The Black Russian

by Lenny Bartulin

  Pascal jammed a gun into Jack’s side. ‘Out you pop,’ he said.

  Jack climbed out of the car, followed by Pascal. It was still hot and humid, but a light breeze blew in off the harbour. Jack breathed, deeply. He walked, a little shaky on his feet. Pascal led him down the grass slope towards a children’s play area. It was a small, compact set-up. Slides and swings, monkey bars and tunnels. Empty right now. Not a single five-year-old in sight, ready to jump in for the rescue.

  Jack noticed how the horizon seemed to have curled up and over the city, like a giant wave of thick, blackening smoke, frozen at the peak of its swelling. The dark storm was working its way in. Time to get out of the way.

  ‘So,’ said Viktor Kablunak behind him. ‘I must now put my mark on you, Mr Susko.’

  ‘You’ve gone to a lot of trouble, Viktor. Why didn’t you just beat me up back at the shop?’

  ‘And where would the ritual be, Mr Susko? The symbolism? Life is but a series of small, insignificant … gestures. Thrown to the wind. But men were made for acts of faith and courage. And death! We must try and infuse all of our actions with the quality of myth, to give them meaning beyond the mere action of them. To lift us out of banality and to liberate us from death!’ The Russian paused. ‘We must be grand, Mr Susko, or we are nothing. Do not succumb to the evil of … efficiency.’

  ‘Sounds good, Viktor. I think you’ve made your point.’

  ‘I can hear fear in your voice, Mr Susko. Good. I am satisfied. And hopefully, you are convinced of my serious nature.’

  Before Jack could say anything else, something hit him in the head. He thought it must have been one of the buildings in the city falling down, right across the water and on top of the children’s play area. But he never found out for sure. The world switched off like a plasma TV. Nothing. Blackness. Cold.

  ~

  21 ~

  A FIVE-YEAR-OLD KID FOUND HIM LYING across the small slatted bridge of the children’s fort. He ran to get his mummy. Jack blinked. It was painful, so he stopped doing it, kept his eyes closed. Groaned instead. As he came to, it was a bumpy ride. He remembered what had happened. Right away, his head felt like a thousand hangovers after an afternoon of brain surgery. He opened his eyes: it even hurt to look.

  The mother came back with the child. Jack tried to speak, mumbled, moaned, made no sense. The mother told him that it was disgusting, a grown man drunk in a children’s playground, and as she walked off, child in hand, she said she was calling the police.

  Jack carefully felt the back of his head. Bump about the size of a mango. Pulsing and hot. He changed his mind. Baked potato.

  After what felt like an hour, he sat up. He thought he might vomit but managed to keep his guts down. He got to his feet. Jack wondered if he should go to hospital: have himself checked out? Maybe. But his vision was losing the blur, so he took it as a good sign. Maybe it all just felt worse than it actually was. More important to get back to Susko Books and grab the postal slip before anybody else did. Nobody was getting nothing for nothing anymore.

  On the bus, Jack tried Larissa’s number. All he got was her recorded voice, bright and confident: Hi there. I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave your name and number, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Thanks!

  Jack waited for the beep. Had he really trusted her? Was that what had stung him?

  Maybe.

  ‘Larissa. It’s Jack. Three-point-four million, huh? It must have just slipped your mind.’

  He ended the call. Slid low in the seat and carefully rested his head back.

  Rhonda de Groot was waiting for him at Susko Books, smoking a cigarette at the foot of the steps.

  ‘More art catalogues, Rhonda?’ Jack breathed the tobacco smoke in deeply as he went past and unlocked the front door. She dropped the butt and walked in behind him. No comment. The shop was still a mess. She paid no attention to that, either. Jack switched on the lights across the back wall but left the others off: the slightest glare was frying his eyeballs. He walked straight over to the counter, swung in behind it and picked up his bag, which was draped over the chair at his desk. He slung it over his shoulder.

  ‘You know why I’m here,’ she said.

  Jack turned back to the buxom Rhonda de Groot. She was dressed all in white: a white short-sleeved shirt with a slightly military cut, white linen pants, and white low-heel sandals. Even a thick white bangle on her wrist. Everything tight over her proud roundness. She was still standing inside the front door. The door was closed behind her and she was holding a gun. Pointing it in Jack’s general direction.

