The Black Russian

by Lenny Bartulin

  ‘Doesn’t matter? What if he’s a fucking cop?’

  ‘He’s not a cop.’

  ‘How the hell would you know?’

  ‘Does he look like one?’

  ‘Guys … come on …’

  ‘Fucking amateurs.’

  ‘You’re all under arrest,’ said Jack. ‘For the masks.’

  Slim guy walked over and shoved him in the chest. ‘Back up, smart-arse.’

  Jack stumbled a little, regained his balance, and then stood and stared at the man for a moment. He adjusted the bag on his shoulder.

  ‘You deaf ?’

  ‘Come on, Shane, settle down. We haven’t got time.’

  ‘You’d better listen to Walter,’ said Jack, nodding at the fat guy holding Rhonda de Groot by the arm. ‘Shane, was it?’ Two names out of three so far. Jack wondered if it was their first heist.

  Shane puffed up his chest. ‘Go on. Say something else.’

  ‘What happened to the balaclavas?’

  Behind him, the gunman said: ‘Yeah, Shane. What happened to the fucking balaclavas?’

  ‘I told you, for Christ’s sake!’ Shane continued to stare at Jack. ‘The masks were all I could get.’

  ‘You got them from the props cupboard, didn’t you?’ said Walter.

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Why didn’t you get the big rubber masks, they were right there, second shelf —’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ said the gunman. ‘You’re never fucking working with me again.’

  Shane hung his head, hands back on his hips. ‘Fine with me,’ he said. Then he looked back up at Jack. ‘Pascal.’

  ‘Why don’t you just give ’em my fucking address!’

  ‘Come on, let’s just get on with it.’ Walter slapped his thigh.

  Shane reminded Jack of somebody. The way he stood. Kind of oily-hipped. He concentrated on the face, but could not see past the ridiculous mask. The name sort of rang a bell, too, but Jack was not so stupid as to ask if they had ever met before.

  Max was still on the floor. Pascal the gunman reached down and snatched the keys off his belt. He tossed them to Shane. ‘Lock the front door.’ Then he kicked Max in the leg, hard. ‘Get up, you ponce.’

  ‘Leave him alone!’ cried Rhonda.

  Jack was starting to wonder if the hoods had the right address. ‘You know there’s a bank not too far up the road?’

  Pascal pointed the gun at him again. ‘Shut your neck.’

  Jack nodded and shut it. The man obviously did not handle stress too well.

  ‘What do you want?’ Rhonda was having trouble comprehending the situation in her gallery.

  Pascal kicked Max again. ‘Up!’

  Max groaned and dragged himself back onto his now espadrille-less feet. He walked into the smaller gallery room, head down and face still drained of colour. Jack followed, Pascal and Shane behind him. Walter held Rhonda de Groot’s arm and led them into the connecting hallway.

  They walked past a couple of doors. There was a kitchen on the right and then an Exit sign above the open door on the left, stairs descending beyond it. At the end of the corridor, a windowless room. It was long and narrow, lit by fluorescent lights on a low ceiling. Along the back wall, a white-laminated workbench: on the tiled floor, a couple of boxes, a timber packing crate full of polystyrene bubbles and two ergonomic swivel-back chairs. In the far corner, a vacuum cleaner sprawled like a sleeping drunk. And right next to it, a large dark grey safe, about hip high and a couple of feet wide. Jack could see there would be plenty of room inside for lots of valuable things. He was pretty sure the three masked men felt exactly the same way.

  Pascal pointed at the safe. ‘When you’re ready.’

  Rhonda looked at him, confused.

  ‘Open the goddamn thing!’

  ‘But there’s nothing in it.’

  The gunman slapped her across the face. ‘Move it,’ he said. ‘Don’t make me ask again.’

  Rhonda put a hand to her cheek. Her eyes were wide and wet and terrified. She went over to the safe.

  ‘Strap those two up.’

  The two ergonomic chairs were pulled away from the wall. Jack was pushed down into one, Max into the other. Shane grabbed Jack’s bag and dumped it on the floor. He began to twist packing tape around his arms, chest and the back of the chair.

  ‘Nice mask,’ said Jack.

  Shane ignored him, concentrated on winding the tape.

