It was 9.00 a.m. Still an hour before Susko Books opened for trade. Down the front steps Jack saw somebody was already waiting for him. The man was standing beside a box that looked big enough to accommodate a bar fridge. No doubt the guy thought he was sitting on a small fortune in rare books. The early birds always did.
“Morning!”
Jack nodded hello. He slipped the key into the front door. “We actually open at ten,” he said.
“Oh.” The guy looked lost for a moment. He was in his seventies, built small and thin, looked about as heavy as a copy of War and Peace. The skin on his face was like rice paper, and he had blotchy cheeks and a long nose. His hair was white and oily and all short back and sides. He wore a grey parka and a red flannelette shirt, buttoned to the neck and tucked into light blue slacks pulled up high and belted tight. There was no way a draught was going to get anywhere near this boy’s kidneys.
The old guy patted his box. “Any chance you can take a look? You see my son dropped me off in the car, and …” His wet eyes pleaded. Then he smiled, changed his mind and decided to tempt rather than beg. “Got some real beauties in here!”
Jack knew he was going to let him in. Though on the outside he might appear cool, the second-hand book dealer could never resist a box of books. The chance of that rare, elusive first edition, worth three grand, picked up for three bucks. It was a curse.
“Come in,” said Jack.
“I’ll just need a hand, if you don’t mind …”
Jack walked across to the counter and put his coffee down. Maybe there was an Edward Kass or two in there? He helped the man drag the box over. It weighed a ton. Jack had a look inside.
“What do you reckon?”
All Jack could see were copies of Reader’s Digest. “Is your son picking you up again in the car?”
“Eh?”
“I don’t buy magazines.”
“Oh.” The old man’s hand went to his chin. Then he reached into the box and began to pull the copies of Reader’s Digest out. “Hang on, there’s books in here, too! My wife packed the bloody thing, you just can’t see them. Take a look!”
Soon they were piled over the concrete floor of Susko Books. Reluctantly, Jack crouched down and went through them: rejects on the right, offers on the left. Most went on the right. But he did manage to find a few things worth keeping: half-a-dozen Beatrix Potter books; a hardcover book on embroidery; a 1982 edition of the Macquarie Dictionary of Australian Quotations; Gemstones of the World by Walter Schumann; Let’s Speak French by The Commonwealth Office of Education, Sydney; Patrick O’Brien’s Picasso; The Eye of the Storm by Patrick White; a 1982 edition of the Collins English Dictionary; Foucault’s Pendulum by Umberto Eco; and The Complete Book of Flower Preservation by Geneal Condon.
“Forty dollars,” said Jack.
It was clear from the look on the old man’s face that this was not the amount he had confidently predicted to his wife and son.
“What about the rest?”
“Sorry. Can’t use it.”
“Not at all?”
Jack shook his head. “Not if you gave it to me for free.”
“I just can’t believe it.”
They never could. And they always took it personally, as though Jack were passing judgement on what they had chosen to read. He supposed he was. It was one of the few perks of the job. But it was just a small God complex, nothing too serious. It did not affect the fate of nations.
“I can give you a hand up the stairs if you want.”
Jack locked the front door and pulled the Yellow Pages out from a dented, grey filing cabinet behind the counter. Apart from the shelving, the only other furniture in the shop included a cheap pinewood chair, a small trestle table that served as a desk, a set of drawers tucked in underneath, and a tall free-standing lamp that he had inherited from the last business that occupied the premises. “Antique World” had not lasted long and in the end made a quick, overnight exit, leaving a good portion of rent unpaid. Jack moved in cheaply because nobody wanted basement premises in the city: apart from porn operators, who did not rely on display windows so much for their trade. But “Serious Titillation” was already there, and had been for years, right above the basement site. With its bright yellow sign and bright yellow façade, it deflected a lot of attention away from Susko Books. But that was okay. On some days there was a little bit of flow-on traffic. Always the odd customer who came in accidentally and was convinced to buy a copy of The Story of O.
Jack flipped through the Yellow Pages until he got to Books — Secondhand &/or Antiquarian. He dropped a pen into the spine. He figured he would let his fingers do the walking. This was going to be the easiest money he had ever made.
The phone on the counter began to ring. Jack drank some coffee before answering.
“Susko Books.”
“Yeah, I was wondering if you had a copy of a particular book.”
“What’s the title?”
“It’s by a guy called Edward Kass.”
“Kass?”
“Yeah. Got anything by him?”
Jack sipped his coffee again. It was a little too early for coincidences. “Not sure,” he said. “Let me check.” He held the phone for half a minute. Then: “Is that K, A, double S?”
“Yeah, that’s right. I’ll take everything you got.”
“Hang on.”
Jack put the phone down. He drank some more coffee. He did not feel so good. Kasprowicz might have twenty people out there working for him, all over the country. It was clear the old man did not play tiddlywinks.
“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 anyway. One last try for the afternoon. Jack knew the guy who ran a place called Jack and the Bookstalk. His name was Chester Sinclair. He had used Jack and the Bookstalk without telling Jack he had stolen his idea. Sinclair was that kind of guy.
He always wore tracksuit pants that sagged under the weight of keys, wallet, mobile phone and God knows what else. Sometimes he wore leather lace-up shoes with the tracksuit pants, the elastic cuffs gripping high up his ankles, revealing white socks that had turned grey with despair. He was in his forties, tall but soft in the gut. He had wispy blonde hair that curled a little around his ears and gave him a boyish look. Combined with his blue eyes, there was a suggestion that he might have surfed once upon a time, though this was very far from the truth. He was pale like an unripe strawberry and sweaty all over. And always grinning, always smiling, like he knew something that you were dying to know and there was no way he was ever going to tell you what it was. He was cheap and would not hesitate to confuse old ladies with their change. He never wrote prices on his books but made them up at the counter after he had sized up the customer. He did not possess a healthy aura.
Jack’s worry was that Chester would sniff out that the Kass books might be worth something. With the right kind of breeze, the man could smell Monopoly money buried at the South Pole.
Jack and the Bookstalk was located in an old warehouse building just off Glebe Point Road, its grey rendered façade peeling with fifty years’ worth of advertising posters. It had once been a smash repair business: oil stains were still visible on the concrete floor. The musty, damp air carried a whiff of resin and paint and petrol. