He began with the eastern suburbs. Kenneth Brown Bookseller, Surry Hills, was the first stop and a good start: one copy of Entropy House. Then Cassandra’s Pre-Loved Books, Darlinghurst: nothing. Phrase and Fable Book Basement, Woolloomooloo: nothing. Bentley’s Book Bonanza, Kings Cross: one copy of The Cull. Berlichingen Books, Paddington: nothing. Upstairs, Turn Left Books, Edgecliff: nothing. Numerous Editions, Bondi Junction: nothing. Peter’s Book Exchange, Bondi Junction: nothing. Rare Books and Music and Stuff, Randwick: nothing. Over three hours of his time, nearly thirty dollars in cab fares, and only two Edward Kass books and an eye-strain headache to show for it. Plus a greasy falafel roll he ate for lunch was taking its sweet goddamn time through his alimentary canal. Pick a good mood: Jack Susko was not in it.
He headed out to Glebe anyway. One last try for the afternoon. Jack knew the guy who ran a place called Jack and the Bookstalk. His name was Chester Sinclair. He had used Jack and the Bookstalk without telling Jack he had stolen his idea. Sinclair was that kind of guy.
He always wore tracksuit pants that sagged under the weight of keys, wallet, mobile phone and God knows what else. Sometimes he wore leather lace-up shoes with the tracksuit pants, the elastic cuffs gripping high up his ankles, revealing white socks that had turned grey with despair. He was in his forties, tall but soft in the gut. He had wispy blonde hair that curled a little around his ears and gave him a boyish look. Combined with his blue eyes, there was a suggestion that he might have surfed once upon a time, though this was very far from the truth. He was pale like an unripe strawberry and sweaty all over. And always grinning, always smiling, like he knew something that you were dying to know and there was no way he was ever going to tell you what it was. He was cheap and would not hesitate to confuse old ladies with their change. He never wrote prices on his books but made them up at the counter after he had sized up the customer. He did not possess a healthy aura.
Jack’s worry was that Chester would sniff out that the Kass books might be worth something. With the right kind of breeze, the man could smell Monopoly money buried at the South Pole.
Jack and the Bookstalk was located in an old warehouse building just off Glebe Point Road, its grey rendered façade peeling with fifty years’ worth of advertising posters. It had once been a smash repair business: oil stains were still visible on the concrete floor. The musty, damp air carried a whiff of resin and paint and petrol. Inside was chaos. There was a ground floor and mezzanine level, both sick with books. They were crammed onto exhausted shelves and piled on the floor like war dead after an offensive. Everything blended into the colour of mulch. It was a place where you could easily go insane.
It was colder inside than out on the street. Jack saw Chester at the front counter, sorting through papers. He wore a pink, long-sleeve polo top and a navy blue muffler, the collar up high around his neck. Jack could hear a fan blowing air. Music drifted softly from a radio somewhere.
“Here he is,” said Chester when he saw Jack. “The man himself.”
Jack nodded. “Mr Sinclair.”
“Taking the afternoon off, I see.”
“Nothing gets by you. You’re amazing.”
Chester shook his head and tapped a bundle of papers on the counter. He had soft, pale hands, with fingers that started wide at the base but then tapered into thin ends, crowned with long, narrow fingernails. He put the papers down and reached under the counter for a tube of moisturiser. He squirted a good amount in the palm of his hand and proceeded to rub the moisturiser in. His hands writhed together obscenely.
Jack tried not to listen to the sound they made. “Did you get my message?” he asked.
“Yes I did. And I found a few copies, too. Four in fact. That make you happy?”
“How did you find them in all this?”
“There’s a system in operation here, compadre. Just ’cause you can’t see it.” Chester looked down at his hands as he massaged in between his fingers with his thumb.
“I wouldn’t want to go blind with the brilliance of it,” said Jack.
“Genius is like that.” Chester’s grin tucked into his right cheek. “So, who’s this Edward Kass then?”
