Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [34]
‘I have my contacts. And it’s exactly eleven copies. That’s two hundred and seventy-five dollars.’
‘They better not have State Library of New South Wales stamped in them.’
‘I run a legitimate business, Susko. You’re the one who used to drive a criminal around.’
‘Careful I don’t ask him for a favour,’ said Jack, regretting he had ever mentioned Ziggy Brandt to Sinclair. ‘Where did you get them?’ he repeated.
Chester blew a raspberry into the phone. ‘Two hundred and seventy-five dollars.’
Jack dragged the phone along the counter and eased himself into a chair beside his desk. There was white powder all over it where the police had dusted for prints. He was careful not to get any on the sleeves of his jacket.
‘Two seventy-five is too rich,’ he said, calmly.
‘Don’t give me that crap! I told you, if you don’t want them, that’s fine by me. It’s non-negotiable. End of story.’
Jack had to be careful. Even Chester had his limits. ‘I don’t believe Celia Mitten would pay twenty-five per book, Sinclair,’ he said.
‘Oh, really?’
‘Yeah, really. If she were willing to pay you twenty-five, there’s no way you’d offer them to me at the same price.’
Chester grunted. ‘Maybe I like you,’ he offered, trying to regain some control. ‘Don’t waste your window of opportunity. There’s about sixty seconds left.’
‘I wouldn’t waste yours,’ replied Jack, smoothly. ‘Because you’re not getting twenty-five from me.’
Chester laughed. ‘No skin off my ball sack, Jack. I’ll get it out of our Miss Celia instead.’
Jack picked up a lighter and flicked a flame from it. He stared at it for a moment. ‘Did she say why she wanted them?’
‘Who cares?’
‘Right.’
‘Well?’ said Chester. ‘I’m waiting.’
‘Someone’s just come in, I’ll call you back, okay?’
‘Don’t make me wait, Susko. You can think what you like. I’m calling her at exactly five o’clock, Eastern Standard Time. It stands at twenty-five per book. You or her.’
Jack rubbed a pinch of police powder between his fingertips. Chester’s voice had lost some heat. ‘Let me think about it,’ said Jack.
‘Adios amigo.’
Jack took out his wallet and found Celia Mitten’s card. He checked her address. Reporting the damaged door to the insurance company could wait until tomorrow.
Jack caught a train from Town Hall to Kings Cross. Regardless of its newly paved footpaths and bronze historical plaques, the Cross still smelled of takeaway food and stale beer. He walked through, past the tired strip-show joints and bars, the souvenir shops and greasy-windowed liquor outlets, the McDonald’s where a guy stood out front and spilled the contents of a hamburger over the footpath as he tried to stick it in his mouth. Then past the fruit vendor who never had to worry about the homeless stealing his apples. He got to the chlorine-laced fountain and continued along Macleay Street.
Within twenty metres, everything changed: neighbouring Potts Point was the Manhattan of Sydney, or so the realestate guides said. Art-deco apartment blocks, delicatessens with twelve-dollar sandwiches, and flashy cars swinging out of underground parking. Lots of actors and film people around, too: the successful having their lunch, the struggling serving the macchiatos. Naked plane trees lined the length of Macleay Street, looking like up-ended roots washed of soil, unreal and majestic. As Jack walked, the wind picked up the odd browned leaf from a roof gutter and tossed it down, fluttering in gentle swirls across the street. Brass railings and doorknobs and marble entrances shone. Jack liked it. Pity all he could afford there was a walk.
Celia’s Crystal Palace was on the ground floor of the Macleay Regis building. It sparkled between an antique furniture shop and a florist. From across the road, Jack scanned the front window, bright with bracelets and earrings and tiaras. He could not see if anybody was inside. Jack hoped his visit was not going to be a waste of time. When he saw Ian Durst step out through the front door, he was pretty sure that was not going to be the case.
Jack watched Durst pull