Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [56]
MacAllister shrugged his shoulders. ‘Maybe he’s one of those guys who bottles things up.’
Jack shook his head. ‘Kasprowicz had already taken his brother to the cleaners over the family money, you told me that. And that was years ago. I was hoping Kass was going to give me a hint about where things stood with rich brother Hammond now.’
Roadwork machinery stood abandoned beside the highway, parked unevenly near newly laid asphalt and between large sections of concrete pipe. Loose gravel bounced up into the wheel arches.
MacAllister slowed and leaned forward in his seat, concentrating like a pensioner. ‘You think the shooting’s got something to do with the whole book burning thing?’
‘Maybe.’
‘I don’t know,’ said MacAllister, doubtfully. ‘This is a big city. All sorts of things happen.’
Jack stretched a little in his seat, felt an itchiness around his stitches. He wondered if he should tell MacAllister. ‘Yeah, but think about it. Kass was at the kitchen table working on his couplets when he got it in the head. From behind. Then Durst is suddenly there and he shoots the killer almost immediately after Kass gets it. Sound like a burglary gone terribly wrong?’
‘I’ve heard stranger things.’ MacAllister watched a car pass them. ‘What did the police say?’
‘Nothing. They’re too busy following wrong leads.’
‘What do you mean?’
Jack sucked in a deep breath. ‘One of the detectives found out I used to work for Ziggy Brandt.’ It was a touchy subject: he had left MacAllister’s to work for Brandt.
‘I told you not to take that fucking job!’
‘Doesn’t matter now.’
‘It always matters with the cops.’ MacAllister rubbed his beard vigorously. ‘Always will. Permanently on the books now. I told you that. Suspicious by association.’
‘Not that old record. You’re worse than the fucking cops.’ Jack had not meant it to sound like that. He loved the guy, but the truth was different engines drove them. MacAllister stuck to the straight line and Jack liked to change lanes.
‘How old are you?’ MacAllister frowned. ‘Fifteen?’
Jack ignored him.
‘Don’t be an idiot. The police are probably talking to Kasprowicz about the burnt books right now. Then they’ll be back to talk to you again ’cause they’ll want to know why you withheld stuff. Why, what, when, over and over, because they won’t believe anything you say until you’ve said it fifty times. And then they’ll arrest you for being a smart-arse. Just like last time. You already know the drill.’
‘Yeah, I know it.’
Brendan MacAllister raised his voice. ‘Why the hell did you have to visit Kass? What’s it got to do with you if Kasprowicz is burning the books? The whole thing is none of your business. Soon as you found out you should have quit. Kasprowicz probably is burning the fucking books!’
Jack stared out of the window.
MacAllister glanced at him. ‘Listen, you might want to start using that grey pulpy shit in your head. Don’t get involved with these people. No matter what you think, you’ve got no idea what’s going on. Like you said, Durst was at the fucking apartment and shot the guy. He was probably there because he’s fucking Kass’s daughter. Who knows what else? And what if the shooting wasn’t a coincidence, like you said? All the possible scenarios look crap to me.’ MacAllister eased off the accelerator a little. ‘They live in another world, Jack. You should know that after working for Ziggy Brandt. I’m not helping you out of another fucking mess.’
Jack pulled out a cigarette and played with it. Outside, cars streamed through heavier rain — their rear lights blurred and dimmed, then were swallowed by the downpour.
‘The guy who shot Kass was the same guy who stabbed me.’
MacAllister grimaced as though somebody had twisted his arm.
‘Last Monday night somebody broke into the shop,’ continued Jack. ‘I walked in on the guy and he pulled a knife. Same guy. Not bad, huh?’
‘Jesus.’
‘He tried to light a little bonfire of Kass’s books in my rubbish bin.’
MacAllister