Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [33]
Jack hung up the phone, keeping his hand on the receiver. Fucking Chester Sinclair. But even as he shook his head in exasperation, Jack began flipping through the address book with his free hand. He picked up the phone again and dialled the number for Jack and the Bookstalk.
He tapped a pen impatiently against the counter. He wondered where the hell Sinclair had found a dozen Edward Kass books. The phone rang a few times before being answered.
‘Hello, Bookstalk.’
It was a female voice, young and bored.
‘Is Chester there?’
‘No.’
Jack closed his eyes. ‘Will he be back today?’
‘Maybe. I think.’
‘But you don’t know?’
Silence.
‘Okay, could you tell him that Jack called, please?’
‘Hang on, I think he’s just come in.’
Jack listened to muffled voices. The phone crackled, like it was being held against a chest. Then Jack could hear Chester swearing: ‘ … well for fuck’s sake, when can you work?’
The voice that had answered the phone trailed away. Jack could not make out what it was saying. ‘Hello?’ he said.
Chester’s voice, irate: ‘What?’
‘That’s nice. Do you train your staff in phone etiquette?’
‘Oh, it’s you. Jesus, fucking uni students! They’re all desperate for casual work but when you give them a job, they’re never available! Can’t work Tuesday afternoons. Okay, what about Wednesday? No. Thursday? Yeah, but only for twenty minutes in the morning. Great. Weekends? No. That’s when I wash my dog’s arsehole! Un-fucking-believable!’
‘Maybe it’s just you. Have you been using deodorant like I told you?’
‘Ha ha.’
‘What do you need a casual for anyway?’
‘I do have another life, Susko. Unlike yourself.’
‘Masturbation doesn’t count for another life,’ said Jack. ‘What else you got?’
Sinclair’s voice grew more irritated, grinding up through the gears like an eighteen-wheeler. ‘What have I got?’ he said, almost snarling down the phone. ‘About a dozen Edward Kass books that you want, muchacho. That’s what I got!’
‘Now, now. Just because the pretty uni students don’t want to sleep with the big fat boss is no reason to take it out on me.’
Chester sighed into the phone. ‘Do people hit you a lot, Susko?’
‘Of late, or just in general?’
‘Okay, whatever. I’ve got ’em, you want ’em. If you don’t want ’em, I know someone else who does. Comprende?’
Jack put a thumb in behind his belt buckle and carefully adjusted his jeans. It was time for another painkiller. ‘You learning Spanish, Sinclair? You need to work on your accent.’
Silence. ‘Twenty-five dollars each. And I’m not going to bargain. I’ve got a woman who’s willing to pay. I told her that I’d let her know today. Today’s getting old.’
‘A woman?’ Jack frowned. ‘What’s her name?’
‘That’d cost you another twenty-five bucks.’
Jack pressed a couple of fingers to his forehead and rubbed between his eyes in small, tight circles. Then he looked up at the damp-stained ceiling. ‘How about I take a guess,’ he said, getting a little steamed. He kicked a piece of broken mug on the floor. ‘Celia Mitten sound about right?’
No reply.
Jack asked in a stern voice: ‘When did you speak to her?’
‘She rang this morning. How did you know?’
‘You sent her to me, Einstein. Yesterday.’
‘Really? That was her? I didn’t recognise her voice.’ There was the sound of fingers drumming wood. Then in a sly voice, he asked: ‘What’s her story?’
Jack was not going to tell Chester she was Kass’s daughter. ‘Another fan,’ he said, vaguely.
‘Well then, so there’s more than one buyer out there,’ replied Chester, his haughty tone returning. ‘So it’s either you or her, Susko. What’s it going to be? The clock is ticking.’
Jack carefully straightened his back, feeling the bandage on his wound pull at his skin. With the pain came a reminder of the previous night. ‘Anyone else been interested?’
‘Only the phone call last week, some guy who didn’t leave a name. I already told you that.’
‘Yeah, you did.’ Jack scribbled in a corner of the address book.