The Black Russian

by Lenny Bartulin

  ‘You got a big mouth.’ The fridge started to hum. Carl glanced at it, put a hand on his slim hip, dragged the other one through his hair and tried to look mean.

  ‘That meant to be scary? What else you got?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Not the way it’s going to work,’ said Jack. He kicked the chair opposite and stretched out his legs. ‘Did Larissa tell you about the Sergius job?’

  Carl sensed the growing violence in Jack’s mood. He sat down, slumped forward with his elbows on the table, tiredness like a wet coat over his shoulders. ‘Look, I can’t even fucking remember anymore. I overheard Shane and Walter talking about the job at one of our shows. When I told Larissa, I think she already knew about it.’

  ‘You’re all in that theatre group?’

  ‘Yeah, the Palomino. Just down the road, on Devonshire.’

  ‘With Walter. Who’s with the Russian?’

  ‘Yeah. Good actor. Really fat. He got Shane a job once before. I heard them talking about this new job at a rehearsal a couple of weeks ago. Shane asking Walter if he could swing any more work his way. Said he really needed the cash. He kind of invited himself along, though from what I could tell Kablunak needed an extra.’

  ‘And you teamed up with Larissa.’

  ‘Jack, I really need the money. The building industry has slowed right down. I’m lucky if I get a job changing a fucking light globe.’

  Jack nodded but had stopped listening. He was working it out — and the view was all clear around Larissa Tate. The girl could juggle half-a-dozen buzzing chainsaws and never get a scratch. She worked for de Groot and knew all about the Sergius. Then Shane told her all about his new heist job and presto, she’s got her inside man. Then knucklehead Carl comes along and she works out a way to use him, too. Jack just lands conveniently in her lap, thanks to Australia Post. Cheap insurance on every bet, any way you look at it.

  ‘How does Richard de Groot come in connected to you?’ asked Jack.

  ‘I told you. Lewis busted me going into Susko Books.’

  ‘Yeah, fine. But what was Lewis doing there to begin with?’

  Carl dropped his head. He looked like a tired, stressed electrician father of three with a broken van and a lonely wife. ‘I called de Groot earlier. Offered him the Sergius. He must have sent Lewis to keep an eye on me.’

  Jack grinned. ‘You thought you’d go it alone.’

  ‘I don’t owe Larissa a fucking thing. I got a family, Jack.’

  ‘What did de Groot say?’

  ‘Ten thousand.’

  Jack thought back to his own offer from Richard de Groot, after the heist.

  ‘What was I going to do with a hundred grand’s worth of Bible?’ said Carl, holding out his hands. ‘Sell it at a fucking church stall on a Sunday afternoon?’

  So Carl did not know about the three-point-four. Jack wondered if he should tell him.

  ‘I thought I could sell it back to de Groot, you know?’ continued Carl. ‘I figured that’d be the easiest way to make quick cash.’ He drummed the table with his fingers. ‘And I’d heard stories. I wasn’t going to fuck around with the Russian.’

  ‘So you offered it to de Groot, but you didn’t have possession of it?’

  ‘Larissa told me some shit about Shane lying low for a while and that we’d sort everything out in a few days. I didn’t believe her. Then I followed her to your place. You were there when the job went down on the Friday, and now Larissa was popping in for a chat.’ He looked accusingly at Jack. ‘And she stayed all night, too.’

  ‘So I’m in with Larissa, huh?’

  ‘Why not? You used to work for Ziggy Brandt. Why wouldn’t you be?’ He nodded. ‘Opportunity knocks.’

  ‘Of course. And obviously the Sergius was with me.’

  ‘Correct.’ Carl’s eyes narrowed a little as he looked at Jack. ‘I didn’t think it’d be a problem to get hold of it.’ He tapped his pocket. ‘Seeing as I had the spare keys.’

  Jack picked up the bottle of Scotch. He splashed a little into Kim’s glass and pushed it over to his cousin, and then poured the rest for himself. Drank. ‘I don’t have it,’ he said.

  Carl closed his eyes for a moment, controlled himself. ‘Do you have to be such an arsehole? Jesus Christ.’

