He walked towards the counter, trying not to step on his stock. He bent down and picked a few books off the floor and carried them over. Put them down, gently. He noticed a slim, wrinkled, black-covered paperback that had seen better days. Fragments by Heraclitus. Maybe that was what Jack needed, at this difficult time. Ancient insight. A little universal wisdom. He flipped the book open and planted his finger. Page 6.
Never the straight answer.
After a while, Jack’s anger settled a little. The adrenaline in his body began to clear. Then something occurred to him: how did they get in? He went over to the front door again and had a look. The lock was intact. He ran to the rear door that opened out onto Market Row, the more likely break-and-enter spot. Locked tight. What the fuck?
Somebody had got in with keys. Maybe the same keys that had been used on Leinster Street. Apart from the ones in Jack’s pocket, there were only two other spare sets. One was back at the apartment, in the top drawer of the sideboard. The other set was in the glove box of the Toyota.
~
17 ~
COUSIN CARL WAS AN ELECTRICIAN. He had a small advertisement in the Yellow Pages. Jack tried the mobile listed but the call rang out to the message bank. Leave your name, number … Carl did not sound as though he enjoyed being an electrician. Jack did not leave a message. He looked up Reiss, C. in the White Pages and found a residential number and address. He wrote down the address. No calls. Better if he went over personally. It was definitely more a man-to-man situation.
Carl’s house was in Bankstown. Too far, too hot and too urgent for public transport. Jack needed wheels. He picked up the phone and called Ray Campbell.
‘Still on the margaritas?’
‘Why, of course, Jack. The good ship Campbell is passing pleasantly through the Panama Canal, and all on board are relaxed and happy.’
‘So you don’t need your car, then?’
‘Not at this point in time, no. But you do?’
‘Need to get somewhere.’
‘It’s overrated, Jack. And eventually, you always get back to where you began.’
‘That’s fine. I just don’t want to spend too much time on the return trip.’
‘Rush, rush. The modern affliction.’
‘I need it for the afternoon. Any chance?’
‘Every. Except that it’s broken. Sorry, Jack.’
‘You didn’t crash the Daimler?’
‘No, no, nothing like that. It’s the electricals. I turned the headlights on the other night and the fan started up. Flicked the indicator and got the windscreen wipers. And then the starter motor caught fire.’
‘The Brits have never understood electricity.’
‘The main thing is that I’m all right.’
Jack was disappointed. The Daimler was a 1973 Sovereign 4.2 — a real motor, big and bronze, like driving around in a lounge room. The leather seats were cracked and the body was rusted and you did not get very far on a hundred bucks’ worth of fuel, but even a bum could feel like a king behind the wheel. ‘How much to repair?’ he asked.
‘I don’t want to think about it whilst I’m on holidays.’
‘Fair enough.’ Jack moved some books around on the counter. ‘Listen, Ray. You ever heard of the Sergius Bible?’
‘Well, I should hope so. I’m not just a second-hand bookseller, you know.’
‘There are plenty of things you’re not, Raymond.’
‘Touché.’ But Ray heard something in his tone. ‘Are you down in the dumps, son?’
Jack looked around Susko Books. ‘Something like that. So what do you know, but minus the history lesson. I’ve read up on that.’
‘The more current facts? It was stolen last year from the monastery of Zargorsk in beautiful Russia. And in broad daylight, mind you.’ There was a shuffling noise down the line. ‘Hang on. Let me get the magazine. I’m pretty sure it was in the latest Time.’
Jack waited a moment. He was in a hurry to get to his cousin’s place, but was keen on any extra information about the Sergius. Not that he had any idea how it might help him.
Ray picked up the phone again. ‘Here we are.’
‘You read Time magazine?’
‘I got a subscription for my birthday. It’s the thought that counts.’
‘What’s it say?’
‘A moment please, let me find it.’ Ray hummed as he flipped through the pages. ‘Let’s see … article on the decline in world oil production … the decline of sperm rates in western males … the decline in the nutritional value of fruit and vegetables … the decline of the US, world financial markets, and the environment, too. Oh look, even Hollywood is going down the toilet.’
