The Black Russian

by Lenny Bartulin

  Jack said: ‘You know she’s been planning to take the Sergius herself, don’t you, Viktor?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Susko. I have never been under any illusions when it comes to Miss Tate. That is why I am here.’ His tone hardened a little. ‘Enduring more fools. And all before my morning coffee.’

  ‘Shall I order you one, Viktor?’ asked Larissa. ‘I think Zigolini’s might be open across the road.’

  ‘Thank you, but no. I would hate for you to have to go out in the rain.’

  She held out the bottle to him. ‘Champagne then?’

  ‘Please. I would prefer you enjoy it. While you can.’

  Jack touched the side of his head, winced. ‘What did you do to de Groot to make him come after you in the first place?’ asked Jack, eyeing the Russian through his growing headache. He could not help but be intrigued by the man. And … what else? Impressed?

  ‘Didn’t you know, Jack?’ said Larissa. ‘He sold him to the police back in South Africa.’

  ‘We were left with nothing,’ said Rhonda de Groot, bitterly.

  Kablunak scoffed. ‘You left with more than enough.’

  ‘But with much less than they had,’ said Larissa, as though she understood what Rhonda might have gone through, as though it was something worthy of a little sympathy.

  ‘Business is business,’ replied Kablunak. ‘I was in a unique … situation. And I needed to make a deal with the authorities.’

  ‘About what?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Diamonds,’ said Larissa, answering for the Russian. ‘Mr Kay here and the now deceased Richard used to run rocks together.’

  ‘He was never very good at it,’ said Kablunak.

  ‘So, eventually, Mr Kay sold him to the cops.’

  ‘A simple case of survival of the fittest. They needed a criminal and I provided them with one. Hardly a problem. He only had to bribe his way out.’

  ‘There was nothing left,’ said Rhonda, softly and sadly. ‘We came here with nothing.’

  The Russian gave her a look of contempt. ‘And for your sins, now you will have even less.’

  ‘So de Groot wanted to get back at you by stealing the Sergius?’

  Kablunak sighed. ‘Revenge is an expensive, emotional, and ultimately unprofitable exercise. Look what it has cost him.’

  ‘Much better spending your cash on insider trading,’ said Larissa. Her tone was almost playful. ‘Eh, Viktor?’

  ‘Well, it is a calculated risk. But by the looks of things, I have got here just in time to protect my interests. No?’

  Larissa smiled, shook her head with disappointment and then pointed at Jack. ‘You know it’s at the post office? He’s had a pick-up slip for the thing the whole time. It’s been sitting at the fucking post office for days.’

  The Russian looked at Jack. Viktor Kablunak did not resemble Josef Stalin in the slightest, but his aura took on some of the menace and threat of the former dictator. ‘This I did not know.’

  Pascal frowned. ‘He’s had the fucking Sergius the whole fucking time?’

  ‘The whole time,’ said Larissa, with a mild version of glee.

  ‘It is funny, Mr Susko,’ said Kablunak. ‘Out of everybody, I think it was you that I trusted the most.’

  Jack shrugged. ‘I just wanted my book back, Viktor. Making the best of a bad situation.’

  ‘I understand. In fact, you show admirable qualities, Mr Susko.’

  ‘So, a nice exchange, Viktor? As we had originally planned?’ Jack was nervous but held it in as best he could. There was ten thousand dollars in his pocket. And if he could get his first edition back from the Russian, he might — even after all that had gone down — actually be up. Considering there were two bodies in the equation so far, that sounded pretty good to him. ‘The Bible for the Bond,’ he said.

  ‘How the world turns,’ said Kablunak. He spread his arms and looked around the gallery. ‘There we were. And now here we are.’

  ‘Crazy, isn’t it?’ said Larissa. She dropped the bloodied tissues onto the desk and reached into her handbag again. She rummaged around and then pulled something out. It was not a packet of fresh tissues. It was not a polka-dot handkerchief, either. Jack wondered how the hell she expected to blow her nose on it.

