Death by the Book jsm-1

by Lenny Bartulin

“That’s right,” said Jack through his teeth. “Uncle Brendan.”

  He walked out of the library and down the hall. Outside he leaned against the wall of the front-door alcove and breathed in the cold wet air. He lit a cigarette and tried not to think about Annabelle Kasprowicz.

  Which proved difficult. She was walking directly towards him.

  ~17~

  She wore all the right gear for a morning gallop: tight black boots, biscuit-brown jodhpurs, a thick high-necked white jumper and a powder-red raincoat. A belt hung loosely around the buttoned waist. She carried a black riding helmet in her right hand, a stiff black riding crop in the other. Her hair was tied back, her cheeks flushed, her nose a little pinched and shiny. Country morning fresh. The stable boys must have fallen over themselves to help her into the saddle.

  Jack watched her face: if she was surprised to see him, only she knew about it. There was a slight hesitation in her stride as she looked up at the house and scanned the windows, but she kept on coming. Then she was standing in front of him, keeping the one step up into the alcove between them.

  “Nice ride?” asked Jack.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Working. You?”

  She looked over his shoulder into the house. “It’s not how it looks.”

  “You haven’t seen the view from here.”

  “We brought Louisa down to stay. Our house is under siege from reporters. She doesn’t need the drama.”

  Jack nodded, smoked. He flicked ash from the cigarette. “These country millionaires come in handy sometimes.”

  “Don’t be like that. My father isn’t back yet and we … I …”

  “It must be great for your daughter to see her parents cooperating so well. Putting her first. I mean, with the divorce and everything.”

  Annabelle turned away.

  Jack looked at the side of her face, taking in every detail. All he could confirm was that she was beautiful. “Comfortable night?” he asked.

  “Shall I show you where I slept?”

  “It’s still early. No need to disturb anyone.”

  “You’re a prick.”

  “When I’m in the mood.”

  Annabelle stepped up into the alcove and went to walk past him.

  Jack grabbed her by the arm and pulled her close. “You want to tell me what the fuck’s going on?”

  “I just told you.” She tried to shake her arm free. “Let go of me!”

  He released her. Her eyes were hard and unfriendly and Jack had the feeling that everything between them had just evaporated. Maybe there had been nothing to begin with.

  He turned away and threw his cigarette to the ground. He looked out over the smooth billiard-felt lawns and into the tall wet trees along the stone-walled boundary, and up the slope at the smoky horizon. Maybe what he needed to do was go for a long walk. Clear his head. A hundred miles ought to do it.

  “Jack.” Annabelle was still standing behind him. “Please.” Her voice was softer now, a tone of helplessness at its edges. “You have to understand. Louisa is having a rough time and now all this has happened, too. My father’s away and I’m in the house alone. I don’t have that many options.”

  “I’d say you had more than one.” Jack kept his back to her, waited. Nobody moved, nobody spoke.

  “Jesus, you think I want to be here?”

  Jack turned around, slowly. “You telling me you can’t afford a hotel?” he said, feeling heat rise up his back. “Or a quick trip to New York, Hong Kong, London, Paris, wherever the fuck you want?”

  She gave him a look of contempt. “It’s not that simple.”

  “Yeah, right. All that bank balance but not five cents’ worth of imagination.” He shook his head. “It’s bullshit.”

  “Oh, if only you were rich, if only you had money!” Annabelle sneered. “There’d be nothing to worry about, would there? No problems, no dramas, everything would be perfect all the time. God, you’d be so fucking good at it, wouldn’t you, Jack?”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “Yeah, right.” Annabelle lowered her voice. “Everything I’ve got can be taken away from me. Do you understand? Louisa. Money. My whole future. You think it’s easy for me?”

  “Must be terrible. Did the horse ride help?”

  “Fuck you! What the hell do you know about any of it?”

  “I know a load of crap when I hear it.”

  Annabelle threw her helmet at him.

  Jack moved to his left and caught it. He grinned, turned the helmet over in his hands a few times and then put it on his head. It was a couple of sizes too small. “What about the whip?”

