Death by the Book (6 page)

‘Know him well?’

‘Used to be a regular. World War II stuff. Especially keen on anything Nazi. Funny, being Jewish, family run out of Poland, all that. Sold him some diaries by an SS man last year. Didn’t even want to bargain.’

Jack tapped the counter with the edge of an envelope. ‘What do you know about his brother, Edward Kass?’

MacAllister slurped some coffee. ‘Renowned poet. Recluse. Broke. And judging by his poetry, pretty pissed off about it.’

‘Money the family rift then?’

‘The perennial rich bastards’ classic. Back in the seventies Edward took big brother Hammond to court over the family millions. He didn’t get any.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Plus zero. You know mamma and papa Kasprowicz actually used to live in the same street as my parents, back in the fifties.’

‘Anything else, apart from the court case?’

‘A few days after the trial, Kass assaulted Kasprowicz with a fucking lamp. Hammond had to go to hospital, I don’t know, stitches to the head, concussion, that sort of thing. And Kass got a suspended sentence. Aggravated assault or something. Or did I get that from the television?’

‘Nice family.’ Jack picked up a pen and started doodling on the back of the envelope. ‘And now, years later, Kasprowicz is after as many copies of his brother’s books as he can get his hands on.’

‘That’s what he’s after?’

‘Yep.’

MacAllister scoffed. ‘The rich are weird.’ He drank more coffee. ‘Is he paying well? Just take his money and don’t worry about it too much.’

Jack coloured in a rectangle but went over the edge and had to turn it into a square. ‘Something else,’ he said. ‘What can you tell me about Ian Durst?’

‘The famous gynaecologist? Jesus, you’re right in there, aren’t you?’

‘I remember he got done for something last year.’

‘You know he’s Annabelle Kasprowicz’s husband, don’t you? Or ex, I’m not sure if they’re divorced.’

‘I don’t think she likes him anymore.’

‘Why would she?’ said MacAllister. ‘He’s the dirtiest dog in the pound.’

‘What happened?’

‘The usual. Champagne, cocaine, so and so’s perfect-breasted wife and her blonde best friend, the handsome doctor with hands the devil gave him in a special deal, and all after-hours in the surgery rooms. They’ve got those stirrups, you see.’

‘Nice.’

‘Beautiful. I’ve got some myself!’

Jack wrote
DURST
on the envelope and then scribbled it out. ‘The good doctor spent all day looking between rich women’s legs,’ he said. ‘Maybe in the end it just drove him a little crazy.’

‘Having too much fun. And you know what happens when you have too much fun.’ MacAllister switched to a Scottish accent again. ‘My dear old mother used to say,
Where laughter starts, tears are sure to follow
.’

‘What was the scandal?’

‘Well, they were having so much fun they stopped thinking altogether. They threw the colours in with the whites and suddenly everything turned grey,’ said MacAllister. ‘Where there’s sex and drugs, there’s always money. Seems the blonde knew a banker who knew a lawyer who knew the wife of a CEO who bought some shares and made some quick dividends. Too quick.’

‘Patience is a virtue.’

‘The whole thing was bent like a giant banana. And it all came out because a monkey called Durst got caught in a cubicle bending over a high-heeled babe with a hundred-dollar roll up her nose and his smooth hand down her pants. And then they all had none.’

‘Anyone else get into trouble?’

‘Businessmen are allowed to play, but not doctors. Durst was the only one who ended up with none. And he’d actually made his money from working. The rest couldn’t lose it if they dropped it out of a plane over the Pacific Ocean in a hurricane.’

‘Money clings to them like a birthmark.’

‘Yeah, and they’ve always got one the size of a frying pan. Mine’s in my crack and you can’t see it with the naked eye.’ MacAllister sighed. ‘You know I met Durst once. Real arrogant bastard, all slicked-back hair, aftershave and perfect teeth.’

‘What was he after?’

‘Gift for his wife. Anniversary, I think. Kasprowicz must have suggested it because he had no idea.’

‘Did he buy anything?’

‘Yeah, a copy of
The Great Gatsby
. It was the only title he
recognised out of my first editions. He said, oh yeah, Robert Redford wrote this. For fuck’s sake!’

‘Now, now, Brendan,’ said Jack. ‘Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope.’

‘According to Fitzgerald.’ The telephone brushed against his beard and the sound was like radio static. ‘Not a bad little copy though,’ he said wistfully. ‘British first edition from Chatto & Windus. Okay, the dust jacket was average and the book was a bit rough round the edges, but nice for two and a half grand.’

‘Thanks. You always know the good stuff. You should write a book.’

‘Twenty-five years serving the rich and bored, my friend. This is nothing. Run-of-the-mill scandal. There’s much, much more. If I wrote it all down it’d be longer than the
Encyclopaedia Britannica
.’

5

J
ACK SPENT MOST OF
S
UNDAY AFTERNOON
in a small, musty attic room in Balmain, all spider webs and dust and dejected cardboard boxes. The deceased estate: another feature of the second-hand dealer’s lot. Looking through dead people’s crap, driven by the slim possibility of finding something of value.

The final haul was meagre: a small box of literary pretension from the 1950s and 1960s.
Man and His Symbols
by Jung; John Barthes’
Giles Goat Boy
and
The Sotweed Factor
; the trilogy
Nexus
,
Sexus
and
Plexus
by Henry Miller; Camus’
The Myth of Sisyphus
and Simone de Beauvoir’s
The Mandarins
;
The Unquiet Grave
by Palinurus; and
Meetings with Remarkable Men
by G.I. Gurdjieff.

