‘Wait —’
‘Call you tomorrow.’
The line was dead. Jack listened for a little while longer and then put the phone down. His radar was still sweeping the pulsing dot of Larissa on his screen. He was already looking forward to her call tomorrow. Whatever happened next, at the very least it was going to be interesting. And with any luck, Jack might even find out what the hell was going on.
He went over to the reference section in Susko Books, still feeling light-headed. He picked up the Concise Oxford English Dictionary: tenth edition, without the thumb index. He did not bother asking a specific question. He just kind of held it, and thought vaguely about the Meaning of Life.
He opened the book. Finger down. Page 455.
edible• adj. fit to be eaten. • n. (edibles) items of food.
DERIVATIVES edibility n.
ORIGIN C16: from late L. edibilis, from L. edere ‘eat’.
~
10 ~
MAYBE IT WAS TIME TO GIVE THE GAME AWAY. Pick out a few good books, some clothes, make a couple of mix tapes for the Toyota, and then grab Lois and hit the road, Jack. Broome was the furthest place he could think of, a healthy five thousand kilometres away, straight across the continent. It would put a nice piece of distance between him and all the overdue notices pinned to the corkboard in the kitchen. And give Jack plenty of time to work out his plans for the future. Selling second-hand books was hardly the dream job he had fantasised about as a kid. But what had been? Secret agent? Rock star? Living legend? It was hard to remember with Larissa Tate’s face bobbing around in his head like a champagne cork in a stormwater drain.
Jack slipped a thin worm onto his hook and cast out the line: tried De Groot Galleries in Woollahra again. This time, the call picked up.
‘Yes?’
‘Hello, Rhonda. Glad to see a little break and enter hasn’t stopped you opening for trade.’
‘Who is this?’
‘Jack Susko. We were tied up together the other night. You, me and Max. Remember?’
Silence.
‘How’s Richard?’
‘Fine, thank you.’
‘That’s good. He’s a lovely man.’
‘I’m very busy right now, Mr Susko. What do you want?’
‘Well, I’m thinking I want to call the cops, Rhonda,’ said Jack, evenly, so that each word was clear.
‘I thought you settled all that with my husband.’
‘So did I. But it looks like he changed his mind. A bit rude, really.’
‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ she replied, not sorry at all.
‘That way isn’t the half of it, Rhonda.’
She laughed. ‘I’m an art dealer, Mr Susko. My husband deals with his own problems. So unless you’re interested in something you saw at the gallery —’
‘Oh yeah, I’m interested,’ said Jack. ‘In the same thing you are. Has your husband told you what was in the safe yet?’
No reply. Jack let it hang for a moment. Then he said: ‘Don’t call the cops, don’t tell the wife; here, Jack, here’s some money to keep your mouth shut. All sounds a bit dodgy, doesn’t it?’ He was making it up as he went along. ‘What do you think?’
‘You didn’t hesitate to agree, Mr Susko.’
‘I’m just a poor boy, Mrs de Groot. And somebody stole my shoes while I was asleep.’
‘What a shame.’
Jack massaged his neck. Rhonda de Groot was tough as a rusted wheel nut.
‘Goodbye, Mr Susko.’
‘How do you get along with Larissa Tate?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘She works for your husband, doesn’t she?’
‘And how do you know Ms Tate?’
‘Old friend.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘I sense a tone. Don’t like her, Rhonda?’
‘And what of it, Mr Susko?’
‘Not sure. Why don’t you like her?’
‘I think I’ve had enough of this stimulating conversation.’
‘Do you think she knew what was in the safe?’
A pause. Rhonda de Groot held the line. ‘Why would you think that?’
‘I don’t. But it sounds like you do.’
For the second time that day, the line went dead in Jack’s ear. And now he knew nothing about what was going on twice.
All he did know for sure was that it had been over three-and-a-half days since his last, smooth, soothing taste of tobacco. A personal best. No patches, no gum, no relaxation CDs — though plenty of St Agnes, the patron saint of Australian cooking brandies and drinkers on a budget. Considering all that had happened in those three-and-a-half days, he was doing pretty well.
