Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [10]
‘You work here?’ he asked Jack.
‘No.’
Chester stood up. He put the Edward Kass books onto the counter. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked in a stern voice.
‘Have you got a philosophy section?’
Chester pointed toward the back of the shop. ‘Straight ahead, on your left. And what’s there is what I’ve got so don’t ask me for anything.’
‘Right.’ The kid gave a pained look and walked off, shaking his head.
‘Now, Mr Susko.’ Chester leaned on the counter and spread his grin to both cheeks. ‘You know, there was a guy in here yesterday asking for the very same author. Bit of a coincidence. I was tempted to sell, I have to tell you. A man’s got to eat. But it wouldn’t have been too professional of me, would it?’
‘Your integrity has always been impeccable.’
‘That’s what I wanted to hear.’ Chester picked up one of the books and flicked through the pages. Jack leaned on the counter with both elbows.
‘When you’re ready, Chester,’ he said, looking down at the scratches in the wood.
‘I’m thinking.’
‘Don’t hurt yourself.’
‘So who was this other guy then?’
Jack looked up and sighed and tried to look bored. ‘How the hell would I know?’
‘I can smell something that’s all.’ Chester scratched an armpit. ‘Why do you want ’em?’
‘I got a collector.’
‘What are you getting?’
‘Do you think I’m going to retire on the sale of four books of poetry? It’s not fucking Lolita, signed by Nabokov and dedicated to Graham Greene.’
Chester scratched his other armpit. ‘Ten bucks each.’
‘Come on, Sinclair. This isn’t Sotheby’s.’
‘Take it or leave it.’
‘Leave it,’ said Jack. He turned to go.
‘Thirty bucks for the lot.’
Jack pulled out his wallet. ‘Don’t spend it all on jelly beans.’
Back in the city, there was a note pushed in under the door of Susko Books. It was from Annabelle Kasprowicz.
I waited. Interesting concept of running a business. I’ll try tomorrow. 2pm.
It was all happening today. Jack held the note to his nose. Her pricey perfume was all over it. He folded the note and put it in his coat pocket. Nothing like having something to look forward to.
3
ANOTHER COOL MORNING. On the bus people sat a little hunched over, sniffing and sneezing into tissues and handkerchiefs. In the city streets they pulled their collars up and leaned into the cold. The sky was clear but looked to be coming down with something: watery clouds soaked the horizon. Down by the Queen Victoria Building, a homeless man had found a sunny spot and pulled his trouser legs up, as though he were working on a tan. He had no shoes, his ankles were swollen and he was as grimy as diesel exhaust. Jack dropped a couple of dollars in his paper cup. The authorities said not to give the homeless money because they only spent it on booze. Better than Jack taking the guy home and giving him a bath.
Susko Books was an icebox. Being underground kept it cool in summer, but winter was a whole other disaster. Two fan-forced heaters made as much difference as striking a match. The best Jack could do was play a little smoky jazz or blues on the stereo and hope the shop at least sounded warmer. Miles Davis and Muddy Waters had worked overtime this winter. No doubt they would soon ask for a raise.
It was 10.30 a.m. Jack had placed one of the heaters behind the counter and he sat beside it, pretending he was warm. He was on the net, doing a search on Edward Kass. He was trying hard not to think too much about Annabelle Kasprowicz and their afternoon rendezvous. He was not doing a very good job. Even a monkey could tell she was only coming to see Jack because of her father, but this did not prevent fantastic thoughts rising in his mind. Every time he entertained the idea that she had a thing for him, he had to step outside and smoke a cigarette and talk himself out of it. The cigarettes had not helped his nervous stomach. And now the net was inducing its own brand of nausea.
There were over 382,000 references to Edward Kass. So far, none were about the poet. He found an Edward Kass who had written a comparative empirical analysis of theoretical