  ‘Why didn’t you wear the cape?’

  ‘Lone Ranger doesn’t wear a cape.’

  ‘You mean you’re not the Scarlet Pimpernel?’

  Pascal stepped over and grabbed Jack by the neck. His hand was large and dirty, like a welder’s. ‘One more fucking word.’ He gave Jack’s neck a bit of a squeeze and put the gun to his jaw and pressed the cold barrel into the skin. His breath was hot, smelt of too much coffee. Through the mask, the eyes looked bloodshot and dry. He let go.

  Jack coughed, tried to swallow. The day had gone completely to shit. Maybe it was a full moon and all the nuts were out? He should have checked the calendar on the fridge. Next time he was locking himself in with Lois, his cat. They could play Scrabble until it was all over.

  ‘Are we there yet, Mrs de Groot?’ Pascal had moved down to the far end of the room and stood behind her as she turned the combination on the safe. She was fumbling the lock, missing the numbers. ‘Five more seconds. Concentrate now.’

  Walter picked up Jack’s bag from the floor. He lifted the flap and had a good look inside. He pulled out a package and waved it around. ‘What’s this then?’

  ‘A bomb,’ said Jack.

  The fat guy began to tear the brown paper wrapping. Jack watched his face, shining and red as a grilled chorizo. His three-quarter-length shorts hung low, pleading for a belt. The paper came off and he held up the book, turned it around so that he could read the cover. Then he smiled, broadly. ‘From Russia with Love,’ he said. ‘The boss will love this!’

  Jack closed his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest. The book was a first edition, worth a reasonable little bundle — the only little bundle Jack Susko had left in the world. Last year a Swiss–Japanese woman had almost bought it for her father, but it never happened. Not even after a fancy dinner, a couple of lime-green cocktails at fifteen bucks a pop, and a taxi back to her place. This afternoon he was hoping it would sell. Jack’s next stop after De Groot Galleries was to have been a swish hotel in Woolloomooloo: an American businessman wanted to see the book. Dan Osbourne, from Detroit. He was flying out tonight and had asked Jack if he would bring it over personally. If he was interested, Dan said, he had plenty of cash on him. American dollars, too. They could maybe do a deal. Jack wanted fifteen grand, but was willing to go down a little. Looked like he was about to go down a lot.

  ‘I think it’s an original,’ said Walter. Jack squirmed as the man licked his finger and turned some pages. They had bound him to a chair and now they were torturing him. The name’s Susko. James Susko.

  ‘Listen.’ Walter pointed to the top of a page. ‘This is the first line.’ He cleared his throat. ‘The naked man who lay splayed out on his face beside the swimming pool might have been dead.’

  ‘Show me.’ Shane reached out for the book.

  ‘I’m having it, so don’t get any ideas.’

  The dust jacket was covered in protective archival plastic. On the inside flap, Jack had placed a small, rectangular sticker: SUSKO BOOKS. It was a nice, classy design, navy blue lettering over cream, an elegant, thin border with curved corners. Underneath, in smaller font, address and phone number. Jack had five hundred of them printed when he first opened. Just for the good stuff. The plan had been to supplement the bread and butter of his general stock trade with the odd lump-sum sale of more collectable books. All he needed to do was build up some capital from the day to day, and then speculate on the odd first edition. Everything was going just great. After a couple of years, he only had four hundred and ninety-nine stick
ers left.

  Shane lifted his eyes up from the inside cover and stared at Jack. He passed the book back to Walter.

  Jack had the funny feeling again, that he knew the guy. ‘There’s a discount for cash,’ he said. ‘But I’d need ID for cheque or credit card.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Walter, grinning. ‘No worries.’ He tucked the book in under his sweaty arm. ‘I’ll just test drive it over the weekend.’

  There was the metal clunk of the safe door being unlocked.

  ‘Good girl.’ Pascal pulled Rhonda de Groot up from her crouching position in front of the safe. He nodded at his colleagues. ‘Strap her up. And gag the lot of ’em.’ He knelt down and reached in. When he stood up, there was something the size of a phone book in his hand, wrapped in a purple velvet cloth.

  ‘What’s that?’ Rhonda stared at the object in the gunman’s hand. She was frowning. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing for you to worry about anymore.’

