Death by the Book (3 page)

Kasprowicz walked around and stood behind Jack. ‘Here you are, Mr Susko.’

Jack extinguished his cigarette in the cut-glass ashtray before him and stood up.

Kasprowicz handed him a small white envelope. ‘Maybe you could let me know in a week or two how it’s all going.’

‘Of course.’

‘Goodbye.’

There was no handshaking. Kasprowicz walked off and left Jack to find his own way out.

He lingered a few seconds, looking about him. The house was silent: it felt suddenly empty and solemn, like a weekday church. Jack’s gaze caught the photograph of Mrs Hammond Kasprowicz, on top of the piano. He stared at it a moment. For some reason, he thought that she would not have liked him.
Whatever, lady. That’s fine.
Jack smiled and winked at her as he left.
I wouldn’t have liked you either.

Outside the sky was still blue but the air was cooler. Jack paused to wind his scarf on. Then he checked the contents of the small white envelope and slipped it into his inside coat pocket. He tried not to spend it too quickly in his head, but half was gone before he knew it.

A white BMW with a rusty scratch in its bonnet pulled into the drive and a young woman got out. She stood beside the car a moment, talking to the driver through the window. Jack guessed it was Annabelle’s daughter. He walked slowly towards her.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell her anything,’ the teenager said. She crossed her arms and shook her head. Her voice was whiny and her manner insolent. She looked about eighteen or nineteen. Annabelle must have been young when she had her. The girl wore a short denim skirt revealing too much leg and a white sleeveless top that revealed too much of everything else. There was a faded denim jacket in her hand. Obviously she did not feel the cold.

Bracelets jingled up and down her arms as she continued to speak. ‘All right, all right! I said I wouldn’t, didn’t I? God!’
She leaned over and gave a reluctant kiss to the driver. Then she marched down the driveway, her ponytail bouncing with fury.

She stopped in front of Jack. ‘Who are you?’ she snapped.

‘I’m the gas man.’

She eyed him suspiciously. ‘Who let you in?’

Jack saw Annabelle in the girl’s eyes and in the shape of her forehead and chin. In fact, her whole face was her mother’s. The body was almost there, too. Whatever her father had passed on had merely held the door open.

‘Your grandfather asked me over for a drink,’ said Jack. ‘Louisa, isn’t it?’

Annabelle’s daughter scoffed and walked off without a word. Jack grinned. They taught them young in Double Bay.

The BMW began to back out of the drive. Jack caught a glimpse of the driver before his window wound up. He could not place the man there and then, but was sure he had seen him somewhere before. He thought about it for a moment, but nothing clicked. He struck a match and cupped his hands and lit his cigarette. Then he started off down the road. The scotch burnt in his stomach and he decided to buy himself a good meal. He tapped the envelope in his pocket. It was making him feel warm all over.

2

I
T WAS 9.00 A.M.
Still an hour before Susko Books opened for trade. Down the front steps Jack saw somebody was already waiting for him. The man was standing beside a box that looked big enough to accommodate a bar fridge. No doubt the guy thought he was sitting on a small fortune in rare books. The early birds always did.

‘Morning!’

Jack nodded hello. He slipped the key into the front door. ‘We actually open at ten,’ he said.

‘Oh.’ The guy looked lost for a moment. He was in his seventies, built small and thin, looked about as heavy as a copy of
War and Peace
. The skin on his face was like rice paper, and he had blotchy cheeks and a long nose. His hair
was white and oily and all short back and sides. He wore a grey parka and a red flannelette shirt, buttoned to the neck and tucked into light blue slacks pulled up high and belted tight. There was no way a draught was going to get anywhere near this boy’s kidneys.

The old guy patted his box. ‘Any chance you can take a look? You see my son dropped me off in the car, and …’ His wet eyes pleaded. Then he smiled, changed his mind and decided to tempt rather than beg. ‘Got some real beauties in here!’

