Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [8]
‘I’ve got two Edward Kass books,’ said Jack. ‘A couple of copies of Simply Even. Want me to hold them for you?’
‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’
‘No problem. What’s the name?’
There was a spilt-second pause. ‘Steve.’
‘Surname?’
‘What do you want that for?’
Jack grinned. ‘Got a phone number?’
‘I said I’d be there in half an hour.’
‘No worries.’ Jack glanced at the clock on the wall behind him. ‘So you’re a fan of this Kass then?’
Another pause. ‘They’re not for me.’
‘Oh. Present for someone?’
‘Yeah, that’s it, a present. For my niece. She reads a lot.’
‘That’s great. Why does she need two copies of the same book?’
A couple of moments rowed by. ‘I got two nieces,’ the man said. ‘Twins.’
‘That’s nice, Uncle Steve,’ said Jack. ‘The books are one hundred dollars each.’
‘A hundred bucks! You’re joking.’
‘Don’t waste a trip down if you don’t believe me.’
‘Yeah? Well, fuck you then.’ The man hung up.
Jack finished his coffee. So others were out there, snatching at Kasprowicz’s fifty-dollar bills. He needed to find thirteen more copies if he was to keep his advance. Maybe it was not going to be as easy as he first thought.
The old guy really wanted those books. Jack knew collectors could be eccentric, obsessed and sometimes plain crazy, but Kasprowicz was not any of these. He was calm and sure of himself. He was a man used to the driver’s seat. And he knew which way the numbers went, like an abacus. So what was it with this Edward Kass?
The sun was low, hidden behind the city’s cold steel buildings. So far it had been the warmest winter on record, but that was over now. Today something had shifted. Though it was bright and clear and dry, everything was as sharp as broken glass. The wind blew, cold enough to snap-freeze a two-year-old’s runny nose.
Jack stepped on his cigarette. The rear door at Susko Books opened onto Market Row, a narrow lane just wide enough for council garbage trucks to pass. Jack could smoke there with the door open and still see into the shop. A small alcove shielded him from rain and wind. Some mornings he found people asleep there. Often he had to sweep syringes away, or move old blankets and cardboard boxes so that he could open the door. This morning there was a twisted-up wire coathanger on the ground. Somebody must have tried their luck at free parking. Somebody else must have tried their luck for a free car. Lots happened down narrow city lanes at night.
Jack was thinking about places where he could not afford to live. Houses he could not afford to buy. Annabelle Kasprowicz. But too much thinking was not healthy. Especially when it had nothing to do with nothing. It deserved a government health warning. Jack went back inside and locked the door.
He made a few calls. None of the people he spoke with took much notice of his request for books by Edward Kass. Most just said, Come and have a look, I wouldn’t have a clue what we had. Maybe Kasprowicz had not hired too many more people after all? Maybe just one or two? Or maybe the phone call earlier had really been a coincidence? Either way, Jack decided to close the shop for a couple of hours and see what he could find. Fifty bucks was fifty bucks.
He began with the eastern suburbs. Kenneth Brown Bookseller, Surry Hills, was the first stop and a good start: one copy of Entropy House. Then Cassandra’s Pre-Loved Books, Darlinghurst: nothing. Phrase and Fable Book Basement, Woolloomooloo: nothing. Bentley’s Book Bonanza, Kings Cross: one copy of The Cull. Berlichingen Books, Paddington: nothing. Upstairs, Turn Left Books, Edgecliff: nothing. Numerous Editions, Bondi Junction: nothing. Peter’s Book Exchange, Bondi Junction: nothing. Rare Books and Music and Stuff, Randwick: nothing. Over three hours of his time, nearly thirty dollars in cab fares, and only two Edward Kass books and an eye-strain headache to show for it. Plus a greasy falafel roll he ate for lunch was taking its sweet goddamn time through his alimentary canal. Pick a good mood: Jack Susko was not in it.
He headed out to Glebe