There was an elaborate bookplate with a striped coat of arms inside the front cover of each volume:
From the Library of Harold J. Cummins
. Obviously Harry had been all class. The books were in excellent condition. Jack wondered if he had ever actually read any of them.

Only one little volume really interested him. It was the last book he found, right at the bottom of a crumpled cardboard box, squashed under the weight of a small horde of old literary journals and magazines. Jack supposed it was not too much of a coincidence. Because trawling books was what he did, because at any given time, with any box full of books, the odds were there. That Jack had met the author’s brother two days ago had nothing to do with nothing.

The front cover was dark blue. The title and the author’s name were in grey typeface. Below, in the bottom third of the cover, was a reproduction of Hundertwasser’s
Genesis — Pieces of Pineapple
. The strong yellows and greens seemed a little colourful for Kass. Almost humorous. It was the first copy of
Simply Even
that Jack had come across.

Inside, it was inscribed:
Dearest Harold, For all your help. With gratitude, Edward.

Jack directed the taxi straight over to Susko Books so that he could dump the box and not have to worry about lugging it there in the morning. The city was empty and spacious. A calm had settled along with the drizzle. It looked clean in the pearly afternoon light. This was how Jack liked it best. The city in winter. Red wine weather. He remembered there was a bottle of cheap Shiraz under the counter at the shop.

Apart from a few people waiting for buses, York Street was deserted. Jack got out of the taxi and took his box from the back seat. As he crossed the road he heard the flags on top of the Queen Victoria Building snapping in the wind, their cables ringing out against the poles like thin, erratic bells. He glanced at the Town Hall clock. Just after 4.00 p.m.

He opened the front door to Susko Books and stepped inside. The light was metallic, blue-grey, but soft too, regardless of the cold. Jack left the lights off. He put the box on the counter and switched on the heater by his desk. From a drawer he took out an aluminium ashtray and from under the counter the bottle of Shiraz.

He took the Edward Kass book from the box and pressed play on the stereo.
Sketches of Spain
drifted into the shop like a warm desert wind. It reminded Jack that he still had not read
Don Quixote
.

He sat down at his desk, poured wine into a glass and lit a cigarette. He opened
Simply Even
at random. Page 12.

GREEK TRAGEDY

Close me to your breast.

Soothe the broken rhythm

Of my heartbeat

That has reduced me to a wreck

Of ribs upon the rocks.

I can no longer grip

This oily chain

Of endless days.

My every sweetness

Is swirled away.

Jack brushed some ash from the page. He flipped through the book again. Page 36.

LINE THEORY

You slink away

adjusted

by a hammer blow.

A charred bud

marks your hand. Tomorrow

again

the wet day of your conception.

Remember, alive

you never leave

anything behind.

So much for the bright cover.

The phone rang. Jack put the book down, went to the counter and answered.

‘Susko Books.’

‘Jack?’

It was Annabelle Kasprowicz.

‘Speaking.’

‘Oh, it’s you. I wasn’t sure if anybody else worked there.’

Jack leaned against the counter. ‘Well, there’s Carlos,’ he said. ‘But he never answers the damn phone. I’m thinking about sending him back to Costa Rica.’

Annabelle Kasprowicz did not laugh but she might have smiled. ‘I tried your home but there was no answer.’

Jack swapped the receiver to his other ear. He glanced at the clock on the wall behind him. ‘What can I do for you at a quarter past four on a Sunday afternoon when I shouldn’t even be here?’

‘Are you closed?’

‘Only for the masses, Ms Kasprowicz.’

‘Please, call me Annabelle.’

‘Sure.’ Jack heard the click of a lighter and a quick sharp breath.

‘This is a bit awkward. But … well, I heard about what happened on Friday. After I left. I just wanted to apologise. Are you all right?’

Jack rubbed the edge of the counter with a thumb. Durst must have told her. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ he said.

‘Well, yes it was, sort of. You see —’ She pulled herself up. ‘Anyway, I’m sorry. I stormed out and didn’t even say goodbye.’

Jack tucked the phone into his chin and reached over for the glass of wine on the desk. ‘Bit of bad luck he saw you come in. That’s all.’

She did not reply. The line droned for a moment.

‘Unlucky coincidence.’

‘Yes,’ said Annabelle, as though she were talking to herself. Then she took a deep breath. ‘Our divorce comes through next month,’ she said, raising her voice a little. ‘The official end. Of course, he wants us to get back together.’

‘Right.’ Jack put the wineglass down and picked up his burning cigarette. He thought about Ian Durst. He pictured Annabelle Kasprowicz with Ian Durst. He said nothing.

‘Listen,’ she said, ‘I feel awful about what happened. I was hoping you might let me make it up to you. Lunch, tomorrow?’

‘Well, I do have this little business to run.’

‘Okay then, what about dinner?’

‘Sure.’

‘Here, about seven?’

‘At your place?’ The words came out too quickly.

‘Yes, unless you’d prefer somewhere else.’

‘No, that’s fine. I mean, whatever you like. You don’t have to go to any trouble.’

‘Don’t you think I can cook?’

Jack grinned. ‘I’ve got no idea.’

Annabelle blew smoke down the line. ‘My father won’t be here. He’s away. Business.’