The Black Russian

by Lenny Bartulin

  The bad actor was slumped in a chair. His nose was bloody and his shirt was torn. One of his eyes was a little swollen. Serious allergic reaction to something in the shape of a fist.

  ‘Mr Susko. Welcome. My name is Viktor Kablunak.’

  Jack turned to the voice. Behind a desk there was a man, shirt and tie and dark hair, leaning on his elbows. Eating a piece of barbecue chicken.

  ~

  12 ~

  IT WAS A LONG, PLAIN, WOOD-LAMINATED DESK, the kind government departments auctioned off when they moved to newer premises. Viktor Kablunak sat behind it and worked his chicken. Drumstick and thigh. He ate like a man who had just returned from the Battle of Stalingrad. His small brown eyes were locked on Jack, but there was nothing to read in them. Blue-and-purple paisley tie over a white shirt. His shirtsleeves were rolled up past his elbows and his elbows were resting on the desk. Jack’s copy of From Russia with Love was there, too. He hoped Kablunak had not been reading it while he ate.

  ‘Nothing,’ announced Pascal. ‘We haven’t checked his apartment yet, but I don’t reckon it’s arrived.’ He glanced over at Shane tied up in the chair. ‘Dickhead could only have sent it late on Friday or sometime Saturday, maybe Monday. So …’

  Kablunak nodded, kept eating. There was a signet ring on the little finger of his right hand, a shield with the letters V and K inscribed, and a ruby set between them. Matching cufflinks were on the desk by his elbow. His hair was thick and healthy, dark with barely any grey, swept back over a square, Slavic skull. Large fleshy nose, cheeks a little flushed, jowls shaved and shiny. Fifty, or slightly older, but blessed with smooth-skin genes.

  He kept eating the chicken. The rest of the carcass was splayed out in front of him on the desk, on a foil bag torn open down the middle. It was missing a couple of limbs and a good deal of breast. No vegetables or salad. Just the bird meat.

  ‘Susko says he doesn’t know anything about it,’ said Walter.

  Viktor Kablunak frowned and tossed what was left of the drumstick-and-thigh piece onto the desk, as though he had suddenly decided it was no good. He held his hands up, palms in like a surgeon about to go into theatre. He stared at Jack. Then he motioned for Walter to come over. Fat Boy leaned in behind the boss and reached into the breast pocket of his jacket hanging on the chair. He passed Kablunak a crisp white handkerchief and stood back. The boss snapped it open and wiped his mouth and his fingers and then blew his nose into it. He screwed up the handkerchief and dropped it onto the foil bag beside the chicken and began to roll down his sleeves.

  ‘Vodka,’ he said.

  Walter went to a three-drawer filing cabinet in the corner. He slid open a drawer and got out a thick, stubby glass and a half-full, clear glass bottle. Stolichnaya. He poured Kablunak a drink. It went down in one gulp.

  Jack swallowed a little of the heavy air in the room. ‘Good read?’ he said, pointing at his book on the desk.

  Kablunak said nothing. He held out his glass for another shot. Walter poured. His boss emptied the glass again, smoothly.

  ‘Mr Fleming,’ said Kablunak. ‘Yes. It is poor literature. But he knows what a man really is. Inside.’ He spoke slowly and his voice was slightly accented, a touch stiff. Maybe English learned as a teenager, or studied in a foreign school. Either way, Viktor Kablunak sounded like a man who was used to being listened to. ‘Inside,’ he continued, tapping a thick thumb to his chest, ‘man cannot forget completely that he is an animal that must fight to survive. Everything else is nothing.’ He showed some good teeth. ‘And James Bond … well. He knows that life has no consequence but death.’

  Not quite the book report Jack was expecting. He stared at Kablunak as no consequence but death repeated in his head.

  ‘You don’t think that’s a touch over the top?’

  Kablunak ignored the question. He adjusted his cuffs, put the cufflinks in, clipped them, tugged at the sleeves of his shirt. He leaned back in the chair, wrists down on the edge of the desk, and sucked his teeth. Then he reached out and pushed the chicken a little further away. ‘Did you know, Mr Susko, that Ian Fleming sold forty million books before Sean Connery made a fool of his creation in Dr No?’

  ‘I knew he’d done okay.’

