Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [50]
Annabelle continued to stare at him. ‘Did you tell the police?’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
Jack turned and watched Lois yawn. ‘Because I want to know who the hell he was working for.’ He thought he might feel better for telling Annabelle. Instead, a kind of nausea drifted through him.
‘You shouldn’t play games with the police.’
‘It’s how the world turns, isn’t it?’ said Jack, irritated. ‘Durst acted like he’d never seen me before.’
‘So what? He’d just shot a man! And he’s only seen you once.’ Annabelle thought about it: the effort pressed faint lines into the corners of her eyes. ‘What are you suggesting?’
‘Nothing,’ he snapped. Maybe he was thinking too much again. Maybe the connections were all just slipknots. Maybe soon enough they were going to cut off his circulation.
Annabelle went over and knelt in front of him. She cupped his face in her hands. They were warm, soft hands. ‘You look tired,’ she said.
‘I have to get ready for work.’
‘I’ll drive you. Does that give you more time?’
Jack looked into her eyes, grabbed a handful of hair at the nape of her neck. She was beautiful, crazy beautiful, and he clenched his jaw and tightened his grip around the glowing hair in his fist. ‘Time for what?’ he said.
Annabelle half closed her eyes. She rolled her head around in a small circle, slowly, while Jack pressed his fingers into her neck. A soft sigh parted her lips. Then she put her hands on his knees and pushed herself up. She tilted her hip a little and reached around her side. She began to untie the straps on her dress.
‘I didn’t have time for a shower this morning,’ she said. ‘I feel dirty. Do you mind?’
‘All I’ve got is a bath.’
Annabelle began to slip the dress off. ‘Better let the cat out then.’
The Concise Oxford English Dictionary was still on the counter at Susko Books where Jack had left it the day before. He put his bag down and stared at it. He put his hand on the front cover and thought about Annabelle Kasprowicz. Then he closed his eyes, flipped the book open and stabbed a finger at the page:
poignant/ • adj. 1 evoking a keen sense of sadness or regret. 2 archaic sharp or pungent in taste or smell.
Jack closed the OED and returned it to its place in the reference section. Next time he would try another book.
He turned on the heat, the lights, and slipped the float in the cash drawer. He took a bite of the croissant he had bought on the way into the city and drank from a small bottle of orange juice. The shelves needed dusting. The floor needed sweeping. Jack wondered how much it would cost to employ a regular cleaner. He thought about how much he would get stung for the rear door. He wondered how long the day was going to take getting to 5.00 p.m.
When the phone started ringing, he was sure it was the police. Worst-case scenario, it would be Peterson. He answered with a tight hello.
‘You going to pick these books up or what?’
It was Chester Sinclair. It was the first time Jack did not mind hearing his voice.
‘Mr Sinclair. And how are we this morning?’
‘Yeah, great. So when do I get my money?’
‘That’s wonderful. The wife, kids?’
‘Have you dropped a tab, Susko?’
‘Mum and dad?’
Chester paused. ‘Jesus.’
‘And how’s business?’
‘Two hundred and seventy-five dollars down. I’d like my money today. Now, fuck it.’
‘What’s the rush?’ said Jack. ‘Hot date and you need money for a nose job?’ He noticed the edginess in Sinclair’s voice.
‘The books you wanted are here. As agreed.’
‘And?’
‘Come, pay, leave.’
‘That’s not a sentence, Sinclair. There are laws, you know.’
‘Yeah, I know. They’ve already been here.’
‘What?’
‘I want nothing to do with it, so just come and get your books and that’s that. Man, I had a feeling about this deal in the first place.’
Jack watched somebody peek through the glass of the front door. They had a look and then walked back up the stairs. ‘Who’s been there?’ he asked.
‘The fucking police, that’s who!’
Jack let it sink in. ‘Why?’
‘Because your fucking poet’s been shot, that’s why. They were waiting