  Annabelle came up and pushed him hard in the chest. The helmet fell off and rolled down the step, out onto the driveway gravel.

  “You think you know everything, don’t you?” she said, holding the whip down by her leg like a knife. “I’m just the sad, little rich girl with too much money and time and nothing to do?” She moved in closer and hissed at him. “Nothing to do but fuck good-looking bastards like you?”

  “Thanks for the compliment.”

  She pushed him again.

  “Hey, I’m just after a straight answer,” he said, frowning. “All you keep giving me is right angles.”

  “Straight answer to what? I’m stuck between a bad mistake that won’t go away and a twisted old bastard that happens to be my father. Neither of them gives a shit about me and both of them can take it all away. Straight enough for you?”

  “So what do you want from me?” said Jack. “Pick you up and ride you out to my castle?”

  “Your castle?” Annabelle Kasprowicz laughed. A hard, nasty laugh. Jack flushed a hot shade. Women always knew where to aim the high heel.

  He grabbed her wrist. It was soft and thin and the thought flashed through his mind that he could snap it like a matchstick. He eased his grip. Annabelle let her shoulders sag and Jack sensed her body relinquishing. He brought his other hand up and took hold of her chin. He pushed her head back a little and turned it to the side, like he was inspecting it for flaws. She let him. She was flawless. A tear slipped down over her perfect cheekbone. Jack watched it reach his finger.

  He had not heard the approaching footsteps.

  “Get the fuck away from my wife.”

  Annabelle made a noise but swallowed it. Jack let go of her and looked up. Durst had come through the front door, holding a shotgun. He held it with a certain professional nonchalance, like a butler might hold a towel on his arm for the Duke of Gloucester. The butt was tucked under his elbow and the smooth black, under-and-over barrels stretched out across his forearm, open.

  Durst snapped the gun shut. Jack had not had time to notice if it was loaded. The two dark cylinders pointed at his kneecaps. Suddenly they looked about a mile long.

  “You’re a son of a bitch,” said Durst. He lifted the shotgun a little higher and pointed it precisely at Jack’s balls.

  Clifford Harris walked out of the house and stood beside Durst, a double-barrel resting over his forearm, too. It looked more of an antique, the barrels side-by-side old style and engraved with Spanish-looking motifs, as was the stock and grip. He had been smiling as he walked out but when he saw Jack and Annabelle and then Durst, he stopped.

  “What’s going on?”

  Durst and Harris wore identical, shiny brown leather vests with red and black cartridges slipped into ammunition sleeves cut into them — two sets of five over the chest, two more sets of five directly below. Between them they had enough to make a mess of a small family of woolly mammoths. Jack wondered if he should call out for MacAllister.

  “That’s the second gun I’ve seen you with in three days,” he said to Durst. “You compensating for something?”

  Annabelle moved towards him. “Jack, don’t.”

  “Get the fuck inside,” snarled Durst at her. “Go find your daughter.”

  “Don’t talk to me like that!” She spun around and advanced on Durst. The ridin
g crop went up into the air. Durst grabbed her by the arm and pulled her aside. She stumbled and hit the alcove wall with her shoulder. Jack took a step forwards. Durst lifted the shotgun higher.

  “Easy, lover boy.”

  “You fuck!” cried Annabelle.

  Clifford Harris put a hand on Durst’s shoulder. “Settle down. I think it’s best if we just ask Mr Susko to be on his way.”

  Durst’s shotgun had moved slightly when he grabbed his ex-wife. Jack’s balls were safe again. He took a quick step forward and swung a right at Durst’s head: chin, cheek, eye, neck, anywhere was just fine. He connected mostly with ear, and a little with the area in front, where the jaw attaches to the skull. Fairy floss would be on the good doctor’s menu until Christmas. Durst stumbled backwards. Jack moved with him; a second later his left came round at the end of a tight, right-angled jab and caught Durst square on the chin. It looked good, much prettier than the first punch. Durst’s head snapped back again. The shotgun fell from his hands onto the flagstones. Annabelle yelled something and Harris moved at the edges of Jack’s vision, but Jack only had eyes for Durst. He grabbed a handful of leather vest and pulled Durst forward, away from the wall and into some space. He let go with another right, straight into the guts: the money shot, the one Jack had been saving up since the first time they met. All the air in Durst’s lungs blew out with a loud ooohff, like a gym mat being thrown to the floor. He went down and stayed down, curling up around his stomach and grimacing with pain.