  ‘The Sergius,’ she said. She stepped towards Jack, just a metre or two, in case he could not see the gun properly. ‘Thank you, Mr Susko.’

  Jack put his hands up, about shoulder high. It was nearly 5.00 p.m. and his second gun for the day. Third since last Friday. There must have been a recent sale on small firearms somewhere. Next time, Jack might try to secure a little something for himself. Maybe a nice bazooka for under the counter.

  ‘That’s just lovely,’ he said. ‘But I don’t have it. Okay?’ As much as his entire head was a dull ache, Jack was all out of adrenaline: instead, a numb weariness flooded his body at the sight of Rhonda de Groot with a gun in her hand. ‘Maybe you’d like to browse a little, see if another book might suit,’ he said, motioning with his hand around the shop. ‘Is it a present that you’re looking for? Or something for yourself ?’

  Jack saw the red flash out of the barrel — like fire out of a cartoon gun — before he heard the sound. The bullet ricocheted off something metallic behind him, maybe one of the steel beams in the concrete-block wall, and then embedded itself with a thud in a book somewhere. Jack wondered which title had been so severely dealt with.

  ‘I don’t have time, Mr Susko. Now.’

  ‘You don’t think anybody’s going to hear that thing going off ?’

  She fired again. A pile of books on the counter that Kim had made earlier toppled over and collapsed to the floor. Jack looked down. This time, he could see the casualty: What Food Is That? And How Healthy Is It? by Jo Rogers. He might have to add a few dollars to its recommended retail price because of the free bullet in the spine.

  ‘Look, Rhonda,’ he said, calmly, though the second bullet had drained the remaining colour in his face and turned his feet into clumps of lead. ‘This isn’t going to get us anywhere. I don’t have the Sergius. Who told you I did?’

  Rhonda de Groot smiled. Unfortunately, it was not the kind of smile that made you feel better. ‘Do you think the Sergius is something that could remain a secret?’ she asked.

  ‘Jesus. You sound like Kablunak.’

  She lifted the gun higher, aimed it more towards his head. ‘Viktor? When did you speak to him?’

  ‘Earlier today. We went for a drive. It was great fun.’

  ‘He’s knows you’ve got the Bible?’

  ‘He was the first, Rhonda. When did you find out?’

  She became thoughtful. ‘Shit,’ she said to herself, her body relinquishing its hard pose by just a fraction. ‘So he’s got it.’

  Jack mulled over the idea: maybe it would get Rhonda de Groot the hell out of his shop.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Vik’s got the Sergius. It’s all over.’

  She did not like the news. She stiffened again, waved the black weapon in her hand and shifted her weight between her legs, as though getting ready to pop another cap off.

  ‘How about you lower the gun?’ said Jack, as nicely as he could.

  The gun stayed where it was. Rhonda was frowning, thinking about something. ‘Explain to me how Viktor got it.’

  Whatever she was thinking about, Jack had no idea: and you should always know a little of what was going on to make a lie sound convincing. He lowered his arms, now felt his heart pounding his rib cage, like the fist-smack of a Las Vegas heavyweight on the big bag. Delayed reaction to bullets whizzing past him. Adrenaline motoring through his veins again. ‘Do you min
d if I sit down? I’m not as young as I used to feel.’

  ‘Don’t move.’ Rhonda de Groot was a fan of the classics.

  ‘Okay,’ said Jack. He tried to read her face, but with only the one bank of lights on behind the counter, Susko Books was streaked with shadows. He tried to change the subject. ‘I take it you’re not here on behalf of your husband.’

  She smiled. ‘And what makes you say that?’

  ‘He would have sent Lewis.’

  ‘That would have been obvious.’

  ‘But your gun’s nice and subtle, huh?’

  Rhonda lowered the piece a little, so that she did not have to speak over it. ‘Don’t think I won’t use it.’

  ‘You already have.’

  ‘Tell me about Viktor.’

  ‘It’s only early days. We haven’t been seeing each other long. But I’m not sure that I can trust him.’

  ‘Just so you know, Mr Susko. I’m not one of those women who find funny men attractive.’

  ‘That explains your husband.’

