Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [17]
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.’
It threw him. A couple of seconds passed before he managed a squeaky, ‘Okay.’ What did she mean? He was already trying to remember her tone, but the words had faded too quickly. He waited for her to say something else, to give him a clue. She said nothing. The pause was pregnant with triplets.
‘Seven o’clock then?’ she said.
This time Jack was sure she was smiling.
6
OLD MAN TIME WAS A SMART-ARSE. You wanted it slow, he gave it fast. You wanted it fast, he gave it slow. Today, Jack wanted it fast. So Monday dragged like it had rolled an ankle.
By noon, Susko Books had seen just three people, not including Jack or his reflection in the front-door glass when he walked over and looked up the stairs at the street. Two pissed-off couriers came in asking for directions and a shoplifter tried to offload some books. It was the same guy he had seen the week before. A hard worker but not particularly bright. He stole the books from two doors down — a large retail bookshop called Index — and then walked straight over to Jack’s and tried to sell them. He even left the price stickers on, so that Jack could see he was getting a great deal. The man was wiry and wrinkled and looked like a sad old jockey with no horse left to ride. He had small, pale blue eyes that glistened like he had just swallowed a shot of cheap scotch. Body odour did not appear to bother him. There was a faded blue-grey tattoo of a small bird on the back of his right hand, between the base of his thumb and forefinger. He spoke quickly and in short bursts, in a thin voice like an old woman’s. The first time he came around, Jack felt sorry for the guy and gave him a few dollars for the books. It was a bad move: encouragement should be dispensed with caution, like painkillers. And so here he was again this afternoon. The latest haul: half-a-dozen paperbacks, all the latest releases,