  Jack drank some more Scotch. ‘Carl. I don’t have it.’

  ‘You’ve got to give de Groot the Bible.’ Carl’s voice cracked a little: it was a sinner’s voice, thick with remorse and regret. ‘I can’t let Renée find out about any of this. She’d never take me back. Not this time.’

  ‘De Groot’s not going to give you any money, Carl, believe me. You should just go home and forget about it.’

  ‘Yeah, sure. After Lewis breaks my legs, I’ll just crawl down Old Canterbury Road.’

  A little sympathy welled somewhere inside Jack. He tried to weigh his cousin’s sincerity, but it was too early in the morning for a clear reading. ‘I can’t give you the Bible.’

  Carl turned away in disgust.

  ‘Look. Kablunak wants it, and there are my own legs to consider. And, just so you know, Lewis wants it, too. He’s in with de Groot’s wife. And Richard is not included.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard. And they’ve got Larissa somewhere. Either I give them the Sergius or else.’

  Carl frowned, digesting everything Jack was saying. None of it was going to help him.

  ‘So everybody wants the fucking thing,’ continued Jack. ‘And I’m the goddamn lamb shank in the stew. Not you.’

  A phone started ringing. Carl reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile. He looked at the screen. ‘Fuck.’ He hit the phone against his leg and swore some more, his face pale, his eyes red and flitting. ‘Fucking de Groot.’

  ‘You’d better answer it.’

  ‘And what am I going to say?’

  Jack looked down at his glass of Scotch. Two rings later, he said: ‘Tell him I want to talk to him.’

  Carl stared at Jack, stunned. ‘Yeah?’

  Jack nodded, held up his hand for the phone. Carl blew a hard breath and answered the call. ‘Yeah, it’s me … Yep … Yeah, I’ve found him … Yeah, but listen … He wants to talk to you … Okay? ... Hang on …’

  Jack stood up. Carl handed him the mobile.

  ‘Richard,’ he said. ‘How’s my favourite four-foot art thief doing?’

  ~

  24 ~

  IT WAS GETTING ON FOR 6.30 A.M. NOW. A police van screamed by as Jack turned the Fiori right onto Oxford Street. As early as it was, there was already traffic around: a selection of cars and cabs, delivery trucks, buses and the odd moped. There were people walking the footpaths. It was a hot, restless, almost-lit morning, the half-hidden moon backlighting the late dark with a smoky pearl haze. The sky was busy, gathering storm clouds to itself, like a shearer pulling in folds of wool. Soon, the rush of rain would come. Relief.

  Maybe.

  Jack was in no hurry to get to Richard de Groot’s house in Vaucluse. He was tired, sore, and felt on the outside of everything that had happened over the last few days, even though on paper he looked to be right in the middle of it. De Groot had been cocky on the phone, all laughs and sure, Jack, no worries, exuding enough smug to pollute a small city. They did not talk long, but Jack made it sound like he was selling and de Groot made it sound like he was buying — though Jack was surprised when de Groot insisted he come over right away.

  ‘I’ve got plenty of time right now,’ he said. ‘Plenty of cash, too.’

  ‘And why wait for our Russian friend?’

  De Groot hesitated. ‘Yes.’ Then: ‘Shall we get it over with?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Good. We’ll share a couple of champagne cocktails and watch the storm come in.’

  ‘What’s the address?’

  The South African told him. ‘And Jack,’ he had added. ‘Just you. No cousin, okay? He irritates me.’

  ‘Fine. Keep your thug out of it as well.’

&n
bsp; De Groot laughed. ‘Don’t keep me waiting.’

  Jack parked the car. He reached across and locked the passenger side door, glancing down at his bag beside him on the seat. Any key could open Chester’s Fiori, but Jack doubted it was the kind of vehicle car thieves sought out in this suburb. And better not to have the bag with him when he spoke with de Groot. He shoved it under the seat.

  De Groot’s place was on the upside of Vaucluse Road, a huge, modern-style house of grey stone tiles and long, sheer tinted windows, flush with the tile-work so that in the pale-moonlit morning every wall looked as smooth as a sheet of metal.

