The sky was two o’clock blue, cloudless on a Wednesday afternoon. The weather had forgotten it was winter: the air was almost sweet and the breeze had manners. Jack Susko lit a cigarette and began walking down the hill. He could not remember the last time he was in Double Bay. Nobody he knew earned the sort of money needed to live here. It was the kind of place where old women noticed your shoes, where lawns were green year-round, and the streets were clean and wide and lined with big old trees. A place where money had always done the talking and everything else the listening — even the pollution had been slipped a roll and asked to go west. Parks and playgrounds and plenty in the bank: the kind of place to consider having kids.
Jack put his sunglasses on. Having a child was not a priority, though if you asked him what was he might take a while to answer. For the moment, it was a package he was delivering to 32 Cumberland Gardens. The streets were so nice around here, they were gardens.
Over the rooftops on his right, Jack caught glimpses of water in the bay. On his left, houses and apartment blocks stepped up the slope of Bellevue Hill, straining against each other for a better view, their windows whitewashed by the sun. Jack had a vision of himself in one of those double-glazed sunrooms: cognac in hand, looking out at the city’s skyline, the phone warm on his ear as he gave calm instruction to a banker on the Bahnhof Strasse in Zurich. It was the kind of job he could settle for, part-time even. Pity they never came up in the employment pages.
No, Jack Susko would not be retiring at the age of thirty-four. His view would remain the dusty shelves and battered paperbacks of the last year or so. Instead of up, he would climb down the steps into his basement shop in York Street in the city, where he spent the day making sure delinquent kids did not lift the stock. At least he was his own boss. Though sometimes it would have been nice to boss somebody around.
The guy’s name was Hammond Kasprowicz. He had called Jack two days ago, asking for copies of four books: The Machine, Entropy House, The Cull and Simply Even. Every copy you have, he said. And it’s poetry, he added, as if Jack might not know what that was. Did Susko Books have a poetry section? His voice was cantankerous. At one point he coughed violently down the line for about a minute and Jack had to hold the phone away from his ear. When he stopped, Kasprowicz wheezed and his voice was tight. He would pay fifty dollars for every copy and an extra fifty if they were personally delivered. He gave his address, stated a time and day, and hung up.
Afterwards, Jack wondered why Kasprowicz was willing to pay so much for very little. But he did not think about it for too long. He remembered a piece of advice he had been given many years ago: when someone wants to give you money, the least you can do is dress nice and take it. Jack could do that.
Unlike a lot of second-hand bookshops, Susko Books was an alphabetised affair. There were two copies of The Cull in the poetry section. After checking through a few boxes of the latest, unsorted stock, Jack made some calls. He managed to locate one more copy of The Cull and two copies of Entropy House. But it was late and most places around town were already closed. The next day he went to King Street in Newtown and scoured second-hand bookshops for an hour or two. That was all he could handle amid the mess and choked shelves and the floor littered with old orange Penguins, fallen like ticket stubs at the races. It was nauseating, like walking around in somebody else’s headache. No copies of Simply Even that he could see, just one of The Machine, missing a few pages, but that was not his problem. Three hundred dollars plus another fifty dollars delivery. It did not happen every day. It had never happened before.
The poet was Edward Kass: the serious kind, treated to a capital P. Numerous awards, commendations, even a mention in the Queen’s birthday honours list for 1981. The biographical details went on to say that his critically acclaimed work was: innovative, dark, enigmatic and entertainingly idiosyncratic. Jack had heard of him but not had the pleasure. He read a few poems on the bus and decided the style was overwrought; Edward Kass would probably have seen death in a bowl of cornflakes. Jack still could not help wondering why Kasprowicz was willing to pay so much for them. The editions themselves were nothing special — the usual pretentious covers and cheap paper, a few big publishers, a few small, a couple of overseas imprints. Nobody famous had signed or dedicated them to anyone. Fifty bucks? To Jack they were just another pile of forgotten books that nobody had the heart to send to the crematorium. He called them in-between books, the kind the second-hand dealer liked least: not classics and not recent releases. Sometimes the second-hand bookshop was like an old people’s home.