  She looked over at Max, strapped and silent in his chair. ‘Max? What was in the safe?’

  ‘I … I don’t know. I’ve got no idea.’

  ‘Get a fucking chair!’

  Walter hurried out of the room. He came back a few moments later with a white plastic chair.

  Rhonda de Groot was made to sit down and then tied up with packing tape. ‘What was in the safe?’ she repeated. Pascal ignored her. Jack watched the gunman flip a corner of velvet cloth off the object in his hands. He grinned. Must have been something nice.

  Shane came over, tape in hand, mouth set straight beneath his stupid mask. Jack leaned towards him a little, whispered. ‘What about the Three Musketeers? Huh?’

  No response. The length of tape went across Jack’s mouth. Another couple of strips gagged Max and Rhonda de Groot.

  The three masked men left. Jack listened to their footsteps down the hall: then heard them fade as the thieves descended the stairs and escaped into the street.

  Silence filled the gallery, rippled only by the soft electric hum of air-conditioning.

  Jack closed his eyes. Conceptual art catalogues. Never again.

  ~

  3 ~

  FIVE HOURS LATER, JACK WAS STILL STRAPPED TO THE CHAIR. He was extremely uncomfortable. Half his body had gone to sleep and ached with air-conditioned cold. His blood was like day-old porridge in his veins and his fingers and toes felt numb and swollen. That he had tipped his chair over in a futile attempt to somehow escape, and had been lying on his side on the hard tiled floor for the last three of those five hours, had a lot to do with it.

  Lots of phones had rung during their confinement: the two phones in the gallery, Max’s mobile, Rhonda’s mobile, and Jack’s, too. He had even heard ringing from somewhere else in the building. It was like some kind of twenty-first-century techno-torture: all those people calling — are you there? are you there? — freedom ringing in your pocket but really a million miles away. A couple of times somebody had knocked on the heavy glass of the front door, the dull, hollow sound carrying all the way up to them in the now dark room at the end of the hallway. The thieves had conscientiously remembered to turn off the lights and lock up as they left.

  For a while, at the beginning, Jack had watched Rhonda and Max looking at one another intently, trying to communicate with their eyes. Then they had twisted with anger in their chairs. And then they had groaned with mute frustration, like babies trying to be understood. Now their eyes were half-closed and red-veined, staring at nothing in the shadowed room.

  The wall clock read 9.45 p.m. Sounds from the front door again: but not knocking. A key? Rhonda and Max stirred in their chairs. The front door gave a faint metal shudder and then closed with a glassy thud. Footsteps up the timber stairs. Casual, unhurried.

  Rhonda and Max began making any noise they could. The light came on. Jack blinked, looked up and tried to focus through the painful brightness. Somebody walked into the room.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’

  Legs rushed past Jack on the floor. A moment later, Rhonda de Groot’s voice. ‘Richard! Richard!’

  ‘Are you hurt? What the hell happened?’

  The man had a strong South African accent. He tried to tear at the packing tape with his hands.

  ‘Use the scissors, there, on the bench.’

  ‘Who was it? What happened?’

  ‘Three men with masks. They had a gun.’ Emotion filled Rhonda’s voice, a prelude to tears. ‘They hit me, Richard.’

  ‘It’s all right, they’ve gone,’ said the man soothingly. ‘They’re gone.’

  ‘We have to call the police.’

  Jack heard the tape around Rhonda de Groot being peeled roughly away. She stood up. There was an embrace: high-quality clothing swished smoothly.

  ‘Help Max,’ said the man, handing Rhonda the scissors. He walked over to Jack and lifted him and the chair up from the floor. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Nobody. A second-hand bookseller. He was here when they came.’ Rhonda removed the tape across Max’s mouth, who instantly began to pant and cough. ‘Oh God! Thank God!’

  The man with the South African accent flicked a fingernail under a corner of the tape gagging Jack’s mouth. His aftershave was spicy and went with his expensive dark-grey suit and manicured nails. He pinched the flap of tape between his fingers and pulled it off like a band-aid. Jack winced.

  ‘Okay?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jack. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘I’m Rhonda’s husband. Richard de Groot.’