  She managed a grin. ‘No, Mr Susko. Explaining my husband would require a lifetime. Which I no longer have.’

  Jack sensed a little marital disharmony. ‘It wasn’t nice of Richard, was it?’ he said, sympathetically. ‘Not telling you about the Sergius, using the gallery to hide it like that.’

  ‘That’s the least of his misdemeanours.’ Her voice became deeper, lower, weighed down by whatever those misdemeanours were. For a moment they must have flashed through her mind and she narrowed her eyes as she replayed them. ‘If only you knew, Mr Susko.’

  ‘That why you want the Sergius? New life?’

  She did not answer, shook a little, then shrugged: the last thoughts of her husband fell from Rhonda de Groot’s blowdried coiffure like dry, dead leaves. She straightened her shoulders. Gun up. Back to business.

  ‘Sorry I can’t help you,’ said Jack.

  She stood there, rigid, the air around her contracting as anger swelled in her bosom.

  ‘Who told you I had the Sergius?’

  ‘Your cousin, Mr Susko.’

  ‘Oh good.’ Jack rubbed his face in exasperation. ‘Another name off the Christmas list.’

  ‘Not a very clever lad.’

  ‘On his father’s side. Nothing to do with me.’

  ‘He led us straight here the other night. We waited while he looked.’ She swept the gun around the shop. ‘Just a pity it wasn’t here. I’d be in Paris now.’

  ‘I was thinking Mexico myself.’

  ‘What a shame.’

  The door to Susko Books swung open. Rhonda half turned towards it, dropping the gun to her side at the same time. Somebody leaned into the shop, holding on to the door handle.

  ‘Aren’t you closed yet?’ It was Tony Chan, from upstairs in the porn shop. He worked the afternoon shift while Deepak went home to sleep a couple of hours. He glanced at Rhonda but paid her no attention.

  Jack nodded. ‘Last sale of the day.’

  ‘I’m off to the pub,’ said Tony, almost breathlessly, as though he had been working his arse off. All Tony Chan did all day was stand behind the counter and watch DVDs; and even that from only one until six. ‘Feel like a drink?’

  ‘Feel like ten.’

  ‘I can wait.’

  Jack looked at Rhonda, then back at his neighbour. ‘Won’t be a minute.’

  ‘Cool.’ Tony held up a packet of cigarettes. ‘I’ll just be out here.’

  He stepped out and closed the door behind him.

  ‘Got to go, Rhonda.’

  The gun came up again, stubby black barrel straight at Jack.

  ‘Come on, Rhonda, you can’t —’

  The door to Susko Books swung open again, only this time with a rush. Lewis stood in the doorway. Jaw tight, eyes contracted, neck short and thick. He looked at Rhonda, rushed over and grabbed her by the arm.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ he said, almost hissing. ‘Are you crazy?’ He took the gun from her hand. ‘I told you not to do anything stupid!’

  ‘I couldn’t wait any longer.’

  ‘Fuck …’

  ‘Get your hands off me!’

  Lewis shook her a little, continued to hold her by the arms. Rhonda grimaced, tried to struggle, but gave up soon enough.

  She said: ‘It’s not here, Lew.’

  The big man’s attention shifted to Jack. He let go of Rhonda and took a couple of steps towards him. Lewis was wearing a tight red T-shirt with a black circle over the chest, like a giant ON button. Pair of navy-blue three-quarter-length shorts and leather hiking sandals. The skin on his arms and legs was taut and hairless and shiny, and everything beneath it twitched and flinched as he walked. He looked like an action figure come to life, all chest and narrow waist.

  It was hardly a fair fight. But survival had its own rules. Jack wondered if he should eye-gouge or go a hard right foot to the guy’s nuts. Or take Lewis and himself out simultaneously with a glorious, final head-butt.

  ‘If you have it, you’d better tell me,’ said Lewis, poking a thick, stubby forefinger into Jack’s shoulder. His South African accent was as thick as his neck. Heat seemed to pulse off him, as though he was a truck engine after a fast run on the highway.

  Jack shook his head. ‘Not here … Lew.’

  ‘Let me tell you, Mr Susko. Bring that fucking Bible to me. Or I will hurt you.’

  ‘He says Viktor’s already got it,’ said Rhonda behind him.