  Now they were even, with a little extra left over in the bank for Jack.

  Somebody grabbed him from behind and pulled him backwards. They tried to pin his arms. Jack straightened up and threw his head back, hard as he could. He hit something bony and then heard a groan. His arms were no longer pinned. He turned around and saw MacAllister with his hands on his face.

  “Jesus!” cried the big man as he doubled over. “Fuck!”

  Harris froze and stared at MacAllister. Jack moved quickly and snatched the shotgun out of his hands. Harris hardly seemed to notice.

  “What’d you do that for?” said MacAllister, wincing. “You’ve busted my fucking nose!” He stood up again and then looked at his hands. They were covered in blood. His nose was raw and swollen. He spat on the ground. “Jesus!”

  Annabelle went over to Jack and grabbed his arm. “You should go.” She glanced down at Durst, still curled up on the flagstones, and then nodded at MacAllister. “Go on, just go. Help him to your car.”

  Jack leaned the shotgun on the wall behind him. His arms were very heavy. He could feel his heartbeat pound in his fists. He guided MacAllister to the Volvo and helped him into the passenger side. Then he got into the driver’s seat. Annabelle waved him away and turned to Harris. They started to argue. Jack glanced up at Kininmonth and saw Annabelle’s daughter, Louisa, staring down from one of the windows. He turned away and started the Volvo’s engine. He tried to tell himself it was not always the bad guys that got driven out of town.

  ~18~

  The adrenaline faded slowly from Jack’s body: his hands shook a little on the wheel. His guts were tight, shoulders stiff, the taste in his mouth metallic. Some light repartee might have helped, but MacAllister was not talking. He remained silent the whole way back to Sydney, even after Jack had stopped at a supermarket in Campbelltown and bought him a packet of frozen peas for his nose. Sometimes MacAllister had a tendency to sulk. This was one of them.

  “What about a game of I Spy?”

  MacAllister ignored Jack. He inspected the improvised cold pack and then switched on the radio. Classical music filled the car, along with a lot of static.

  “Is that a no?” Jack glanced at his friend. A scowl flashed over MacAllister’s face like a flame.

  Eyes on the road and the rain, Jack drove and tried to remember to breathe. But his mind kept throwing punches, replaying the scene at Kininmonth, and his regret grew with every wet mile that slipped under the wheels.

  At home, a couple of shots of Tullamore Dew did nothing to dispel the unease. Neither did a few more. Lois sensed the tension and stayed in the bedroom. Jack smoked and picked at the stitches in his stomach and thought about a lot of things that added up to nothing.

  Slowly, silently, the afternoon soaked up the evening. He fell asleep on the couch.

  Next thing, the phone rang. It was Annabelle Kasprowicz.

  “I need to see you.”

  Jack rubbed his face. “What time is it?”

  “Nearly midnight. I know it’s late, but —”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at home. Please, can you come over?”

  “What’s the rush?”

  “The police were here this afternoon. They rang me at Kininmonth and asked me to come back and answer some questions.”

  “About what?”

  “My father.” Annabelle paused. “They think he had something to do with Edward’s death.”

  Jack tried to focus. The room was thick with darkness. He closed his eyes, lowered his head.

  “And what did he have to say about it?”

  “He didn’t say anything. He’s not here.”

  “Isn’t he back from Hong Kong?”

  “No. And I don’t know where he is. That’s what they questioned me about. They think he never went to Hong Kong.”

  Jack’s mind started to sift a few things, but it was slow work at this time of night.

  “He was meant to be back yesterday but I still can’t get him on his mobile. I’ve been trying every five minutes since the police left. I’m afraid, Jack.”