  ‘That is much better than okay.’

  ‘So you’re a fan, then?’

  ‘Well … I enjoyed your book.’ He patted the copy of From Russia with Love on the desk.

  ‘Good,’ said Jack, trying not to think about the chicken grease on Kablunak’s fingers. ‘That’ll be fifteen thousand dollars. Cash, if you can manage it.’

  Kablunak smiled. ‘No.’

  Thoughts flapped around in Jack’s brain like moths headbutting a light bulb. None of them held still long enough to let him formulate an idea. He turned and looked at Shane Ferguson again. Saw the swollen eye and the fat lip and the bloody dribble in the corner of his mouth.

  ‘What happened to Shane?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Kablunak. ‘You do know each other.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Jack.

  The Russian nodded at Pascal. As Jack scanned Shane’s face some more, a terrific punch filled his empty stomach and doubled him over. Christ. Hitting Jack in the guts seemed to be the latest craze. He tried to remain on his feet and wrapped his arms around his stomach, but the pain was there to stay and drew him kneeling to the floor. Kneeling did not help. Jack groaned and squeezed tighter as the hot pain grew. Hugging yourself was never the soothing experience you hoped it would be. For a couple of seconds he wondered if lying down and curling up into a ball might help, but remembered the head-stomping boots worn by Pascal.

  ‘You have something of mine, Mr Susko,’ said Kablunak. ‘Something that was stolen from me. And now stolen again. I wish it returned.’

  Pascal grabbed Jack hard by the bicep and pulled him to his feet. Jack grimaced, his insides burning and a taste like battery acid in the back of his throat.

  ‘Sorry, Jack,’ said Shane Ferguson.

  Kablunak put his hands behind his head and leaned back in the chair. He glanced down at the Fleming book on the desk and then reached over and smoothed the palm of his hand across the cover. ‘Maybe you wish you were James Bond right now?’ he said, voice light, but arrogant. ‘Mr Susko?’

  ‘We could pretend,’ replied Jack, hunched over, wheezing. ‘I’ll be Bond,’ he gasped. ‘And you can be General… Grubozaboyschikov …’

  Kablunak’s brow tightened. He turned away, as though he was about to spit on the carpet. He took his time replying. ‘If I was Grubozaboyschikov,’ he said, evenly, ‘you would be hanging on a hook right now.’ He snapped a finger at the foil bag curled up around the chicken carcass.

  Walter laughed. Kablunak gave him a look like a slap across the face. ‘You think I’m funny?’ he said. ‘Grubozaboyschikov wiped out my father’s village. With a pencil on the map.’ Viktor Kablunak banged a fist down and slid his thumb across the desktop. ‘Just like that. In one stroke. We had to run, like fucking animals. Those who stayed behind, the Chinese made dim sims out of their balls. But what would you know?’ He shook his head, face dark with contempt. ‘Here, history is all English lies.’

  Silence. Jack tried to breathe quietly but the wheeze in his throat would not go away. He made a mental note to Google Grubozaboyschikov when he got home. Fleming obviously did a little research in between the martinis.

  ‘Move this!’ Kablunak waved his hand at the chicken. Walter stepped over and quickly swept it up and dumped it into a small bin in the corner. The Russian glared down at the wood-veneer desktop. ‘Where is my property, Mr Susko?’

  The room was hot; Jack was sweating. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Your friend here, Mr Ferguson, sent you something after he stole it from me. He is a very stupid man.’ Kablunak paused, sighed. ‘I hope you are not a very stupid man.’

  The furniture in Jack’s guts was all over the place, but they still told him not to mention the postal slip he got in the mail that day
. ‘Nobody sent me anything.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me, Mr Susko. Your friend lied. Did you look at him?’

  Jack closed his eyes for a couple of seconds: Kablunak was still there when he opened them again. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I looked.’

  ‘Good. Then no more bullshit, please.’

  Jack remembered Richard de Groot not calling the cops back at the gallery; his wife not knowing what was in the safe. He remembered Pascal lifting a corner of the velvet cover on whatever the thing was and looking at it and smiling.

  Jack turned to Shane. ‘What the hell did you send me?’

  ‘I’m sorry … Jack … I had no choice.’