  ‘Really?’ Lewis laughed. ‘What if I said I didn’t believe you, Susko?’

  Jack thought of Tony, outside having a cigarette. No use calling out: the part-time retail assistant at Sydney’s Largest Range of Adult Entertainment! could give a lot of mouth but weighed not much more than a council newsletter.

  Lewis continued to smile. He had the teeth equivalent of cauliflower ears. He leaned in and whispered. ‘Don’t make me hurt your girlfriend.’

  ‘What?’ Jack felt a little shock flash through him.

  Rhonda de Groot frowned at the bodyguard. ‘What girlfriend?’

  ‘Larissa,’ he said. ‘I really should get back and give her some water. It has been a very hot day.’

  Jack stared at the big guy, not quite believing him. ‘Don’t do anything stupid, Lewis.’

  ‘That’s for you to think about. She told me about the Sergius, Susko. Kablunak doesn’t have it, does he? Because you’re waiting for it in the mail.’

  Behind him, Rhonda said: ‘You son of a bitch!’ Then to Lewis, firmly: ‘What’s Larissa got to do with this?’

  He kept his back to her, turned his profile slightly and spoke over his shoulder. ‘She’s found God and wants her own special Bible.’

  ‘Fucking little — !’

  ‘Oh yes. And she’s been talking to Mr Susko here. I followed her to his place. They talked all through the night. And even a little in the morning. Who knows what plans they have. Start a new Bible group, maybe?’

  ‘I’m Hindu,’ said Jack.

  ‘I knew it!’ snapped Rhonda. ‘I told Richard she was no good.’

  ‘What if I gave the Sergius to the cops? So nobody gets it?’ Jack said it, but knew it was just talk. His mouth was the only place in his body that had not lost feeling.

  ‘Oh, but somebody would get it, Susko. Your girlfriend. And you.’

  ‘Does your boss know you’re pulling a doozy on him?’ asked Jack. He looked over at Rhonda. ‘With the wife?’

  Lewis smiled grimly. He held it for a while, then took a step back. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck with two sharp movements, left then right. He linked his arm through Rhonda’s. ‘Bible, Jack. I’ll be waiting. Come to the gallery as soon as you have it. Or you may as well call an ambulance.’

  Rhonda and Lewis walked out of Susko Books together. Tony Chan poked his head in through the door after them.

  ‘Ready?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘Something’s come up. Another time?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll be at the Edinburg
h if you change your mind.’

  ‘Have fun.’

  Tony pointed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘That guy was a big motherfucker.’

  ‘Yeah, he was.’

  The door closed. Jack went over to the counter and leaned against it.

  So. He looked around: the place was more than a little worse for wear. Just like its owner. The smell of gunshot drifted through the air. For the first time in a long time, Jack did not feel like hanging around. The truth of it threw him. Was it a premonition? A sign? Was he really going to lose Susko Books? And what the hell would he do if he did?

  He killed the lights, locked the front door. He hoped Kim had something to drink. And plenty of painkillers.

  ~

  22 ~

  IT WAS WELL AFTER 7.00 P.M. by the time Jack reached Surry Hills.

  ‘You made it,’ said Kim, as she opened the front door of the Crown Street terrace.

  ‘Just.’

  She looked at him closer. ‘Oh my God! Are you okay?’

  ‘Some aspirin would be lovely.’

  ‘Come in, come in.’

  Jack followed her down the hall. The house was cluttered but clean. There was a mountain bike against the wall, some cardboard boxes, and a wooden chair with a pot plant on the seat. Beside it, an old dressmaker’s dummy, with pins stuck in it here and there like a giant voodoo doll.

  ‘That Shane?’

  She nodded. ‘I glued his face on but it fell off with the humidity.’

  At the end of the hall a shallow step led down into the kitchen, a 1960s relic, all laminex and linoleum and pastelgreen cupboards. Kim pointed to a circular dining table.

  ‘Take a seat. I think there’s something in here.’ She rummaged through a drawer.

  ‘Got anything alcoholic?’

  She turned, gave him a sympathetic look. ‘I think Shane’s got something in his room.’

  ‘Tall glass,’ he said. ‘About a metre ought to do it.’

  ‘Do you need a doctor?’

  ‘Just a holiday. Want to come?’