‘Sounds like the world’s gone to crap.’
‘Whatever happened to the nice stories?’ asked Ray. ‘About alien abduction in small rural towns? And pandas that finally got off their arses and did their duty for the species? And where are all the cartoon strips? Whatever happened to Andy Capp, lying around on the couch with his back to the world?’
‘You retired from public life.’
‘Very funny.’
‘Come on, Ray. I’m in a hurry.’
‘Here we are, here we are. Page 36. “The Not So Divine Comedy” by Dahlia Wallis. And I quote: The international black market in religious art is doing a roaring trade. Thanks to poor security and unceasing demand from collectors, thieves are brazenly helping themselves to some of the oldest and most precious works in the world. Eastern European churches in particular are being targeted. And, it seems, there is not much out there to stop them: neither security nor shame. “There is no fear of the police anymore, it doesn’t exist,” says Father Constantine Gligoris. “The thieves fear nobody, not even God.”’
‘Where’s the bit about the Sergius?’
‘Um … here. There’s a list of stolen work and its value.
A Caravaggio nativity scene worth an estimated twenty million, stolen in Palermo. Two-point-seven million for a jewel-encrusted painting of the Virgin Mary and Baby Jesus, stolen from a cliff-side monastery in Montenegro. A priceless Last Supper. A one-point-nine-million-dollar Black Madonna. Various crosses and censers and woodcut Stations of the Cross. And, here it is, the Sergius Bible. One-point-seven million euros.’
Jack stopped breathing for a moment. ‘Excuse me?’
‘One-point-seven. That’s nearly three-and-a-half million dollars, give or take.’
Silence.
‘Actually, three-point-four, at the current exchange.’
Silence.
‘Jack? Hello?’
‘That’s a lot of money.’ Jack’s voice was hoarse, as though he had smoked a whole packet of cigarettes in the last five seconds.
‘I quote again …’ said Ray. ‘It is all part of an illegal industry that was estimated to turn over somewhere in the realm of six billion US last year.’
A small tidal wave passed through Jack’s brain. He sat down. ‘Some realm,’ he said.
Ray continued: ‘More often than not, armed gunmen simply walk in and then walk out. The OCBC, France’s Central Office for the Fight against Traffic in Cultural Goods, believes that much of the demand is being driven by the new super-rich of Russia, who are said to pay handsomely to furnish their summer dachas with exclusive holy artefacts.’
Jack could feel a clamp on his head, heard the squeak of screws as it tightened around his temples. ‘I’ve got an old commemorative Communion picture,’ he said. ‘Angels blowing some golden trumpets. What do you think?’
Ray laughed. ‘At least a hundred thousand.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘So why the interest in Bibles?’
Jack licked his dry lips. ‘A … customer asked about the Sergius.’ He struggled to make something up. ‘Wanted to know if there were any books on it.’
‘Do you want me to send the article to you?’
‘No … that’s fine. Thanks, Ray.’
‘Sorry about the car.’
‘No problem. I’ve got one other option. Should be fine.’
‘Drive carefully.’
‘Always.’
Three-point-four million dollars. No wonder people were messing up his things. Was Jack the only one who had no idea?
He stepped out of the frame for a moment and looked.
Yep, there he was. Piggy in the goddamn middle.
It was not a call Jack wanted to make. He knew Chester Sinclair well and asking the man for a favour was the equivalent of having to saw your own leg off. Shylock had nothing on this guy.
‘Hello?’
‘Chester. It’s Jack.’
‘Well, well. Mr Susko. What a pleasant surprise.’ Already the voice was smug. Jack hardly ever called and Sinclair’s antenna had immediately picked up that he probably needed something.
‘How are things?’ asked Jack.
‘Tight, of course, tight. The current economic downturn is really putting the squeeze on, Jackie boy.
Consumer spending, up the shit. Woe the Bookstalk, my friend, woe the Bookstalk.’ He sighed. ‘But we must keep our heads.’