  ‘Jack Susko.’

  ‘Max, call the police,’ said Rhonda. Her authoritative tone had already returned.

  ‘Wait.’ Richard de Groot took the scissors from his wife. He stood behind Jack’s chair and began to cut through the tape.

  ‘Wait for what?’

  ‘Tell me what happened.’

  ‘I just told you. We were held up by masked gunmen.’

  ‘Did they take anything?’

  ‘Yes. They took whatever the hell it was that you had in the safe but didn’t tell me about. Would you care to tell me about it now?’

  Jack lifted his stiff arms, shrugged away the packing tape and stood up. His legs felt like deadwood. Everything else ached. He stretched a little, but too much air filled his head too quickly. What he needed was a very alcoholic drink. He wondered if he should ask.

  ‘Well?’ said Rhonda to her husband.

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘I want to know, Richard.’

  Jack rubbed his numb thigh. He watched de Groot walk up to his wife. She was almost a full head taller and not a little wider and she used all the extra body to glare down at her husband. He reached out and held her by the forearm. In a flat, hard voice, he repeated: ‘Not now.’

  Rhonda shrugged him away, stepped back. ‘I’ve just been hit, tied up and threatened with a gun. This is my gallery, Richard, and I want to know what you put in the safe! Are you involved in something again?’

  The man shook his head and looked down and rubbed his forehead. There was quite a lot of it. His short, grey-flecked dark hair had not bothered to walk the extra distance over his high-domed head. He licked his fleshy lips. ‘We’re not calling the police.’

  ‘Don’t know about that,’ said Jack, casually. ‘Something of mine was taken as well.’ He tapped the front pockets of his pants and remembered he had given up smoking the day before. Being strapped up had added another five cigaretteless hours to his record. It made him feel a little better.

  Richard de Groot turned to Jack. He was a small man, but nuggety, probably go your nuts if push came to shove. The look on his face was just a notch below annoyed. He adjusted his shoulders a little.

  ‘One-twenty Queen Street, isn’t it?’ Jack slipped the mobile out from his pocket and stared down at the keypad.

  ‘How valuable?’ asked de Groot.

  Jack lifted his head. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘What’s it worth? I’m happy to compensate you for your loss.’ The hard look eased and his tone warmed. He t
ook a step towards Jack and held out his hand. ‘Mr Susko, wasn’t it?’

  Jack nodded. He was suddenly thinking about his financial situation. Zimbabwe had nothing on him. After a moment’s pause, he stretched out his arm and shook Richard de Groot’s hand. It was cool and smooth and firm.

  ‘Can I call you Jack?’ said de Groot, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘Sure you can, Richard,’ replied Jack, as he shook de Groot’s hand. Only moments before he had been tied up to a chair — and now he was doing business.

  In truth, being strapped up for a few hours had been a momentary respite from his worries. Once the tape had been cut away they were back again, only worse. With the Fleming book gone, his muddy hole was now fifteen grand deeper. Jack had to listen to de Groot. He owed a lot of money and one of the places he owed it to was the insurance company. Nothing he owned was covered: even with the early summer heatwave, his worldly possessions were naked and shivering. He doubted the cops would drop murder cases and undercover penetrations into organised crime so they could go looking for his little James Bond novel.

  ‘There’s no need for all this to become … complicated,’ said de Groot, letting go of Jack’s hand. He raised his palms, gestured like a priest blessing his meagre flock. ‘Complications are a waste of everybody’s time.’

  ‘It was a rare book, Richard. I’m not talking nine ninety-five on the discount table.’

  ‘I’m sure we can come to some sort of understanding.’

  Jack looked at Rhonda de Groot, who was staring at her husband. She had tilted a hip back against the bench and crossed her arms under her buoyant chest. Her face had lost a little of its anger, but her eyes were still narrow and threatening.

  ‘So why no cops?’ asked Jack. He nodded his head towards the safe. ‘Something in there you don’t want them to know about? Nuclear secrets? Plutonium?’

  ‘Max, why don’t you go and get us all some water.’ Richard de Groot smiled. A deep crease appeared in each cheek like a couple of duelling scars. Max seemed relieved to be asked to leave and walked quickly into the hallway. De Groot loosened his tie.