Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [11]
Jack could not take anymore. He double-clicked one last reference. A black-and-white photograph appeared on the screen: Edward Kass, poet (b.1934). It was a grainy headshot, slightly out of focus. Kass wore a heavy, large-collared coat and a striped scarf. There was no date but it looked like a reject passport photo from the 1950s. He had a long rectangular face, the skin drawn drum-tight over bones that appeared to have been sculpted with a Stanley knife. His hair was receding and cut short. Kass might have been handsome from another angle but the photographer had not been able to find it. He had a strong straight nose and ears set low on his head. His eyes were cast down, sunk deep in the sockets and crowned with heavy brows that made them look bruised. His fleshy lips were parted as though he were about to say something to himself. The light caught him like grey rain from an Eastern European cloud. Sadness seemed to drizzle all over him.
Time might pass but Edward Kass would remain vulnerable forever, caught just like this. Jack was sorry for him. Never put your dukes down, even outside the ring. There was always somebody in the crowd ready with a king hit.
Below the photograph there was a list of publications and links to reviews in newspapers and literary journals. Biographical details repeated what Jack already knew. That was about it. Hammond Kasprowicz’s interest in the man remained a mystery. Jack was tempted to keep searching but had to get some food. He did not want his stomach rumbling in front of Annabelle Kasprowicz. He printed off the photograph and smoked another cigarette while he waited.
She was wearing a dark brown gypsy skirt and red leather cowboy boots. They were slightly worn, no doubt a favourite pair, purchased on an unforgettable trip to Mexico. The rest of her was kept warm by a coffee-bean cashmere turtleneck that did everything it could to draw attention to her physiology. There was not a straight line anywhere. Long red earrings flashed through her hair. She took off her sunglasses and pushed them into a large leather shoulder bag worth more than Jack’s architecture and design section when it was new. She was an hour and a half late but did not look like she was going to apologise.
‘It’s neat,’ she said as she looked around Susko Books.
‘I have tendencies.’
‘I see.’
She walked over to the counter and put her bag down. She looked around some more. Muddy Waters sang: You’re gonna need my help I said. Jack put his hands in his pockets. She smelt like cinnamon.
‘Are you cold?’ he asked.
‘No, not at all.’
‘My heating is on holiday.’
A smile came and went like a blink.
‘Far north Queensland,’ said Jack, hoping for more.
Her face remained serious. ‘Can you tell me what my father is paying you for, exactly?’
‘Want to grab some coffee? Tea? Smoked salmon bagel? There’s a nice café up the road.’
She shook her head. ‘I’d rather you answered my question.’
‘Why didn’t you just ask your father?’
‘My father …’ she began, but pulled herself up. She looked down at her boots. ‘I know he’s after some books by Edward Kass. Did he tell you why he wanted them?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Are you sure?’
Jack frowned. ‘I’m sure.’
‘I just thought that … he might have mentioned something. He didn’t say anything then?’
‘Why don’t you tell me something?’
Annabelle hesitated a moment. ‘It’s not the first time I’ve caught him buying Edward Kass books.’
‘Caught him?’
‘Discovered them in his possession.’
‘I didn’t know they were illegal.’
Annabelle looked away. Little Walter’s harmonica moaned. Muddy sang. Gonna need my help