Jack picked up a book from the counter: The Book of Miracles — How to get to Heaven AND make a Profit! “He’s a poet,” he answered, dropping the book.
“Famous?”
“Unhappy.”
“But, of course. There’s no money in poetry.” Chester began searching under the counter. “They’re down here somewhere, hang on.”
A young guy came in the front door. He wore black jeans, a black denim jacket, a red-and-black striped scarf and a tight black knitted beanie. A dark green knapsack was hooked over his shoulder. He was as skinny as an incense stick. Jack guessed a university student: his face was white and pimply and wore all the burden of global injustices perpetrated by multinational companies.
“You work here?” he asked Jack.
“No.”
Chester stood up. He put the Edward Kass books onto the counter. “Can I help you?” he asked in a stern voice.
“Have you got a philosophy section?”
Chester pointed toward the back of the shop. “Straight ahead, on your left. And what’s there is what I’ve got so don’t ask me for anything.”
“Right.” The kid gave a pained look and walked off, shaking his head.
“Now, Mr Susko.” Chester leaned on the counter and spread his grin to both cheeks. “You know, there was a guy in here yesterday asking for the very same author. Bit of a coincidence. I was tempted to sell, I have to tell you. A man’s got to eat. But it wouldn’t have been too professional of me, would it?”
“Your integrity has always been impeccable.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear.” Chester picked up one of the books and flicked through the pages. Jack leaned on the counter with both elbows.
“When you’re ready, Chester,” he said, looking down at the scratches in the wood.
“I’m thinking.”
“Don’t hurt yourself.”
“So who was this other guy then?”
Jack looked up and sighed and tried to look bored. “How the hell would I know?”
“I can smell something that’s all.” Chester scratched an armpit. “Why do you want ’em?”
“I got a collector.”
“What are you getting?”
“Do you think I’m going to retire on the sale of four books of poetry? It’s not fucking Lolita, signed by Nabokov and dedicated to Graham Greene.”
Chester scratched his other armpit. “Ten bucks each.”
“Come on, Sinclair. This isn’t Sotheby’s.”
“Take it or leave it.”
“Leave it,” said Jack. He turned to go.
“Thirty bucks for the lot.”
Jack pulled out his wallet. “Don’t spend it all on jelly beans.”
Back in the city, there was a note pushed in under the door of Susko Books. It was from Annabelle Kasprowicz.
I waited. Interesting concept of running a business. I’ll try tomorrow. 2pm.
It was all happening today. Jack held the note to his nose. Her pricey perfume was all over it. He folded the note and put it in his coat pocket. Nothing like having something to look forward to.
~3~
Another cool morning. On the bus people sat a little hunched over, sniffing and sneezing into tissues and handkerchiefs. In the city streets they pulled their collars up and leaned into the cold. The sky was clear but looked to be coming down with something: watery clouds soaked the horizon. Down by the Queen Victoria Building, a homeless man had found a sunny spot and pulled his trouser legs up, as though he were working on a tan. He had no shoes, his ankles were swollen and he was as grimy as diesel exhaust. Jack dropped a couple of dollars in his paper cup. The authorities said not to give the homeless money because they only spent it on booze. Better than Jack taking the guy home and giving him a bath.
Susko Books was an icebox. Being un
derground kept it cool in summer, but winter was a whole other disaster. Two fan-forced heaters made as much difference as striking a match. The best Jack could do was play a little smoky jazz or blues on the stereo and hope the shop at least sounded warmer. Miles Davis and Muddy Waters had worked overtime this winter. No doubt they would soon ask for a raise.
It was 10.30 a.m. Jack had placed one of the heaters behind the counter and he sat beside it, pretending he was warm. He was on the net, doing a search on Edward Kass. He was trying hard not to think too much about Annabelle Kasprowicz and their afternoon rendezvous. He was not doing a very good job. Even a monkey could tell she was only coming to see Jack because of her father, but this did not prevent fantastic thoughts rising in his mind. Every time he entertained the idea that she had a thing for him, he had to step outside and smoke a cigarette and talk himself out of it. The cigarettes had not helped his nervous stomach. And now the net was inducing its own brand of nausea.