  ~

  33 ~

  LARISSA PULLED THE TRIGGER and the gun jumped up in her hand. The bullet hit Pascal in the leg and he went down as though somebody had suddenly chopped it out from under him. Rhonda screamed and stumbled backwards. Pascal dropped his gun and grimaced and moaned loudly, as though he was about to clean and jerk two tonnes for the world record. He curled up on the floor and grabbed his thigh with both hands. He was panting like a woman between contractions, and his face glowed red with pain.

  ‘Everybody against the back wall.’

  Kablunak stared grimly at Larissa. ‘If you have a brain, mademoiselle,’ he said, ‘I suggest that you use it.’

  ‘Move it, Viktor.’ Larissa took a single step towards him, gun high. ‘Don’t think I wouldn’t do it.’

  The Russian stared hard at her, his mood foul, his eyes murderous. Tense seconds passed. Then he nodded and put his hands in the air.

  ‘Now back it up. But not you, Jack. You stay right there.’ Christ. The side of Jack’s head throbbed. The back of it and the frontal-lobe area, too. He watched Kablunak and Rhonda move to the rear wall. Pascal swore in a constant stream. Larissa waved the gun. ‘Shut up. Sit.’ Everybody sat. She hurried over to the two guns lying on the floor near Pascal, and with her stockinged foot she kicked them under the sofa and then retreated to the desk again. Still holding the gun on her prisoners, she leaned down and slipped her heels back onto her feet, right foot then left. She did this one-handed, strapped them on with skill and speed.

  ‘Nice shoes,’ said Jack. ‘Not sure if they go with the bloody ear though.’

  ‘Everything goes with Manolo Blahnik.’ She straightened up. ‘Now, how about you hand that postal slip over?’

  ‘You’re still going to go for the Sergius?’

  Larissa held out an impatient hand. ‘Don’t make me shoot you.’

  ‘The post office isn’t even open.’ Jack glanced at his watch. ‘There’s still over an hour to go.’

  ‘Not your concern, Jackie-boy. Come on. I’m not going to ask you again.’ She lifted the gun a little higher.

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Jack held up the palms of his hands. ‘I’ve got to reach into my bag, is that all right?’

  Larissa nodded.

  ‘Think you’ll pass as a Jack at the counter?’

  ‘They never check the details with a pick-up slip.’ She smiled. ‘And if they do, I’ll just say I’m your wife.’

  ‘What about the missing piece of your ear?’

  ‘You bit it off making love to me.’

  ‘There’s blood all over your expensive jacket.’

  ‘You had to take me just as I was about to leave for work.’

  ‘Think they’ll believe you?’

  Larissa pointed the gun at Jack’s bag, hanging by his hip. She frowned and flicked her fringe with agitation. ‘Think you’ll go to heaven because you died over an old Bible, Jack?’

  He pulled his bag around and unbuckled the flap.

  Pascal groaned, holding his leg. He was still coming to terms with what was going on: ‘He had it the whole fucking time?’ Nobody responded. ‘Jesus Christ.’

  Jack reached into his bag. He fished around. Felt things at his fingertips.

  Pen.

  Bus ticket.

  Cigarette packet foil and plastic.

  An old lighter.

  Fuck.

  Another old lighter.

  Pencil.

  USB plug.

  Curls of lint in the corners and lining.

  No postal slip.

  Shit.

  … Kim?

  Oh shit.

  He did not panic immediately.

  Jack stared at Larissa Tate. He pulled his naked hand out of the bag. He held it up, looked
at it and turned it around a little, as though he was about to perform a card trick. When no ace appeared in his palm, Larissa frowned.

  Woe the lowly second-hand bookseller.

  ~

  34 ~

  LARISSA WAS ANNOYED AND IN A HURRY, so he gave her the abridged version. Kim plus she’s Shane’s flatmate plus I was there last night plus postal slip in the bag equals she’s got it. It took a moment and a half to sink in. Then Larissa said:

  ‘Fuck!’

  Jack wondered where the bullet would hit him. He summoned all his magical powers, like a spoon-bender, and concentrated on his little finger, pointing it away from his body. They could do wonders with flesh-coloured plastic these days. But the gun remained silent. Larissa nodded. She already had another plan.

  They locked Kablunak, Rhonda and Pascal in the windowless kitchen off the hallway at De Groot Galleries.

