Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [0]
the Book
Death by
the Book
LENNY BARTULIN
MINOTAUR BOOKS
A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK
NEW YORK
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.
DEATH BY THE BOOK. Copyright © 2008 by Lenny Bartulin. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.minotaurbooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bartulin, Lenny.
Death by the book / Lenny Bartulin. — 1st U.S. ed.
p. cm. — (“A Thomas Dunne book.”)
ISBN 978-0-312-55972-4
1. Booksellers and bookselling—Fiction. I. Title.
PR96619.4.B38D43 2010
823'.92—dc22
2009039811
First published as A Deadly Business in Australia by Scribe Publications
First U.S. Edition: January 2010
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Robert Gray
IT WAS PERFECTLY CLEAR TO HIM NOW, dangling in the wet tussock cleavage of a broad hill that slid towards the headland cliffs. Nothing like fresh air and imminent death to clarify things. Jack could see exactly when his life had begun to go downhill: it was that Wednesday afternoon a couple of weeks ago when he stepped off the bus in Double Bay. He had gone two stops past where he should have. A man susceptible to omens might have understood it as a warning. But Jack Susko thought it was his lucky day. Not having seen one for some time, it was an easy mistake to make.
The narrow ravine cut through the headland like an axe mark, straight down to the foot of the cliffs. A hundred metres below, Jack could hear waves smash into crags of rock and hiss over a coarse gravel beach. When he had slipped, the handcuffs had somehow tangled with a discarded piece of harness strap and the branches of a small tree. The strap must have come from one of the weekend hang-gliders; Jack had seen them run down the smooth hill before, watched them lift off with a slight dip and then curve out over the water like giant, lazy birds. It was a nice view up there, off the cliffs: a perfect spot for a romantic picnic. Somewhere to crack the champagne and propose marriage. All you needed was the right girl.
Jack craned his head up. ‘Hey, listen,’ he called out. ‘What do you say we get married? Right now? We could kidnap a priest and bring him back.’
She was standing three or four metres above him, looking down. Holding a gun. She held it casually by her side like a mobile phone. The morning sky was dark with rain clouds but clearing. Jack could just make out her face: pale and thin like watered-down milk. As though another burst of rain might wash her away.
Her gun hand came up slowly, empty eye down the barrel-sight. Her blank gaze fixed on something beyond him, way down in the blackness below. She was giving Jack the look, the one Ziggy Brandt had warned him about a long time ago.
They were in the big black Mercedes with the customised number plates: EASY. Jack at the wheel, suit and tie, but a little dark under the eyes. It was after three in the morning. Ziggy was stretched out in the back, legs spread wide. ‘You got to watch it, Jack, you got to watch that look,’ he said, voice on the edge of slurring after a few too many at his club in the Cross. ‘I call it the seven veils look. They’re looking at you, but nobody’s home. You know what I mean?’
Jack nodded into the rear-view mirror, half-listening. Ziggy brushed invisible crumbs from his Armani duds. ‘Be ready for that look, Jack. Nine times out of ten it’s followed by a fucking bullet.’ He laughed, then coughed. ‘The other time it’s either a knife or they push your eyeballs into your head with a hammer.’
The handcuffs were holding but Jack was reluctant to try pulling himself up. He moved a leg, feeling for a foothold. As he did, the gun went off. The bullet thudded into the ground near his shoulder. Grass and dirt stung his