There were over 382,000 references to Edward Kass. So far, none were about the poet. He found an Edward Kass who had written a comparative empirical analysis of theoretical formulations of distrust. He found an Edward Kass who had written a paper titled: Are Negotiators Overly Optimistic After All? It Depends on the Question and the Negotiation Structure. He found an Edward Kass who was a specialist in urinary tract infections and one who was married to a famous mountain climber. There was an Edward Kass mentioned in the minutes of the 2002 annual meeting of the Stirk Group of Companies. A couple of people had even won an Edward Kass Award. But still no poet.
Jack could not take anymore. He double-clicked one last reference. A black-and-white photograph appeared on the screen: Edward Kass, poet (b.1934). It was a grainy headshot, slightly out of focus. Kass wore a heavy, large-collared coat and a striped scarf. There was no date but it looked like a reject passport photo from the 1950s. He had a long rectangular face, the skin drawn drum-tight over bones that appeared to have been sculpted with a Stanley knife. His hair was receding and cut short. Kass might have been handsome from another angle but the photographer had not been able to find it. He had a strong straight nose and ears set low on his head. His eyes were cast down, sunk deep in the sockets and crowned with heavy brows that made them look bruised. His fleshy lips were parted as though he were about to say something to himself. The light caught him like grey rain from an Eastern European cloud. Sadness seemed to drizzle all over him.
Time might pass but Edward Kass would remain vulnerable forever, caught just like this. Jack was sorry for him. Never put your dukes down, even outside the ring. There was always somebody in the crowd ready with a king hit.
Below the photograph there was a list of publications and links to reviews in newspapers and literary journals. Biographical details repeated what Jack already knew. That was about it. Hammond Kasprowicz’s interest in the man remained a mystery. Jack was tempted to keep searching but had to get some food. He did not want his stomach rumbling in front of Annabelle Kasprowicz. He printed off the photograph and smoked another cigarette while he waited.
She was wearing a dark brown gypsy skirt and red leather cowboy boots. They were slightly worn, no doubt a favourite pair, purchased on an unforgettable trip to Mexico. The rest of her was kept warm by a coffee-bean cashmere turtleneck that did everything it could to draw attention to her physiology. There was not a straight line anywhere. Long red earrings flashed through her hair. She took off her sunglasses and pushed them into a large leather shoulder bag worth more than Jack’s architecture and design section when it was new. She was an hour and a half late but did not look like she was going to apologise.
“It’s neat,” she said as she looked around Susko Books.
“I have tendencies.”
“I see.”
She walked over to the counter and put her bag down. She looked around some more. Muddy Waters sang: You’re gonna need my help I said. Jack put his hands in his pockets. She smelt like cinnamon.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
“No, not at all.”
“My heating is on holiday.”
A smile came and went like a blink.
“Far north Queensland,” said Jack, hoping for more.
Her face remained serious. “Can you tell me what my father is paying you for, exactly?”
“Want to grab some coffee? Tea? Smoked salmon bagel? There’s a nice café up the road.”
She shook her head. “I’d rather you answered my question.”
“Why didn’t you just ask your father?”
“My father …” she began, but pulled herself up. She looked down at her boots. “I know he’s after some books by Edward Kass. Did he tell you why he wanted them?”
“No. Why?”
“Are you sure?”
Jack frowned. “I’m sure.”
“I just thought that … he might have mentioned something. He didn’t say anything then?”
“Why don’t you tell me something?”
Annabelle hesitated a moment. “It’s not the first time I’ve caught him buying Edward Kass books.”
“Caught him?”
“Discovered them in his possession.”
“I didn’t know they were illegal.”
Annabelle looked away. Little Walter’s harmonica moaned. Muddy sang. Gonna need my help I said.
“Does your father know Edward Kass?” asked Jack.
Annabelle reached into her bag and pulled out a small black case. Inside were some reading glasses with narrow rectangular frames and pale pink arms. The lenses were slightly tinted. They suited her. No doubt everything suited her. She slid them on and walked over to one of the bookshelves.