Three-and-a-half days. If anybody deserved a cigarette, it was Jack Susko.
~
11 ~
THE NECK SQUEEZE AND THE COUPLE TO THE GUTS ensured a restless night. In Jack’s bedroom, Tuesday morning felt like all the air had been sucked out of it. He had dreamed of an intersection with no lights, no give-way or stop signs, no cops with white gloves directing traffic. It was peak hour and Jack was right in the middle of it all, perched high on a penny-farthing, going nowhere fast as the cars and trucks screamed by. The Penguin Book of Dream Interpretation would not be necessary.
He got up early: made coffee, fed Lois, and put some music on; Django Reinhardt, twitching and twanging and strumming his guitar, like a man missing something he could never find, but was condemned to look for every time he played. A gypsy genius, bung hand and all. Even penniless, talent could pull a man through. Unfortunately for Jack, getting into situations did not constitute a talent.
The morning was already steaming and offered no respite from the blaring sun. Jack walked to work, down Oxford Street and through Hyde Park, sluggish and sore. Halfway there, he was sweating like a drycleaner at the steam press during Business Shirt Week. The place needed a storm to break. It was coming, he could sense it, but nothing was crackling in the air just yet.
At the Queen Victoria Building he dodged the young, beaming volunteers hanging around the entrance, shoving pamphlets and petitions and clipboards into everybody’s path, covering every known guilt trip for affluent westerners that a university student could think of. He crossed York Street between the shuddering buses and ran across to Susko Books, still dark and cool in its hole, waiting for him. His haven. Jack hoped his current financial crisis would not force him to give it up any time soon.
There were no messages on the shop phone. He wondered when Larissa was going to call.
The first sale of the day put Jack in a better mood: a large woman in her late forties came in with a list. She had short brown hair and blue-grey eyes in a round, pleasant face. It was very red and she smiled a lot. A sleeveless green blouse, loose over black leggings, and hiking sandals. Jack helped her look. In the end, there were only two of the titles she had written down, but she had happily succumbed to three other books she found on her way around the shelves.
‘I’m absolutely terrible,’ she said. ‘I cannot resist books!’
‘It’s a gene. Got a lot of relatives, by any chance?’
The lady laughed. ‘Well, no … but there’s my book club.
They’d love it in here. Such an … an eclectic collection.’
‘Eclectic is my middle name.’
She blushed a little, smiled some more. ‘No, really, it’s a lovely little bookshop.’
‘Thanks. Just send the book club round.’
‘Oh, I will. Except for Brianna.’ Her bright faced dimmed.
‘I’m sorry to have to say it, but she’s such a snob. Wouldn’t touch a second-hand book with a wooden spoon. Worried she’d catch something.’
‘Tell her all the books are hosed down and come with a medical certificate.’
‘I will! That’s exactly what I’ll say to her.’
Jack tallied her selection at the counter: The Atlas of Legendary Places by James Harpur and Jennifer Westwood; Amarant: the Flora and Fauna of At
lantis, edited by Una Woodruff; a slightly water-damaged copy of Gustave Doré’s Fables of La Fontaine; the third edition of The Elements of Style by William Strunk Jr and E.B. White; and finally, Covariance, Covariant and Covariation: the Mathematical Lives of Theodore and Sarah Newmarket by Hugo Schiff. All up, seventy-five dollars. Jack dropped it down to sixty-five. Look after the customer and they will look after you.
‘That’s so kind.’
‘A pleasure,’ said Jack. ‘Would you like a bag?’
‘No, no, I’ve got my own, thank you.’ She pulled out a cream canvas library bag. ‘I carry everything in this. Books, groceries, you name it. Never broken a handle.’
She paid in tens and fives. Outside, she bent down and waved through the glass of the front door. Jack waved back. He felt like celebrating with a cigarette. He put a pencil to his lips and blew some imaginary smoke. Sixty-five smackers. The hourly rate worked out to twenty-one dollars and sixtyseven cents. A few more sales like that and Jack might soon be over the poverty line and mixing it big with the working class.