Jack knew he was going to let him in. Though on the outside he might appear cool, the second-hand book dealer could never resist a box of books. The chance of that rare, elusive first edition, worth three grand, picked up for three bucks. It was a curse.

‘Come in,’ said Jack.

‘I’ll just need a hand, if you don’t mind … ’

Jack walked across to the counter and put his coffee down. Maybe there was an Edward Kass or two in there? He helped the man drag the box over. It weighed a ton. Jack had a look inside.

‘What do you reckon?’

All Jack could see were copies of
Reader’s Digest
. ‘Is your son picking you up again in the car?’

‘Eh?’

‘I don’t buy magazines.’

‘Oh.’ The old man’s hand went to his chin. Then he reached into the box and began to pull the copies of
Reader’s Digest
out. ‘Hang on, there’s books in here, too! My wife packed the bloody thing, you just can’t see them. Take a look!’

Soon they were piled over the concrete floor of Susko Books. Reluctantly, Jack crouched down and went through them: rejects on the right, offers on the left. Most went on the right. But he did manage to find a few things worth keeping: half-a-dozen Beatrix Potter books; a hardcover book on embroidery; a 1982 edition of the
Macquarie Dictionary of Australian Quotations
;
Gemstones of the World
by Walter Schumann;
Let’s Speak French
by The Commonwealth Office of Education, Sydney; Patrick O’Brien’s
Picasso
;
The Eye of the Storm
by Patrick White; a 1982 edition of the
Collins English Dictionary
;
Foucault’s Pendulum
by Umberto Eco; and
The Complete Book of Flower Preservation
by Geneal Condon.

‘Forty dollars,’ said Jack.

It was clear from the look on the old man’s face that this was not the amount he had confidently predicted to his wife and son.

‘What about the rest?’

‘Sorry. Can’t use it.’

‘Not at all?’

Jack shook his head. ‘Not if you gave it to me for free.’

‘I just can’t believe it.’

They never could. And they always took it personally, as though Jack were passing judgement on what they had chosen to read. He supposed he was. It was one of the few perks of the job. But it was just a small God complex, nothing too serious. It did not affect the fate of nations.

‘I can give you a hand up the stairs if you want.’

Jack locked the front door and pulled the
Yellow Pages
out from a dented, grey filing cabinet behind the counter. Apart from the shelving, the only other furniture in the shop included a cheap pinewood chair, a small trestle table that served as a desk, a set of drawers tucked in underneath, and a tall free-standing lamp that he had inherited from the last business that occupied the premises. ‘Antique World’ had not lasted long and in the end made a quick, overnight exit, leaving a good portion of rent unpaid. Jack moved in cheaply because nobody wanted basement premises in the city: apart from porn operators, who did not rely on display windows so much for their trade. But ‘Serious Titillation’ was already there, and had been for years, right above the basement site. With its bright yellow sign and bright yellow façade, it deflected a lot of attention away from Susko Books. But that was okay. On some days there was a little bit of flow-on traffic. Always the odd customer who came in accidentally and was convinced to buy a copy of
The Story of O
.

Jack flipped through the
Yellow Pages
until he got to
Books — Secondhand &/or Antiquarian
. He dropped a pen into the spine. He figured he would let his fingers do the walking. This was going to be the easiest money he had ever made.

The phone on the counter began to ring. Jack drank some coffee before answering.

‘Susko Books.’

‘Yeah, I was wondering if you had a copy of a particular book.’

‘What’s the title?’

‘It’s by a guy called Edward Kass.’

‘Kass?’

‘Yeah. Got anything by him?’

Jack sipped his coffee again. It was a little too early for coincidences. ‘Not sure,’ he said. ‘Let me check.’ He held the phone for half a minute. Then: ‘Is that K, A, double S?’

‘Yeah, that’s right. I’ll take everything you got.’

‘Hang on.’

Jack put the phone down. He drank some more coffee. He did not feel so good. Kasprowicz might have twenty people out there working for him, all over the country. It was clear the old man did not play tiddlywinks.