Kasprowicz had said 2.30 p.m. Jack was going to be right on time. He turned into another street and admired the houses, the cars and the front gardens. As he picked his favourites, a couple of joggers thumped towards him: a bald middle-aged man wearing all the gear and breathing like a broken hand-pump, and a fat girl in her late twenties who would have looked uncomfortable walking. Approaching, they straightened up for Jack’s benefit. Twenty metres down the road they slumped forward again, as though they were running through mud. So money could not buy everything after all.
From the street, 32 Cumberland Gardens was not much to look at, unless you had a thing for high sandstone walls and even higher pine trees. Jack stood and admired the barrier: thirty metres of it, simple and impenetrable like a cliff. You would not want to lock yourself out. The sandstone sat heavy and contented and did not reveal anything, except that here were people who liked privacy and could afford it. He pressed the buzzer on an intercom set between a door and a solid timber gate. After a while, a voice finally crackled back at him.
“Yes?”
“My name’s Susko. I’ve got a delivery for a Mr Kasprowicz.”
There was no reply, just the click of a button being released. Then the door buzzed and Jack pushed it. As he walked through, he slipped the package under his arm and pulled at the cuffs of his cream shirt. He adjusted his chocolate-brown mohair scarf and re-buttoned his tan jacket. Ran a hand through his dark hair. He was looking good. Just then the gate behind him began to open. It shuddered as it slid along the length of the sandstone wall. Jack watched a metallic blue Audi A6 drive through. The windows were tinted blue-black and reflected his face. More privacy. He followed the car into the Kasprowicz property.
Surprisingly, the front yard was shabby and in need of a trim. Maybe the gardener was on holidays. Tufts of green weeds grew between the hexagonal blocks of the driveway. Casa Kasprowicz was a large Federation-style homestead with lichen-stained redbrick walls and sandstone corners. Big and sprawling but not as grand as Jack had expected. A verandah stretched across the front and continued around both sides. Dormer windows protruded from the tiled roof. Off the right-hand side there was a low, flat-roofed garage extension, to which the carport was attached. From there Jack heard the Audi’s door slam. He waited for somebody to appear.
Four sandstone steps led up to the verandah. The front door was painted dark green, with a leadlight window above it: three small ovals contained within a larger half-circle. Cumberland House was written across the stained glass in old-fashioned gold lettering. Fancy stuff. Jack imagined what Susko House might look like up there.
“Can I help you?”
A woman approached him. There was a subtle swing to her hips. She wore sunglasses, a short, fitted, beige leather jacket, and a baby blue cashmere scarf draped over a matching silk camisole. Downstairs, dark brown tailored pants with a pale blue pinstripe, and cream suede mules. Easy style, all class. Long chestnut hair with plenty of volume. She got closer and Jack saw that she was tall, five foot seven or eight at least, and on the curvy side of womanhood. Enough to make a poor boy blush.
“I’m here to see a Mr Kasprowicz,” said Jack. “The name’s Susko.”
She removed her sunglasses and looked him over. “Nice scarf.” With her little finger she pulled a stray hair out of the corner of her mouth. Then she flicked her hair back and it fell all over the place, perfectly. Jack guessed forty: a fit, sophisticated, no expenses spared kind of forty. He took his sunglasses off for a better view.
“Mr Kasprowicz, eh?” she said. “Lucky you.” She looked Jack over some more but did not say if she liked anything else. Seemed as if the scarf was it.
He followed her up onto the verandah and through the front door. They entered a long, wide hallway, lit by skylights. There was a large antique sideboard near the entrance, with a carved wooden headboard and rectangular mirror inset. The walls were maroon and hung with paintings and some black-and-white photographs. A long Turkish runner covered the floor: the polished timber boards underneath creaked with age and history and money.