  ‘Does it hurt to talk?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Good. You owe me five hundred bucks from ten years ago. Why didn’t you send me that instead?’

  Shane coughed, swallowed with a little difficulty. ‘I couldn’t believe it was you at the gallery. Just give the package back to Mr Kablunak and everything will be sweet.’

  ‘I haven’t got any damn package!’ Jack’s anger focused on the beaten-up wannabe actor tied to the chair in front of him. ‘What the fuck did you send me?’

  Kablunak stood up, moved out from behind the desk and sat on the edge, one leg off the floor. ‘You should not worry about details, Mr Susko. For you it is very simple. For now I will believe that you do not have what has been sent to you.

  So. When it arrives, you will call me. When I have it, you can forget about everything and go back to your life. Okay?’

  ‘Sure, sounds great. But what if I don’t believe you?’

  ‘This is your problem.’

  Jack stretched a little, ignited another spark of pain in his guts. How many problems was that now? Maybe he could get into the Guinness Book of Records. He nodded at the Fleming hardback on the desk. ‘I’d like my book back.’

  Kablunak half turned towards it. ‘Yes, good,’ he said, voice bright now. ‘All I ask is a little cooperation. And then we can maybe have a fair exchange.’

  ‘How about you give it to me now and then I cooperate.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Jack, annoyed. ‘In the meantime just promise to keep your greasy mitts off it.’

  Kablunak raised an eyebrow, said nothing. Jack held his stare.

  ‘Just do it, Jack.’ Shane moved against the tape binding him to the chair. It rustled like aluminium foil.

  Jack turned towards his former lodger. ‘What’s going on, Shane? I thought you wanted to be an actor.’

  ‘I am an actor.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  Shane squinted up at Jack through his puffy eye. ‘I needed cash. You know how it is.’

  ‘So you got in on a heist and then tried to doublecross these guys?’ Jack frowned in disbelief. ‘Did you think you were in a movie?’

  ‘Enough. Pascal and Walter will drive you home, Mr Susko.’

  Jack looked at Viktor Kablunak. The Russian was inspecting his fingertips. He had broad, workers’ hands, but manicured nails.

  ‘What are you going to do with Shane?’

  Kablunak grinned. Then stopped. He took his jacket off the chair behind the desk, reached into the inside pocket and handed Jack a card. ‘Call this number when my package arrives. Do not open it, do not wait, do not think. Just call.’

  Pascal leaned into Jack’s face. ‘Reckon you can handle that?’

  ‘Yeah. No problem. Reckon you could brush your teeth?’

  This time, even Viktor Kablunak grimaced at the punch.

  ~

  13 ~

  THEY DROPPED HIM OFF IN THE CITY. It was going-home time. Ties loose, jackets off, faces relaxed. High heels swapped for sneakers. Tourists stared at the menus taped to restaurant windows, deciding where to eat. A million text messages beeped on a million phones as the city’s population stared down into the palms of their hands. Jack wondered if a Russian gangster had threatened anybody else today.

  He waited for a bus: when it came, he slumped into a seat and stared out the window as it crawled up Oxford Street through the peak-hour traffic. By the time he got to Paddington the sun was fading, its pale tawny light thickening across the sky. Jack stumbled home under the muted glow, washed out and a little fragile, like a paper serviette left in a pocket and gone through a rinse cycle.

  He pulled out his keys and was about to unlock the front door of his apartment in Leinster Street, when he noticed a thin stripe of weak light running the length of the jamb. He pressed his fingertips to the door, applied the barest pressure: the hinges creaked. All of Jack’s senses woke simultaneously. His skin prickled and his ears popped and all his muscles pulled tight against his joints. Forgetting to lock up was just something Jack never did. Not sober, anyway. He listened, then pushed the door and waited at the threshold as the slow arc of its opening revealed what was going on inside.

  He looked: none of it was good.

  The front room was like below decks on a beached boat, everything slipped from the shelves and spilled across the floor. Jack swore and stepped carefully between the books and albums and furniture lying silent and vulnerable, as though passed out after a party. Kablunak’s boys, earlier in the day?

  No. He remembered them telling the Russian they had only searched Susko Books. Somebody else had been here. And no doubt for the same reason. Mysterious-package hunting.