  Three storeys and some kind of rooftop deck area, too, all set behind a high wall of the same grey stonework as the house, and a shiny steel gate that stretched across a curved, concrete driveway leading down to underground parking. Minimalist, architect-designed, probably around five or six mill. Or maybe ten or eleven: what the hell did Jack know? All he was sure about was the going rate on rare, fourteenth-century illuminated Bibles.

  He surveyed the scene, a little nervous now. It was a nice stretch of real estate. With the city shimmering in the distance and plenty of Sydney Harbour in front of it and the light-topped masts on the big yachts gently swaying on the glimmer of water, just down the hill: you could always see where you parked your boat. And even with the sky getting a little apocalyptic, there was still something to look at and feel good about looking at.

  There was a shuddering noise. Jack saw the long steel gate of the de Groot residence sliding open. He could hear the echo of an engine being revved from down below. Hard and loud. Just before the gate reached the end of its track, there was an almighty squeal of tyres, and a deep roar of acceleration and within seconds the nose of a car was at the top of the driveway.

  The de Groot Maserati. It edged out onto the road, its front grille like the snout of a pissed-off guard dog, with someone tugging hard at the leash around its neck. The windows were tinted, and in the sombre light Jack could not see the driver. Richard de Groot? Surely not.

  The car sped off, back in the direction of the city. Why would de Groot go now? Leave Jack and three-and-a-bit million behind?

  Jack stared down the road, where the car had already disappeared. No. He wouldn’t.

  ~

  25 ~

  THUNDER GRUMBLED IN THE DISTANCE.

  Jack pressed the buzzer set beneath an eyeball video camera on the left of the barred front gate. No answer. Through the bars he could see a brick-paved path that swung away to the left. He could hear something bubbling, too: no doubt some kind of water feature. He buzzed again, looking into the lens as though he might see somebody at the other end. No answer again.

  More thunder. Jack walked down to the garage entrance. It had not closed after the Maserati zoomed off. He looked at a couple of the neighbours’ houses. Only their security lights showed. All was quiet and empty along Vaucluse Road. Jack felt like a loud noise as he walked down the curved concrete driveway and slipped in under the house.

  No cars, but enough room to park four or five. No shelves, boxes or benches, either, no usual garage crap pushed up against the walls: just a spotless, well-lit rectangle that could have been leased out as a showroom floor. Two cream-painted doors at the rear wall. Jack chose the right. Behind it, leading up into the house, wide, black-veined white marble stairs. He started to climb. He called out: ‘De Groot?’ The house threw silence back at him.

  At the top of the stairs, a long, cool hallway: Persian-style runner over more tiled floor, a couple of pieces of brushed steel and glass furniture, some artwork over the white walls.

  ‘Hello? Anybody here?’

  Jack listened. Still nothing. He wondered what he would say to the cops.

  Cautiously down the hall, glancing at the stuff on display: a series of half-a-dozen watercolours, about forty centimetres square and box framed in blonde wood. Interesting subject matter — plucked chickens and roasted chickens and headless chickens and chickens on fire and gutted chickens hanging from hooks. Jack could not figure out if the de Groots liked chickens or if they were maybe vegetarians making a political statement. Probably just de rigueur. It reminded him of Kablunak eating in his office with his sleeves rolled up.

  After all the poultry, a large, airy, cream-carpeted lounge room with high ceilings and lots of mirrors; on the Vaucluse Road side, a complete wall of double-glazed glass, the better to take in the harbour. Placed precisely around the room, sleek white-leather couches, beige shagpile rugs, ultra-modern lamps and chairs, and a couple of glass-top tables with nothing on them. A large Aboriginal dot painting was the featured artwork, taking up almost the entire right-hand-side wall, warm and luminous under subtle, professionally set-up lighting. Ancient Greek-style columns framed two doorways out of the room. The place was like a cross between a Mediterranean villa and a hotel lobby. The couches and seats looked ironed, the shagpile combed. Jack wondered if anybody had ever breathed in the place, let alone sat on anything.

  He took the second doorway out of the lounge room. Another hall, not as grand as the first, but carpeted and quiet. An air-conditioning panel indicated a pleasant twenty-two degrees Celsius on its digital display.