  Lois padded in from the bedroom. Jack leaned across and switched on the lamp. A soft reddish light spread through the lounge room. His arm twitched. He remembered Durst.

  “Where’s hubby?”

  “Please, not now, Jack.”

  The bottle of Tullamore Dew stood a third full on the coffee table. Jack poured himself a couple of fingers.

  “I’m here alone,” said Annabelle. “I can’t sleep.”

  “Too much hot-shoe shuffle.”

  “What?”

  “You heard.”

  “Jesus, Jack.” Annabelle’s voice tensed.

  Jack slugged the whiskey. “What was Clifford Harris talking about? Are you really getting a divorce or just playing a nice round of family swindle?”

  “For God’s sake! I’ve already told you. What do I need to say to make you believe me?”

  “Try anything believable.”

  “Okay. How’s this? I’m glad you hit him. You loosened one of his teeth. He spent a lot of money on them.”

  “His or your father’s?”

  “Mine.”

  “I thought you didn’t have any.”

  “Not anymore.”

  Jack turned his glass on the coffee table in small half-circles. “So what’s the deal? Who gets what in the society divorce of the year?”

  “Goodnight, Jack. You know where I am.”

  She hung up the phone.

  Jack finished his drink and sat back in the couch. Lois climbed onto his lap. He reached for the stereo remote, turned the sound down a couple of notches and pressed play: Sarah Vaughan, smooth and warm and perfect.

  If love is good to me.

  Jack listened, eyes closed. Lois purred. If love is good to me.

  A late bus came by on Oxford Street before Jack could hail an available taxi. He caught it to Bondi Junction and then jumped into a cab to Double Bay. He got out on the corner of New South Head Road and Bay Street. He wanted to walk, get some air.

  Dark ragged clouds swept over a bright moon. Cars and buildings looked glassy with cold. Under the streetlights, fallen wet leaves like beached fish.

  Bay Street was deserted. Jack walked and looked in the windows: a real-estate agent’s, a couple of clothing stores and an antique shop with two huge terracotta pots shoulder to shoulder. One would have filled Jack’s entire apartment. Then three shops in a row, all empty, with For Lease signs hung crookedly in their w
indows. Unopened mail strewn under the front doors. Jack noticed more of the same further on. Closing Down Sale, 50% Off Everything, Last Days, End of Lease Bargains. Looked like the Bay had seen better days.

  It began to spit. He made it to Cumberland Gardens just as the drops fattened into rain. Annabelle saw him through a window and the front door was open before he had a chance to knock.

  “Jack!” She hugged him and then stepped back. “I’m so glad.”

  “I charge eighty bucks an hour. Seventy-five for cash.” Jack smiled but he could see something was up. Her grip was tight on his hand.

  “What’s wrong?” he said.

  Her eyes were tired, her face pale. Her hair looked a little slept-in, loose and messy. She was dressed casually in a long, moss green, belted mohair cardigan, a pair of jeans and suede moccasins. Jack thought she had never looked more beautiful.

  “I have to show you something.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t believe it, Jack. I just can’t believe it.”

  She closed the front door and led him down the hall, then left into another small corridor. They came to a pine door that had been sanded back but was yet to receive a coat of varnish. Annabelle opened it and flicked a light switch. Jack saw narrow stairs leading down below the house.

  “The cellar,” said Annabelle.

  She began to descend cautiously, side-saddle style, with one hand out against the wall. Jack followed, crouching a little beneath the low ceiling. He noticed the plaster walls had not been painted and the stairs were covered with footprints left in the plaster dust. Here and there, off-cuts of wiring and bits of timber and a few nails and screws. Jack wondered if the builder would ever be back to finish the renovation.

  They reached the bottom. The air was cool and dull like paste, and smelt of dampness and wet dust. In the half-dark, Jack could see racks of wine running down either side of the rectangular room. The ceiling only cleared his head by a couple of inches. There must have been at least a thousand bottles of wine in there. And Jack doubted they were out of the bargain bin at the local liquor store.