The woman stopped to flip through a small stack of mail. Jack put his hands in his pockets.
“Nice place,” he said.
“Do you think?” Her voice was uninterested. She tossed the mail and some car keys onto the sideboard. “I’ll get my father for you. You can wait in there.” She pointed ahead and then disappeared through a door on her left.
Jack walked to the end of the hallway and took two steps down. He entered a square lounge room with a high ceiling and moulded cornices. It was dark and on the stuffy side: somebody needed to open a window. There were three Chesterfields facing each other in the centre of the room, separated by two red leather armchairs, some rugs, tables and lamps. An upright piano in the far corner. On the walls, a couple of round mirrors and more paintings: portraits mainly, also three large nineteenth-century landscapes in gilt frames. Jack gave the nearer one some attention. It was unattractive, no doubt worth a packet: soggy green English hills, a soggy blue sky, a couple of soggy oak trees, a soggy grey Georgian-style country house, and a soggy red fox getting the hell out of there.
“I said two o’clock, Mr Susko.”
Jack turned around and watched Kasprowicz walk over to the couches. He was tall and broad, but age had dropped most of his bulk to his gut and thighs: all bottom-end now, like an old beanbag. He was dressed in brown corduroy pants and a black cardigan, buttoned up to the collar of a white shirt. Thick grey hair with streaks of nicotine-yellow, combed back over a square head. Close-set eyes hidden behind eyebrows you could lose a pencil in. Pale skin and a nose that looked like it had a walnut buried in the end of it. Not an attractive man. He lowered himself into one of the armchairs and exhaled loudly. The leather creaked around him like an old boat ready to sink.
“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.
Jack got up and walked to the piano. “Do you play?” he asked.
“God, no. It’s just for show. Do you?”
Jack tinkled the keys. “I fantasise.” He played a couple of the opening chords to Duke Ellington’s “Take the A Train”. On top of the piano he noticed two silver-framed photographs. One was of a cat, a copper-coloured Abyssinian with a white chin; the other, a grainy black-and-white of a sour-looking woman in her fifties. She wore a pearl necklace with a diamond pendant and matching earrings. The photographer had set her up in a movie-star pose. But Ava Gardner she was not: the face Jack looked at in the photograph knew it, too.
“Nice cat.”
“My mother’s favourite. Jordan. She paid for a funeral when it died.” Kasprowicz’s daughter brought Jack’s drink over and passed it to him. “I’m Annabelle,” she said.
“Your father told me.”
“Did he say what a pain in his arse I was?”
Jack grinned. “No, he didn’t mention it.”
She shrugged and sat down on one of the couches, crossing her long legs and slipping a hand between her thighs. “That’s my mother in the other photo. Her dying wish was that the cat’s collar be buried with her.”
Jack picked up the photograph for a closer look. There was a resemblance between mother and daughter, but not much. The eyes that stared back at him were like ball-bearings. The lips were thin and the chin a little pointed. He had seen this type of woman before. He knew the corners of her mouth stayed turned down even when she smiled. The victim. Jack put the photograph back.
“Her greatest disappointment in life was that nobody was as interested in her as she was.”
“Aren’t we all like that?”
“She was an expert. The best there ever was.” Annabelle sipped her drink. “Do you smoke? I’ve just run out of cigarettes.”
Jack pulled out his pack and offered her one.
“Oh. These are strong, aren’t they?”
“Just have half.”
He leaned over and lit the cigarette for her. Annabelle blew smoke and said: “All this is my mother’s, everything you see, the house, too. She was English, if you hadn’t guessed.”
Jack sat down opposite Annabelle and snapped the lighter to his own cigarette. He noticed there were no rings on her long fingers, just a fine gold bracelet that slid down her wrist and hung on the cuff of her leather jacket as she held her cigarette in the air above her shoulder. There was a small, four-leafed clover attached to it.
“So what do you do, Mr Susko? What has my father got you in for?”
“Call me Jack. I’m a second-hand bookseller.”
