumpled, his eyes red and wired. Pale-faced, especially against the black biker’s jacket. Black jeans and boots, too. He looked like he had just finished an all-nighter out on the town, still half cut and now bitten blue by the cold after standing around waiting for a cab that never came. Beaumont ran his hand through his hair and breathed hard. The hairstyle resumed its one-hundred-dollar salon style. His wet, stone-blue eyes narrowed on Jack.

  ‘We meet again, Susko.’

  Jack frowned. ‘The fuck are you, Dr Fu Manchu?’

  Beaumont ignored him and moved a little to his left, then half turned towards the door. His legs were wide apart and slightly bent, his arms out wide and curved as though around an invisible wine barrel. Jack wondered what the hell he was doing. Some kind of karate? Jesus.

  ‘Don’t move.’

  ‘Sure. Fine,’ said Jack. ‘I’ll just watch.’

  Beaumont glanced at the lock, then brought his eyes to the front again: he shifted himself slowly back towards the door and reached behind for it. There was another click and the door was locked once more.

  ‘You’ve done that before,’ said Jack. ‘I can tell.’

  Beaumont pointed his chin over Jack’s shoulder. ‘Anybody in the shop?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Keith Glendenning is just browsing. Something for the wife, they’re having difficulties. Oh, and he’s got a gun, too.’

  ‘It’s not pointed at you though, is it?’

  There was nothing to say to that. Jack’s mind fumbled through some options. The storeroom was small and box-tight, with just enough space to walk through carrying an armful of books; or some cigarettes, a lighter and maybe a glass of wine when the shop floor was quiet. The rear door was no chance with Beaumont in the way. Think. What about back into the shop and out the front? Bring a stack of boxes down on the guy, then run like the Flash? No good. Each box was full, weighed about twelve to fifteen kilos. By the time Jack reached up and tried to topple them, there would be two or three bullets adding bloody nipples to his chest.

  ‘I’ve been waiting outside,’ said Beaumont. ‘Freezing my arse off.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘I was worried somebody might see me. I … I haven’t slept for two days.’

  Jack heard a note of despair in his voice. ‘Where have you been?’

  Beaumont stared at the floor for a moment, lost to a thought. Jack eyed the gun, wondering if he could grab it while Beaumont was distracted. Too far to dive. Then he noticed the make. ‘Is that a real Luger?’ Old Commando comics from his childhood flashed through his mind.

  ‘What?’ Beaumont came back. He saw where Jack was looking and brought the gun up higher. ‘Yeah, it is.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have picked you for a World War Two buff.’

  The guy’s brow dug in hard between his eyes. ‘Kippax’s idea. He thought it was funny. He wanted me to shoot Brandt with something authentically Nazi. Bought it at an auction. Used to belong to some high-ranking SS arsehole.’

  Jack hesitated. The guy had brought up the shooting as easy as the weekend sports results. ‘So what happened?’ he said. ‘You missed.’

  Beaumont looked away, his face wracked with some kind of inner turmoil. ‘I wasn’t going to do it. I thought I was and I wanted to, but then … then I couldn’t.’

 
Jack remembered a time when a gun had been placed in his own hand, along with a beaten man in the back seat of a car and two simple instructions: Get rid of it, Jack. All of it. The idea was nothing compared to the moment itself.

  ‘That woman who drives for Ziggy Brandt?’ continued Beaumont, remembering, the talk coming easy now, almost with relief. He probably had not spoken to anybody about it yet. Lucky Jack. ‘She came out of the elevator first and saw me. I was just standing there, thinking that I wouldn’t do it, that I wasn’t going to. She pulled a gun, I couldn’t fucking believe it. Bam! Bam! Bam! like Lethal Weapon or something. I dived behind a car. Ran. Can’t even remember how I got out of there.’

  Jack pictured Astrid striding cool and magnificent and no doubt terrifying.

  ‘And now as well as Brandt, Kippax wants to give it to me,’ said Beaumont. ‘He’s got Florez on my tail.’

  ‘What about the ASIC evidence you’ve got against Kippax?’ said Jack. ‘Can’t that protect you?’

  ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘Claudia told me.’

  Beaumont’s hand clenched the gun. He looked down at it, then at Jack again, his eyes determined, just like the night he came round to Leinster Street — but the anger trickled out of him, like he was too full of holes to hold it anymore. ‘He’s got it,’ he said.

  ‘You gave it to him before the job?’ So what the hell was Kippax after that he was willing to pay Jack five thousand dollars for? Just the guy, in the flesh? Something for Mick to play with on his days off?

  ‘Yeah,’ said Beaumont. ‘For the gun and the set-up. And the getaway cash for after.’

  ‘How much?’

  Beaumont grinned. ‘Fifty grand. Part of the deal.’

  ‘He wants the money back, huh?’ said Jack. There was his little job offer.

  ‘Yeah, well, he owes me another five-oh. I figured if I was going to do it anyway …’ He paused, maybe recalling the attempted deed and how the hell he had got there and the shit he was in now. ‘But I missed, so he wants the cash. And my neck for the shiv in his boot.’