  Max was already there, stuffed into one of the cupboards by Pascal. He had used Max’s leather belt to secure the doors, slotted it through two handles and done it up tight. Pascal now tied a couple of tea towels around his leg to staunch the blood flow. Larissa had Jack strip everybody of mobile phones and keys. Rhonda swore and threatened and sobbed in between. Kablunak merely stared at Jack, his face serious, his eyes like tracer lights on a loaded gun: letting Jack know that what was happening was not good. That there would be repercussions. As Jack closed the door, he frowned and gave the Russian a look in return: what the hell do you want me to do? and left it at that.

  Larissa found the first-aid kit in the storeroom and Jack cleaned her wound and stuck a band-aid on her ear while she kept the gun pointed at him: she was sitting down and made sure it was his balls that were in the firing line. For all the blood, it was just a small nick. Lucky Larissa. Jack wondered if she had used up her supplies. More worrying, though, were his own meagre reserves. The fuel warning light was flashing on his karma dashboard.

  After that, she pulled the phone line out of the wall and tucked the phone under her arm and locked Jack in the storeroom. ‘Just wait,’ she said. Two, maybe three minutes later, she let him out again. Larissa had opened one of the suitcases and changed her bloodied clothes: now she was in tight jeans, a white long-sleeved T-shirt, and a pair of brown Campers.

  ‘Getaway clothes?’

  ‘Something like that.’ She was hardly listening.

  ‘What about a mask?’

  ‘Shut up.’

  She made him carry the two suitcases downstairs to the car park. The Maserati was two spaces along from the BMW. Larissa pointed the remote entry on her key ring and pressed the button. The BMW flashed its hazard lights.

  ‘What’s the time?’ she asked.

  Jack put one of the suitcases down beside the Beamer and looked at his watch. ‘Nearly eight-thirty.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘You know she’s probably already there, waiting. Having a coffee and a muffin, watching the time at her leisure. And we’ve got peak hour. Whichever way you take.’

  ‘We’ll get there.’ Larissa tossed him the car keys. ‘Put those in the boot, then you drive.’

  Jack stowed the suitcases then climbed into the driver’s seat, Larissa waiting with the gun trained on him until he was strapped in and then got in herself. The car smelt of her perfume, and of plastic and leather newness, and of the yellow, flower-shaped deodoriser clipped to the ventilation louvres on the central console. Jack remembered the Toyota. Fruits-of-the-goddamn-forest.

  ‘Careful over the ramp,’ she said. ‘It scrapes the rear.’

  ‘And you’re worried about that now?’

  ‘Just watch it.’

  Jack kicked the motor. He adjusted the driver’s seat, sliding it back electronically. He checked and adjusted the mirrors and then drove slowly out of the car park. It had been a while since he used to drive the baddies around. He turned down Moncur Street, then left off the roundabout into Hargrave, straight through to Gurner and then took another left onto Glenmore Road.

  ‘You think Oxford Street is wise?’ asked Larissa, voice edgy and irritated.

  ‘Compared to what?’

  ‘Jesus.’ Larissa shook her head, looking through the windscreen. ‘I’m not going to miss the fucking traffic in this town, that’s for sure.’

  The rain thrummed the car. It was getting hot inside with all the breathing and the adrenaline and the windows were fogging up. Jack got the demist going, front and rear, and set a little air blowing.

  ‘So where are you headed? You already got a ticket booked?’

  Larissa flicked her hair, distracted. ‘When you’ve got cash, Jack, you’ve always got a ticket booked.’ She combed her fringe with her fingers. ‘And to think I might have been taking you with me.’

  ‘I love Sydney too much.’

  ‘You love scraping a living in ones and twos? Living alone with a cat? Driving a Toyota?’

  ‘I don’t have the Toyota anymore. And I only get ones. And leave Lois out of it.’

  ‘It’s your life.’

  He glanced at the weapon in her hand: for the moment, Jack’s life was technically hers. He pointed at the gun. ‘What are you going to do with that thing when we get there? Take it into the post office?’

  ‘If I have to. Just get us there.’

  ‘You don’t even need me. You can give them your wife story.’

