Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [37]
‘Isn’t that two words, Detective?’ Jack closed the dictionary and spun it around, pushing it towards Peterson. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Ever used one of these before?’
The detective picked up the book and weighed it in his hand, swinging it gently up and down. He stared at the cover and nodded as though impressed. ‘How about two more words?’ he said. ‘Insurance and fraud. Reckon they’re in there as well?’
Jack noticed a customer glance over from the biography section. Cops were never good for business. Just like the past was never any good to the present.
Detective Peterson threw the book onto the counter. ‘Two thousand and four,’ he said, raising his voice. ‘An S-Class Mercedes Benz. Black and brand new. Nice car. Remember it?’
Jack remembered. It was the kind of car heavyweight German Chancellors got driven around in. Or Sydney bigwigs who liked a lot of leg room in the back seat. ‘No,’ he said.
Peterson put his hands in his pockets and looked around the shop. The polyester in his blue suit crackled with static electricity. He nodded at the customer in the biography section: the man quickly resumed reading the book in his hands.
‘Jerry can, bonfire, a certain Ziggy Brandt?’ said Peterson, casually, like he was reading a shopping list. ‘No?’
‘Movie or book?’
‘You were arrested, weren’t you, Jack?’ Peterson tilted his head and read the spines on a bookcase beside the counter. ‘Down in Watson’s Bay, wasn’t it?’
‘Nice place at the wrong time.’
‘Spent a night in the cells. Didn’t smell too good in there, did it?’
Jack crossed his arms and nodded at the dictionary. ‘I got a word for you. How about harassment? And then maybe you could look up lawyer.’
‘Just talking, aren’t we?’
‘The bullshit section is down the back.’
Detective Peterson scowled. He straightened up, stepped slowly to the counter. Then he reached over and flipped open the dictionary. He grinned as he ran a finger down the page. ‘Ziggy Brandt didn’t hesitate turning you over, eh? What’d you do, Jack? Try it on with his little girl?’
Jack shook his head. ‘I was acquitted of all charges, Geoff. Or didn’t you read that bit of the report? Got sleepy trying to concentrate on all the big words?’
Peterson smiled. ‘She was a looker, wasn’t she? Big tits, I remember. But daddy’s little girl in the end. Claudia? Yeah, that was it. Claudia Brandt.’
The front door opened and another customer came in, a middle-aged woman with spiky hair, pink-framed glasses and large earrings. She smiled at them both and began inspecting some books laid out on a table: the discount specials, nothing over five dollars.
‘I’d appreciate if you’d watch your language,’ said Jack.
The detective gave him a look the equivalent of an eye gouge. ‘Don’t think I believe what’s in that report, Susko. Nobody clean ever worked for Ziggy Brandt.’
Jack picked up his lighter, turned it around in his hand. Almost true: nobody stayed clean working for Ziggy Brandt. Being in his employ was a matter of how long you could go without taking a bath.
‘You must have heard some interesting things driving that prick around,’ added Peterson, almost jealously, glancing at the woman who had just walked in.
‘Yeah. All on tape, too. Shall we do a deal?’
Ziggy Brandt was a self-made man. He was short and dark and ugly. Among other things, a property developer. He began his career with a company that provided scaffolding for high-rise projects. Most of the scaffolding he had conveniently found while walking around the city late at night — just minding his own business. One scaffold pipe at a time and the odd insurance scam and up the ladder he went. By the time Jack got the job driving his Mercedes, he was worth a cool fifty mill. On the books, that is. He was generous with cash bonuses, but you had to be available around the clock. Jack was about to throw it in when he met the daughter. He stayed on. She was impressive. Did the odd underwear catalogue while she finished her law degree. Appreciated the finer things and