‘I’ve got two Edward Kass books,’ said Jack. ‘A couple of copies of
Simply Even
. Want me to hold them for you?’

‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’

‘No problem. What’s the name?’

There was a spilt-second pause. ‘Steve.’

‘Surname?’

‘What do you want that for?’

Jack grinned. ‘Got a phone number?’

‘I said I’d be there in half an hour.’

‘No worries.’ Jack glanced at the clock on the wall behind him. ‘So you’re a fan of this Kass then?’

Another pause. ‘They’re not for me.’

‘Oh. Present for someone?’

‘Yeah, that’s it, a present. For my niece. She reads a lot.’

‘That’s great. Why does she need two copies of the same book?’

A couple of moments rowed by. ‘I got
two
nieces,’ the man said. ‘Twins.’

‘That’s nice, Uncle Steve,’ said Jack. ‘The books are one hundred dollars each.’

‘A hundred bucks! You’re joking.’

‘Don’t waste a trip down if you don’t believe me.’

‘Yeah? Well, fuck you then.’ The man hung up.

Jack finished his coffee. So others were out there, snatching at Kasprowicz’s fifty-dollar bills. He needed to find thirteen more copies if he was to keep his advance. Maybe it was not going to be as easy as he first thought.

The old guy really wanted those books. Jack knew collectors could be eccentric, obsessed and sometimes plain crazy, but Kasprowicz was not any of these. He was calm and sure of himself. He was a man used to the driver’s seat. And he knew which way the numbers went, like an abacus. So what was it with this Edward Kass?

The sun was low, hidden behind the city’s cold steel buildings. So far it had been the warmest winter on record, but that was over now. Today something had shifted. Though it was bright and clear and dry, everything was as sharp as broken glass. The wind blew, cold enough to snap-freeze a two-year-old’s runny nose.

Jack stepped on his cigarette. The rear door at Susko Books opened onto Market Row, a narrow lane just wide enough for council garbage trucks to pass. Jack could smoke there with the door open and still see into the shop. A small alcove shielded him from rain and wind. Some mornings he found people asleep there. Often he had to sweep syringes away, or move old blankets and cardboard boxes so that he could open the door. This morning there was a twisted-up wire coathanger on the ground. Somebody must have tried their luck at free parking. Somebody else must have tried their luck for a free car. Lots happened down narrow city lanes at night.

Jack was thinking about places where he could not afford to live. Houses he could not afford to buy. Annabelle Kasprowicz. But too much thinking was not healthy. Especially when it had nothing to do with nothing. It deserved a government health warning. Jack went back inside and locked the door.

He made a few calls. None of the people he spoke with took much notice of his request for books by Edward Kass. Most just said,
Come and have a look, I wouldn’t have a clue what we had
. Maybe Kasprowicz had not hired too many more people after all? Maybe just one or two? Or maybe the phone call earlier had really been a coincidence? Either way, Jack decided to close the shop for a couple of hours and see what he could find. Fifty bucks was fifty bucks.

He began with the eastern suburbs. Kenneth Brown Bookseller, Surry Hills, was the first stop and a good start: one copy of
Entropy House
. Then Cassandra’s Pre-Loved Books, Darlinghurst: nothing. Phrase and Fable Book Basement, Woolloomooloo: nothing. Bentley’s Book Bonanza, Kings Cross: one copy of
The Cull
. Berlichingen Books, Paddington: nothing. Upstairs, Turn Left Books, Edgecliff: nothing. Numerous Editions, Bondi Junction: nothing. Peter’s Book Exchange, Bondi Junction: nothing. Rare Books and Music and Stuff, Randwick: nothing. Over three hours of his time, nearly thirty dollars in cab fares, and only two Edward Kass books and an eye-strain headache to show for it. Plus a greasy falafel roll he ate for lunch was taking its sweet goddamn time through his alimentary canal. Pick a good mood: Jack Susko was not in it.