“Susko,” she said, running her finger down the line of books. “That’s a strange name, isn’t it?”
“Should’ve seen what it was before I changed it.”
She looked up, her finger stopped on a book.
“Jones,” said Jack and shook his head in despair. Her smile lasted longer this time.
“Jack Jones does have a certain ring to it,” she said, returning her attention to the book spines. “You could have called yourself Jay Jay.”
Jack came out from behind the counter. He leaned against it, crossed his arms over his chest. “What about Kasprowicz? Bet you’ve had fun spelling that.”
“Sure have,” she said, coolly. “It cashes all the cheques.”
“That’s handy. Polish?”
“Very good, Jay Jay. My mother hated it and never took it as her own. She stayed Temple. Except when she signed the cheques.”
Jack walked over to the bookcases. He could see Annabelle through the gaps on the shelf. Her cowboy boots clicked across the polished concrete floor. Muddy started the riff to “Whiskey Blues”.
“Australia via … ?”
“London,” she said. “The old story, running away from the Nazis. Easy when you’re loaded.”
“What isn’t?”
“Love.”
“Let me guess. Your favourite Beatle was Paul.”
She did not reply. Jack tried again. “So who’s Edward Kass?”
Annabelle walked around the end of the aisle. She stopped beside Jack and passed him a book.
“This looks interesting. Do I get a discount?” Jack took the book without looking at it.
Annabelle lingered beside him. “He’s my uncle,” she said. “On my father’s side.”
The door to Susko Books swung open and a customer entered. Cold air rushed down the steps: dead leaves and a page of soiled newspaper blew into the shop. Jack looked around to see who had come in. A man was closing the door behind him.
Annabelle gathered her bag off the counter. When she turned towards the front door she froze.
The guy was grinning like a cartoon cat. He had a lean, tanned face, all blue-eyed and square-jawed. Except the tan looked a little tandoori to Jack. His straw-coloured hair was short and thinning, styled to look like all he ever did was run his hand through it, casually. A tight litt
le paunch said that he was not as young as he wanted to look. He had splashed on about a hundred bucks’ worth of aftershave. He wore faded blue designer jeans, pale yellow leather slip-ons, and a loose grey blazer over a white T-shirt and black knitted vest. Overall, he seemed pretty fit. He had a couple of inches on Jack, both up and sideways. A BMW key ring dangled between the fingers of his clenched right hand.
Jack recognised him. It was the guy he had seen in the car with Louisa at Kasprowicz’s house.
“Hello, Annabelle,” he said, still grinning. His teeth were as white as cream cheese. “Fancy seeing you here.”
Annabelle looped an arm through her bag. “I suppose you expect me to believe it’s a coincidence.” Her voice was cold. “Leave me alone, Ian.”
Ian walked towards her. He jingled the keys in his hand. “I was driving past before and saw you come in. Thought we could have a coffee.”
“You’re joking.”
“You know I never joke, Annabelle.” He turned to Jack. “You got to watch this one. Needs a tight leash.” His voice turned slimy, like warm suntan lotion. “Yep, a real tight leash.”
“Fuck you,” said Annabelle. She pushed past him to the door. Ian smiled as he watched her disappear up the steps.
“You need some help?” said Jack.
The man’s smile dissolved. He ran a hand through his hair, walked over and put his finger in Jack’s airspace. “Keep away from my fucking wife.”
Two seconds went past as Jack considered his next move. Two seconds too long. The man shot a dirty right fist into Jack’s stomach, BMW keys and all. He stepped back. All the air inside Jack blew out fast enough to break the sound barrier. He moaned and doubled over. He tried to suck air back into his lungs but they had collapsed like a beginner’s soufflé. The man went to the nearest bookcase and began to pull all the books off it. They hit the floor like a net full of wet fish. When he had finished, he gave Jack a parting knee to the ribs.
Death by the Book jsm-1 Page 3