‘Mmmm,’ said Jack, wishing again that he had never mentioned his idea for a bookshop name — Jack and the Bookstalk — in front of Sinclair, who had stolen it without remorse or regret. But that was just the kind of guy Chester Sinclair was. As he held the phone to his ear, Jack was still considering whether he should ask the man for a favour. He could almost see Sinclair’s pasty, indoor complexion gain a touch of colour as Jack humbly begged for the loan of his car.
‘What about you, Jack?’ asked Sinclair. ‘Up or down?’
‘Floating in it.’
‘Watch the tidal waves.’
‘I’ve got a good plank of wood.’
‘Hold on tight.’
Jack rubbed his face. ‘Your car still go, Chester?’
‘My car?’
Jack heard the antenna in Sinclair’s head start to hum. ‘I need to borrow it. Just for today. Three or four hours, max.’
‘What for?’
‘Need to pick something up.’ Jack kept his voice neutral.
‘I see.’ Sinclair cleared his throat. ‘Well, I was going to need it today. It would definitely put me out.’
‘What do you need it for?’ Jack indulged him. The haggle for price was inevitable and he wanted it over quickly.
‘My mother needs to go to the doctor.’ Sinclair had decided on the sympathy angle. ‘She’s quite ill.’
Ever since you were born, probably. Jack said: ‘And you’re such a good son.’
‘Well, one must help where one can.’
‘I’ll fill it up on the way back.’
‘Plus fifty.’
Jack shook his head. ‘That’s just greed, Sinclair. I could get a hire car for that. And it wouldn’t be a piece of shit.’
‘Yeah? So why don’t you?’
Son of a bitch. Jack would have, except he had no room left on any of his three red-lining goddamned credit cards. He breathed his anger down. ‘Because I’d rather fill a friend’s tank,’ he said. It was a poor effort at sincerity and everybody listening knew it.
Chester scoffed. ‘Full tank plus fifty.’
‘I don’t want to buy your car, Sinclair.’
‘Going … going …’ Jack glanced at the clock. Nearly 11.30 a.m. Fuck. He really did hate Chester Sinclair. ‘Okay, okay. Done.’
‘And I need you to drop something off for me on the way.’
‘Don’t push it, Sinclair.’
‘Take you five minutes, that’s all.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Drop the fifty off to Eddie.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘What? You’re paying the fifty, it’s my money, and I want to give it to Eddie.’
‘Randwick isn’t on my way.’
‘Yeah, well my old mum is going to have to catch a bus because of you. And her hips are held together with metal pins.’
‘Jesus.’
Chester’s tapping fingers came through down the line.
‘Look,’ he said, as though he was passing on a secret. ‘It’s a sure thing, Jack. You should put some money on it, too.
Eddie popped in over the weekend and dropped the tip. All he wanted for it was a Dick Francis hardcover. I slipped in an old paperback for him, too.’
‘Christ,’ said Jack, tiredness weighing him down like a chain-mail shirt.
‘Eddie’s out there all day. Take you five minutes.’
Eddie Roy. He was about a hundred years old, dressed like it was still 1932, and sold thin, grilled sausages from a greasy cart at Royal Randwick. He apparently owned a little corner of a large turd that had been dropped by Phar Lap, in which he read the future, like it was tea leaves. He had picked a few long shots in his time and a kind of myth had swirled up around him. With the human tendency to want to believe in the miraculous, Eddie Roy had done all right. Apparently his father had been some kind of preacher. Now the true believers, the miracle chasers, went to the track and not to church.
‘Race six,’ said Chester. ‘Babylon Boy, fifty on the nose. You got it?’
Jack scribbled it down. ‘Yeah, I got it.’
‘The car’s parked round at my place. White Subaru with roof-racks.’
‘Keys?’
‘You don’t need them. Any key is fine. Number ten, Cary Street, Leichhardt.’
‘Sure it’s still there?’
‘Nobody knows any key will do.’
‘What else is wrong with it?’
‘Nothing. But there’s no petrol in it at the moment.’
Jack closed his eyes, craned his head back. ‘What about wheels, Sinclair? Do I need to bring my own?’
‘Just the petrol. And watch it on the corners. The front left brake bites and pulls round hard. I nearly wiped out a pedestrian the other day.’
‘Maybe I’ll take my neighbour’s bike.’