The day dwindled rather than grew. By the time the postman came by around 2.30 p.m. and slipped some mail under the door, the hourly rate was down to eleven eighty-two. About the same as collecting aluminium cans.
The mail consisted almost exclusively of bills. Bottom of the pile, a postal slip for the pick-up of a package. Sorry we missed you. Available after 4.30 p.m. Regular parcel, no signature necessary. Jack shook his head, slipped the card into his bag. How the hell had they missed him when he was there?
The rest of the day shuffled along to the late afternoon like an old man on a Zimmer frame. At 4.30 p.m. Jack was just thinking about shutting up early and heading for the post office when a couple of customers walked in. Maybe the day would end on the up after all.
Two men. One was tall and well-built; the other one was short and wide and round. The tall guy said: ‘Hello, Jack.’
The tone was all wrong for a big-spending customer. ‘Do I know you?’
‘Not yet.’
Behind him, the fat guy had paused at the front door. He grabbed the handle and flicked the lock and then gave the handle a shake.
‘What the fuck d’you think you’re doing?’ Jack moved out from behind the counter.
‘Where you were,’ said the tall guy, who had flinty, deepset eyes. He was wearing faded green, army-style pants and boots that looked like they could dent footpaths. He lifted the hem of his black, short-sleeved shirt. Jack saw a gun wedged into his belt and stopped.
‘Who are you?’
‘We’re the cleaners.’ The tall man stepped over to the discount table and swept his arm across it. Cheap paperbacks hit the floor like a small burst of dull applause. Then he kicked the table over. ‘We’re here to clean up.’
‘What, the till? In a second-hand bookshop?’ Jack frowned. ‘This your first time?’
The man went over to a shelf and pulled more books off, one by one, and tossed them over his shoulder.
‘Yeah, all right, I get the picture,’ said Jack, raising his voice. Annoyance continued to outweigh his fear. ‘It’s behind the counter, all ninety-seven dollars of it. And you don’t even need a key for the cash drawer.’
The guy kept throwing books to the ground.
‘Jesus.’
Fat Boy came over, sweating profusely in a blue T-shirt the size of a small parachute. He wore red knee-length shorts and chunky white sneakers that looked like orthopaedic shoes for some kind of foot deformity. His calves were big and hairless and white.
His taller partner nodded without looking at him. The fat guy sighed, slumped his shoulders and walked over to the counter, moved in behind it and looked around. He crouched down with a groan and started searching through the shelves underneath.
‘Is there anything I can help you with?’
The man stopped lobbing books over his shoulder. ‘Where’s the package?’ he said. He leaned back against the now empty shelf, crossed his muscled arms and stared hard at Jack.
‘What package?’
The guy grinned, then stretched out his arm and tapped his bare wrist. ‘Five seconds.’
‘I’m going to need a little more information.’
‘Four seconds.’
Jack shook his head. Fuck. Then he remembered who the two guys were. ‘Pascal and Walter,’ he said. ‘The dynamic duo. What happened to the masks?’
Pascal scratched his stubble. If he was surprised that Jack had recognised him, he did not show it. ‘Three seconds.’
‘How’s Shane?’
‘Two seconds.’
‘There’s nothing here,’ said Walter from behind the counter.
‘Time’s up, Jack. The package or the fist?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Walter stood up. ‘It’s not here,’ he repeated. ‘Maybe it hasn’t arrived yet?’
‘Keep looking.’
‘What package?’ asked Jack again. He remembered the postal slip in his bag. Kept it to himself.
Pascal adjusted the gun under his shirt but did not take it out. ‘I’d talk if I were you.’
‘About what?’
There was the sound of glass smashing behind Jack. Walter had knocked a picture off the wall.
‘That’s brilliant,’ said Jack. ‘Thanks.’
‘Sorry.’
‘What are you fucking apologising for?’ said Pascal, annoyed.
‘It was an accident.’
‘You’re the fucking accident.’
Walter’s puffy face reddened. He gave Pascal the finger.