  ‘Quicker if you flash your ID. I don’t want to get into an argument with anybody, waste my time. Nobody speaks fucking English there anymore, either.’

  ‘Look at the time, Larissa. Look at the traffic. It’s not going to happen.’

  ‘Just fucking drive.’

  He drove. The world was all blurred wet light. It was difficult to see too far ahead. They crawled down Oxford Street.

  Jack said: ‘You don’t seem too interested in Kim?’

  ‘Why? Is she interesting?’ Larissa’s tone was firm and dismissive.

  ‘Well, she’s swiped a three-point-four-million-dollar treasure from under everybody’s nose. I’d say that makes her pretty interesting.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘What do you want me to say? I’ve only met the bitch a couple of times. And now she’s going to regret it.’ She motioned with the gun. ‘Drive faster.’

  ~

  35 ~

  JACK SAW KIM FIRST. On the corner of York and Market streets, where the post office was situated in the arcade below street level. Shiny black raincoat, red tartan-patterned umbrella, red tartan-patterned miniskirt, black ankle boots. There was a package under her arm — and parked next to her, a medium-sized red wheelie suitcase with the arm extended up into the air. She was watching for a cab, but the only thing moving with any consistent pace in the city right now were umbrella-wielding pedestrians, and the monorail splashing everybody with more water from above.

  Jack was on Market Street, in the middle lane. He glanced at Kim and said nothing. The lights turned green. The traffic moved up slowly.

  ‘Can you see her?’ asked Larissa, her voice tight with frustration.

  ‘No.’

  ‘We need to park somewhere.’

  Jack was sweating, trying to keep an eye on Kim, and watching the brakelights flash on and off on the car in front, and willing the river of traffic to move, to pull them out of there and away down the hill. Larissa was turned to the driver’s side, one leg bent and up on the seat, trying to see through the half-fogged windows. Ducking her head, looking around, left and right, up the street and down, desperate. She frowned at the rain and the blur and the fucking traffic. Then she put an arm on Jack’s shoulder and leaned into him, hard.

  ‘There she is! Quick, pull over!’

  Jack looked at Larissa, hands on the steering wheel. The traffic going nowhere. She stuck the gun into his belly. ‘Pull over, Jack.’

  ‘I’m trying.’

  The traffic surged forward about ten metres and then Jack was past the QVB, almost across from where he had seen Kim. Susko Books was ju
st down on his left, at the end of York Street. Home. The traffic halted. Horns blared. He swung the BMW into the next lane and pulled up. More horns blared: then a taxi stopped right on his tail and flicked its hazard lights on and in the rear-view mirror Jack saw a couple of umbrellas lean in towards it. Larissa was yelling at him, desperate now, ‘Come on! Let’s go!’, and she already had her leg out of the door, into the loud wet city, her Campers being rushed by the water in the gutter. Jack searched for Kim through the window, but could not see her anymore.

  Larissa was out on the street now, looking over the roof, stepping up into the car with one foot and stretching for height, holding on to the edge of the open door, rain streaming over her and into the car. Then Jack heard a thud, a fist, or maybe the gun, hitting the roof. He was looking over at the corner, trying to see, taking snapshots in his mind with each gap in the traffic, searching for Kim with her tartan umbrella, straining through the sheeting rain and willing the stream of cowering pedestrians to get out of the way.

  Then he saw. She was gone.

  ~

  36 ~

  LARISSA JUMPED BACK INTO THE CAR and slammed the door.

  ‘She got into a fucking cab! Come on, let’s go. Airport.’

  The lights changed on the intersection and a crossing button on a pole nearby started to tick, the sound padded and flatulent like a toy machine-gun, and people spilled onto the street, surrounding the BMW in a small sea of bank-logo umbrellas.

  ‘Move, Jack!’

  ‘You want me to run people over?’

  The work-rush splashed on: nobody looked into the car as they walked past, nobody saw the beautiful girl with the gun in her hand. Everyday life streamed by. Heads were down, eyes trained on the puddles in the street.

  Larissa was shaking her head, anger welling freely as she scowled at the people passing the car.

  Jack had his hand on the door, ready to pop it and run.