‘And have it back by six.’
‘Will it last that long?’
‘The car is pure finesse and Japanese reliability, Susko. Never let me down.’
Jack grunted.
‘Full tank, plus fifty,’ repeated Sinclair. ‘Babylon Boy with Eddie, back by six. You crash, you pay.’ Chester hung up.
Jack put the phone down. On the counter, among the small pile of books he had rescued from the floor, The Art of War by Sun Tzu: Denma translation, Shambhala Classics, Boston, USA, fourth edition. That was more like it. How to kick some ass. He closed his eyes, opened the book. Threw a thought at his predicament and then put his finger down.
Looked. Page 21.
Subtle! Subtle!
To the point of formlessness.
Spiritlike! Spiritlike!
To the point of soundlessness.
Thus one can be the enemy’s fate star.
Jack tossed the book back onto the counter. Gathered his things. He was going to need something a little more precise than that. Something a little more how to.
~
18 ~
PARRAMATTA ROAD WAS HOT AND UNPLEASANT AS USUAL. Lined with empty shops like an old film set, only traffic rushing by. The route 440 bus Jack had caught was one of the old, non-air-conditioned numbers, and even though all the windows were open and the roof vents were up and there were only four people creating body heat, Jack was sweating himself into a stupor inside the metal box. Out on the horizon there were more glimpses of thick clouds rising high into the air, brewing rain for a storm. Jack hoped it would hit soon.
He got off on the corner of Norton and Marion streets. Passenger jets roared overhead, adding to the rumble of buses and cars, and to the heavy heat that just sat on everything, dusty and low and brown. Sinclair’s place was around the corner. Jack found the car about three doors down: a white, 1992 Subaru Fiori, rusted to within an inch of its life.
It was about the size of a box of matches. Driving it would be the equivalent of strapping a saddle to a fruit fly. Jack looked through the window: books, papers, magazines, empty Snickers wrappers and Pepsi
Max cans, takeaway coffee cups, a weary cardboard box on the back seat with the arm of a black jumper draped over it. Darth Vader hanging from the rear-view mirror. He pulled open the driver’s side door and nearly fell over: close to a thousand degrees in there. Strong smell of kebab, garlicky baba ganoush, stale sweat. As Jack worked his way into the seat and wound the window down, he seriously contemplated walking to Bankstown. It was as though he had climbed into Chester Sinclair’s armpit.
Jack used the key to his apartment: the motor kicked over. Seven hundred and fifty-eight cubic centimetres of pure power at his fingertips. Nought to one hundred in three weeks. By the time Jack had filled up the tank and was rolling down Old Canterbury Road, he had discovered that nothing worked except the warning lights: every single one glowed bright red. Maybe the thing was about to explode? Or maybe the car was psychic, telling Jack to beware of approaching doom?
Bankstown shimmered with heat. The glare made Jack squint. Old Canterbury Road had eventually led the Fiori into a suburb of wide, low streets lined with single-storey dwellings and warehouses, and parched, empty allotments. Jack drove through, into the shopping streets, past parks and playgrounds, eventually turning into Begonia Place. Somewhere that he had not been in too many years to remember.
Cousin Carl’s house was a low, orange brick-veneer place with a dark-brown tiled roof and peeling brown aluminium guttering. There was a large, bare front yard of dry, patchy grass, its centrepiece a deflated red-and-white wading pool, full of leaves and a couple of drowned toys. On the right, a concrete driveway with an oily nature strip down the middle: it led to a pole-framed carport where a dented, grimy white van was parked. An air-conditioning unit strapped to the side of the house vibrated roughly.
The place had not changed much. Jack walked up to the front door, nervous, thinking about cigarettes, thinking about how it had been a very long time since he last made his way across this scrappy lawn to spend the afternoon with his Aunt Eva. Dropped off without a word but with five bucks for a drink and an ice cream down at the shops. An old feeling stirred in the sludge of his memory, like a sleeping crocodile shifting in thick mud. Regret? Anger? Guilt? Maybe a little of everything. Even happiness. Aunt Eva had always been good to him.
The Black Russian Page 9