Jack stepped over to the counter, looked down at the floor. ‘Nice one.’ The frame held an original drinks menu from 1952 that he had found at a market in Rozelle: Lindy’s on Broadway. Back then, an El Presidente cocktail set you back sixty cents. Scotch on the rocks, sixty-five. A pony of Rémy Martin VSOP, only seventy-five cents. Sometimes in his dreams, Jack went there and opened Susko Books right next door.
‘Okay, so what now? You’ve smashed my place up and I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.’
Pascal nodded at his colleague. ‘Nothing there?’
‘No.’
‘All right, let’s go, Walter. Mr Susko can explain himself personally.’
The Krauts knew how to build cars. Jack sat in the back of a sleek, dark-bronze Mercedes Benz CLS 500, in a climate-controlled, smooth leather cocoon with enough airbag crash technology to survive a collision with a small planet. The engine barely murmured. The suspension soaked up the aches and pains of the world like a warm sponge. It was the kind of car you could drive around in forever: and driving around forever did not seem like a bad idea to Jack right now.
They were heading down Botany Road, past warehouses and car dealerships and a few old redbrick pubs with satellite dishes on the roof but nobody inside. The traffic was thick with trucks and cabs and buses: their progress was slow. The only thing Jack could think of down this way was the airport.
‘I only fly first class,’ he said. His voice was light, but his stomach was tightly knotted. ‘Did you grab my passport?’
No reply.
‘Anybody got a cigarette?’
Pascal was in the back beside Jack. He turned his head a fraction. ‘No.’
‘Music?’
‘There’s only jazz,’ said Walter, driving. ‘I can’t stand fucking jazz.’
They turned off Botany Road, took some lefts and rights down a couple of narrow streets and then came out onto another busy road, lined with construction work and airport hotels and furniture emporiums. Traffic was all first gear. Jack could see how hot it was outside — saw it in the long, tired faces of the cabbies, the sweat-slicked hair of the couriers in their shit-box vans and four-tonne trucks, the council workers in fluoro vests and shorts, dragging tattooed forearms across their brows as they paused digging a trench. For a moment, Jack was envious: it was honest work. You did it and then you were tired and then you slept. And then you did it a
gain. But Jack also knew he could never be one of the guys he saw through the window. Outside, he would be leaning on his shovel, bored, wondering who was in the Mercedes with the tinted windows: how did they get there and what did they do and where were they going?
So. Now he knew.
Walter flicked the indicator on and nudged into the next lane. ‘I’m going down King.’
‘Do it.’
Full lock on the wheel, the Mercedes came to ferocious life and lunged forward in a tight turn, tyres smoking up the rear window. Jack leaned into Pascal as the car spun around, then straightened up as it took off down the street like a scalded cat.
Ten minutes later they stopped in front of a grey, aluminium-clad warehouse. A rusty mesh gate was closed across the driveway. Walter stepped out of the car and swung the gate open. He got back in and they drove through, over weedy gravel and blown-about rubbish, into the shaded cool of a large, concrete-floored loading area inside the warehouse. They stopped near a set of narrow metal stairs that climbed up the right-hand-side wall of the dock.
‘Out you get, Jack.’
There was a white van parked beside an elevated loading ramp, but nobody around. A few crates here and there, hand-trolleys, a small electric forklift with its prongs half up, and a wire-fenced area in the far corner, filled with metal drums. The air was warm, smelt of grease and petrol, and seemed to thrum.
Walter started up the stairs, his feet clanging on the metal, the sound hollow and ominous. Pascal nudged Jack to follow. Halfway up, Jack wondered if he would bust anything if he jumped over the railing. He looked down and confirmed that he would. He started thinking about a plan B.
They reached the top of the stairs, walked along a narrow landing, and then Walter knocked on a door. ‘It’s us,’ he said, up close, holding the handle like a gun pressed into somebody’s back.
Jack heard a grunt. Walter opened the door. It was a large office space, with olive-green carpet and plasterboard walls and no windows. Two naked fluorescent tubes in the ceiling, over not much furniture. It could have used a pot-plant or two. But when Jack saw Shane Ferguson, he knew that nothing was going to help the bleakness in that room.
The Black Russian Page 6
