Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [32]
Jack flicked the kettle on. He spooned some coffee into a plunger and then lit a cigarette. While the water boiled, he dialled Hammond Kasprowicz’s mobile number.
‘Yes?’
‘Hammond, how are you?’
‘Who is this?’
‘Jack Susko. Your employee of the month.’
There was a slight hesitation. Then, firmly: ‘Yes?’
‘Why am I searching for your brother’s books?’
‘Are you on drugs, Susko?’
‘Why would someone want to burn them?’
‘Listen here, I’m not going to —’
‘Hey!’ Jack shouted into the phone. Lois bolted into the lounge room. ‘I want you to listen very carefully.’ Jack was pacing around his tiny kitchen now. ‘Otherwise the next call you get’ll be the cops. Clear?’
Silence. Then: ‘Don’t threaten me, boy.’
‘Don’t call me boy, grandpa. What d’you want with your brother’s books?’
Kasprowicz sighed, as he might at an annoying child. ‘I don’t see what business it is of yours.’ His voice was cool and precise. ‘Would you mind telling me what this is all about?’
Jack controlled himself. ‘Sure, I’ll tell you. Somebody broke into my shop last night, smashed a couple of things and then poked my guts with a knife. Just in case I needed to let off a little digestive gas. How’s that sound?’
Kasprowicz cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry if —’
‘Hold the concern, Hammond. I wouldn’t believe you anyway.’ Jack dragged on the cigarette. ‘Just before the knife said hello to my belly button, he tried to smoke up a couple of books in my rubbish bin. Poetry books, Hammond, by a certain Edward Kass. What do you think that’s all about?’
‘How would I know?’ Kasprowicz turned on his growling-bear tone again.
Jack grinned, running his fingers through his hair. ‘Okay,’ he said, his voice calm, resigned. ‘You can either tell me what the fuck’s going on, or, if you prefer, I’ll let Detective Peterson know exactly what the guy was doing and how it’s connected with you. And because it’s the cops, I’ll be sure to mention that the books he was trying to burn in my rubbish bin are the same books somebody is sending to your estranged brother, the morbid poet of Potts Point, also burnt and with nasty little messages attached to the parcels. Should I go on? Because I can.’
‘That won’t be necessary. Just a moment.’
Jack waited. He heard voices, disjointed words down the line.
Then Kasprowicz coughed and said: ‘This afternoon is impossible, I’m extremely busy. But I can give you twenty minutes tomorrow. At the house. One o’clock.’
‘What’s wrong with right now?’
‘I’m a busy man, Mr Susko, or didn’t you hear me? And I’d prefer not to discuss the matter over the phone.’
Kasprowicz’s voice sounded genuine.
Jack relented. ‘One o’clock.’
He went into the lounge room to select some music. Something bluesy and dark. Something mean. Something by the Stones, he decided. As Lois looked up from in front of the heater, the opening riffs of ‘Midnight Rambler’ strutted out of the speakers, smoky and round and full of intent. Lois yawned, flashing her sharp little fangs. Jack sat back in the Eames chair and put his feet on the coffee table. He smoked his cigarette. It was time for him to sharpen his fangs a little, too.
The scene of the crime: a drawer pulled out and emptied on the floor; shattered wineglass, busted mug, spilled pens and pencils; a few books tossed about, papers too, all content to stay where they lay. A stapler knocked from the counter was splayed like a broken jaw. Jack surveyed the damage and felt surprisingly calm. He walked slowly around the bookshelves: no other disruptions. The back door looked okay in the dim light and from a distance, but worse as he got closer. He frowned, bothered by the impending hassle and expense of getting it replaced.
He returned to his desk and picked up the phone. The dial tone told him a message was waiting. Chester Sinclair’s smarmy voice came through. Jack hung his head as he listened.
Mr Susko, taking another day off? Tsk tsk, you’ll be in the bankruptcy courts if you’re not careful.