  Two more doors open on the right. Jack looked into a couple of large bedrooms, empty and so neat and unslept in they could have been mock-ups for a furniture catalogue shoot. At the end of the hallway, he turned right. First door, another neat white room with a great view out over the harbour. Somebody’s study: large, modern executive desk; black leather executive chair; bookshelves; another smaller, ergonomic desk in the corner with a computer set up on it; a couple of oil paintings on the walls; and a vase on a stand with flowers blooming out of it.

  Jack stepped inside. The flowers were arum lilies: hard to get in Sydney but kind of appropriate in their funereal way. Especially considering there was a dead body in the room.

  ~

  26 ~

  RICHARD DE GROOT WAS LYING FACE-DOWN on the floor behind his desk. He was wearing a white bathrobe. It looked expensive and very comfortable. Jack guessed that de Groot would never have imagined when he bought it that he might die in it. But there you go. Death took no notice of high-quality, one hundred percent Egyptian cotton bathrobes. All comfort was fleeting. At least until the last lie-down.

  Jack stepped closer. The black leather executive chair was pushed aside. De Groot’s head was slumped inside the cavity of an open floor-safe, as though he was down on the ground after a hot trail hike, taking a long drink from a cold mountain stream. He had been shot in the back. Maybe while he was getting out a little money for Jack, to reward him for the Sergius.

  Two gunshot wounds, right behind the heart. Bang, bang. Jack knelt down and looked past de Groot’s head. It was not a particularly large safe, maybe thirty centimetres long, twenty wide, and no more than a foot deep. It was empty. But a small fortune would have had no trouble being comfortable in there. Jack moved closer, the light hit a different angle and he saw that it was actually deeper than he had first thought: it also stretched further out left and right under the floor. Jesus. One hundred thousand gone? Two? More?

  Jack stood up and something beside the desk caught his eye: it was a wad of money. Hundred-dollar notes. The word fingerprints flashed through his mind but had no visible effect on him. Jack reached over and picked up the money and moved away from Richard de Groot’s body. Crisp bills packed tight, about two centimetres thick. The kind of thing Jack had always dreamed about having under his mattress.

  Ten thousand dollars? Thereabouts. Two little centimetres of money. The killer had missed it. Among a lot of identical wads, it was easily missed.

  ‘Keep it, Mr Susko.’

  The blood in Jack’s head drained out in one smooth, quick rush. For a second the picture before his eyes faltered and he felt a cold wave down his back. He turned towards the voice, almost dropping the money in his hands.

  Viktor Kablunak stood in the doorway of de Groot’s study. Behind him was Pascal, hi
s arms crossed and chin high.

  ‘Go on, keep it,’ repeated Kablunak, nonchalant and generous, as though he was in his own home. ‘Money is for the living.’

  Jack lowered his arms. His thumb flicked at a corner of the small pad of cash, nervously. ‘You killed him,’ he said.

  Kablunak laughed, looked behind him at Pascal, and then turned back to Jack. ‘And why would I do that, Mr Susko?’

  ‘For the Sergius.’

  The Russian shook his head, looking like a teacher disappointed with a promising student. ‘But you are holding the Sergius for me, Mr Susko. No? Why would I kill him for something that he does not have?’

  Jack stood up straighter as the blood slowly returned to his head. Now it began to throb.

  ‘There is nothing that Richard de Groot has that I would want,’ said Kablunak. ‘And would I wait for somebody to arrive?’ He waved his hand, dismissing the whole notion, and stepped into the room. ‘It is obvious somebody else killed him.’

  ‘So what are you doing here?’

  ‘Following you, Mr Susko.’ Viktor Kablunak raised his eyebrows and nodded at the cash in Jack’s hand. ‘Making sure you don’t do anything … stupid.’ He smiled. ‘But go on. Keep the money. It is yours. A little bonus.’

  Jack looked down at the wad in his hand. He tossed it onto the desk. ‘I’ll be right, thanks.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ said Kablunak. ‘I insist. You must.’

  ‘Why don’t you have it?’

  The Russian grinned. ‘I have already wiped my arse today.’

  ‘Remind me to use the bathroom at your place.’