Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [4]
‘It’s now two-thirty. I don’t like it when I’m kept waiting.’
‘Maybe I should leave?’ In Jack’s experience, the customer was always wrong.
Kasprowicz cough-laughed. He put his fist to his mouth and leaned forward. A little time passed before he resumed talking.
‘Very quick,’ he said. ‘I presume you’ve got my books?’
Jack held up the package and Kasprowicz motioned for it. Jack passed it to him and sat down in one of the Chesterfields opposite.
Kasprowicz began tearing the brown paper wrapping. His face brightened. ‘Ah, The Cull,’ he said. ‘And no fewer than three copies!’ He flicked through the pages with his soft, wrinkled fingers. The nails were long and yellow and Jack did not like looking at them. ‘What else have we got here, eh?’
Just then his daughter appeared in a doorway behind him. ‘Where’s Louisa?’ she asked. A cigarette burnt in her right hand. Her tone held the fresh menace of a first-round jab.
Kasprowicz stiffened. ‘Her father came for her.’
‘Fuck,’ she whispered, and left.
The old man looked at Jack. ‘Have you met my daughter, Annabelle? Wonderful girl.’ He went back to the books on his lap. ‘You’ve done well, Mr Susko. Three hundred dollars.’
‘Plus delivery.’
The old man screwed up his face, like he had stepped on a snail. His eyes narrowed and pushed out his awful eyebrows. ‘Would you be interested in more work?’
‘Sure. Depends what it is.’
‘I wouldn’t offer you anything too complicated. I’d just like you to find as many Edward Kass books for me as you possibly can.’ He clasped his ugly fingers over the books in his lap.
‘How many are there?’
‘Only the four titles I’ve requested. He was not prolific.’
‘No, I mean how many are there in the world?’
‘Not as many as you might think. You should know editions of poetry are never very large. But it would add up for you. I’m sure you need the money.’
Jack smiled and removed his scarf. He leaned forward and held it between his legs. ‘The world’s a big place, Mr Kasprowicz. Who knows where they’ve all ended up.’ But Jack was doing the sums in his head.
‘I doubt the world has seen them.’ Kasprowicz sat up and put the books and wrapping paper on a glass table beside him. ‘I’ve got all the publishing details, how many books were printed, where, when, all that. From memory, it’s only about four thousand copies.’
‘And you want all of them?’ asked Jack, raising an eyebrow. He was going to ask if the old man expected him to steal copies from the library.
Kasprowicz frowned. ‘Isn’t fifty dollars a copy worth it, Mr Susko? I can always find someone else, if you prefer.’
‘No, it’s worth it.’
‘Good. Cash okay?’ The old man gave a wry grin.
‘Eight days a week.’
Kasprowicz grabbed the arms of the chair and hauled himself up. A phone began to ring on a small desk. ‘Let’s do an advance,’ he said over the ringing. ‘To inspire application. I already owe you three-fifty so … let’s say a nice clean thousand to start.’ He walked over to the phone. ‘Cash.’ Hammond Kasprowicz smiled and put the receiver to his ear. ‘Hello?’
A thousand bucks. Not bad for a Wednesday afternoon. Jack was starting to like the old guy.
Kasprowicz raised his voice into the telephone. ‘Tony, we can’t have this. No. No … Oh, come on … That’s not a reason … I’m putting the phone down, Tony … Listen to me, Tony, I’m going to put the phone down …’
Annabelle walked in. She stood in a thin shaft of light from one of the windows. Jack could see dust somersault through the air around her, full of glee.
‘Would you like a drink, Mr Susko? My father has worked hard over the years to forget his manners.’
Kasprowicz slammed the receiver down, making Jack jump. The old man ignored his daughter as he walked past and out of the room. He paid even less attention to Jack.
Annabelle glared at her father. Jack heard a few knives whisper death through the air. Then she turned and smiled.
‘Scotch? Gin? I think I might have a G & T.’
‘Scotch, thanks. Neat.’
Annabelle made her way to a small metal-and-glass drinks stand and began pouring the drinks.