  He walked over and opened the sliding door to his small, paved rear yard and let a whining Lois into the flat. She miaowed, shook herself and then stretched from the tip of her nose to the splayed claws of her extended hind legs, each in turn. After a quick lick at something bothering her front paw, she pit-patted straight into the kitchen and sniffed at her food bowl, paying no attention to the rearrangement of the décor. She sat down and miaowed again, pots and pans and broken cups strewn around her. She looked up at Jack, let him read her face: It wasn’t me.

  Jack lifted the flap of his bag and pulled out the postal slip. Inspected it. No clues there, but considering the interest level, it was probably better to leave whatever it was at the post office for the time being. Kablunak could wait. Jack had a strong feeling that the mysterious package might be the only chip he had to throw down if push came to any more shove. He slipped it back into his bag.

  He went into the kitchen: tinned seafood platter for Lois and an egg-and-mayonnaise sandwich on toasted stale bread for himself. Then he started to clear up the mess. He carefully stacked his albums, first inspecting each record. He picked up This Is Sinatra, 1953, half under the couch and slipped out of its sleeve. A bit of dust, but no serious damage. He had not heard it in a while. The turntable was on top of the sideboard and had escaped the intruder’s attention. Jack put the record on and turned up the volume. He listened to the warm scratch and crackle of the needle biting into the vinyl and then settling into a hairy groove that popped the speakers lightly. It was making him feel better already. The sound of delicious tension. Then the big brass kicking in. And then softly, softly, everything down low — and Frank, with all that tone.

  Got the string around my finger …

  More like a noose around his neck. Jack thought about cigarettes again, felt a knot of wanting tighten his broken guts, and then tried to forget about it as he continued clearing up.

  There was a knock on the door a little while later. Jack turned the volume down on the stereo. He found Larissa Tate standing in the hall.

  ‘Hello there,’ said Jack. He managed to keep his tone neutral, but his heart gave a couple of thumps in his chest. ‘Come in.’

  She reached over and put a hand on his arm. A little squeeze, leaned in, a peck on the cheek. Jack reciprocated. He could feel the coolness of the hallway on his face.

  ‘You look good, Jack.’

  ‘I’ve been working out.’

  No comment. She walked in.

  Jack swept his eyes over her. ‘Look good yourself.’

  Her movements were relaxed. She was wearing a silk halter-neck top, the print some k
ind of equestrian number with buckles and saddles and riding helmets all over it. A pair of bleached-blue, tight 1980s-style jeans. On her feet, jade-green, flat peep-toe shoes. Same light-brown, long silky hair with the serious fringe. Same dark eyes and glossed lips, same easy, unconcerned expression on her face. And the same petite, toned body, though the curves were fuller. Sexier.

  The nearly twelve months that had passed since they parted had been good to Larissa Tate.

  Jack closed the front door. ‘How’s Richard? You should have brought him along.’

  Larissa smiled: stretched lips only, small and brief. She tossed her handbag onto the couch. ‘I’ve been trying your mobile, the shop, no answer …’

  ‘Late lunch. Making new friends.’

  ‘Was she attractive?’

  ‘I didn’t like the way she ate her chicken.’

  Larissa stood in the middle of the lounge room, her back to him. ‘Didn’t realise you were so fussy.’

  ‘I’ve changed. It’s all about me now.’

  She turned side on, smiled at that one. ‘Glad to hear it.’

  Jack sat down in the Eames chair. ‘Mr Muscles out in the car?’ he asked.

  ‘Why? Do I need a bodyguard?’

  ‘Maybe the new me is a homicidal lunatic.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  She sat down on the two-seater couch. Leaned back, crossed her legs. She pointed her chin at Jack and flicked her hair.

  ‘So. Would you like to know what was stolen out of the safe at De Groot Galleries?’

  Larissa Tate was a piece of work. Jack liked her. A lot, and counting.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘A Bible.’

  He let the news sink in. ‘What kind of Bible?’

  ‘A very expensive kind,’ said Larissa. She smoothed a thigh with the palm of her hand. ‘Gold boards, jewel-encrusted, illuminated, immaculate. A one-off masterpiece by a famous Russian monk. Thirteen ninety-six. It’s called the Sergius Bible.’

  ‘A hobby of yours?’

  She shrugged.