Annabelle looked surprised. Then disappointed. “Really. You must read a lot.”
“When it’s slow.”
“And is it slow often?”
“Only Mondays to Fridays. And Saturdays.”
She tapped her cigarette into an ashtray on the table beside her. “Oh, well.” She noticed the package of books her father had placed there. Her eyes narrowed as she read the title of the topmost book.
“So a bit of work on the side with my father?” she said, her voice rising in pitch. “To make ends meet?”
“My ends never meet,” said Jack. “They dislike each other too much.”
She managed to smile for two seconds. It exposed a slight dimple in her right cheek. She uncrossed and then crossed her legs again. She pushed herself back into the chair. The leather couch groaned beneath her like a dirty old man.
“What rare edition is he after this time?”
“Mr Susko doesn’t deal with that kind of thing,” said Kasprowicz from the doorway. He walked back into the room like a bear. “I doubt his business would have seen too much of any great value.”
Jack let it slide. There was a grand coming his way.
Annabelle got up and placed her drink on the coffee table. “I’ll leave you to your business.” Even through the tobacco smoke her perfume wafted over Jack. It smelt like five hundred dollars.
“Nice to meet you,” he said, as she left.
“Yes,” she replied, without looking at him.
Kasprowicz walked around and stood behind Jack. “Here you are, Mr Susko.”
Jack extinguished his cigarette in the cut-glass ashtray before him and stood up.
Kasprowicz handed him a small white envelope. “Maybe you could let me know in a week or two how it’s all going.”
“Of course.”
“Goodbye.”
There was no handshaking. Kasprowicz walked off and left Jack to find his own way out.
He lingered a few seconds, looking about him. The house was silent: it felt suddenly empty and solemn, like a weekday church. Jack’s gaze caught the photograph of Mrs Hammond Kasprowicz, on top of the piano. He stared at it a moment. For some reason, he thought that she would not have liked him. Whatever, lady. That’s fine. Jack smiled and winked at her as he left. I wouldn’t have liked you either.
Outside the sky was still blue but the air was cooler. Jack paused to wind his scarf on. Then he checked the contents of the small white envelope and slipped it into his inside coat pocket. He tried not to spend it too quickly in his head, but half was gone before he knew it.
A white BMW with a rusty scratch in its bonnet pulled into the drive and a young woman got out. She stood beside the car a moment, talking to the driver through the window. Jack guessed it was Annabelle’s daughter. He walked slowly towards her.
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell her anything,” the teenager said. She crossed her arms and shook her head. Her voice was whiny and her manner insolent. She looked about eighteen or nineteen. Annabelle must have been young when she had her. The girl wore a short denim skirt revealing too much leg and a white sleeveless top that revealed too much of everything else. There was a faded denim jacket in her hand. Obviously she did not feel the cold.
Bracelets jingled up and down her arms as she continued to speak. “All right, all right! I said I wouldn’t, didn’t I? God!” She leaned over and gave a reluctant kiss to the driver. Then she marched down the driveway, her ponytail bouncing with fury.
She stopped in front of Jack. “Who are you?” she snapped.
“I’m the gas man.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Who let you in?”
Jack saw Annabelle in the girl’s eyes and in the shape of her forehead and chin. In fact, her whole face was her mother’s. The body was almost there, too. Whatever her father had passed on had merely held the door open.
“Your grandfather asked me over for a drink,” said Jack. “Louisa, isn’t it?”
Annabelle’s daughter scoffed and walked off without a word. Jack grinned. They taught them young in Double Bay.
The BMW began to back out of the drive. Jack caught a glimpse of the driver before his window wound up. He could not place the man there and then, but was sure he had seen him somewhere before. He thought about it for a moment, but nothing clicked. He struck a match and cupped his hands and lit his cigarette. Then he started off down the road. The scotch burnt in his stomach and he decided to buy himself a good meal. He tapped the envelope in his pocket. It was making him feel warm all over.