Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [15]
‘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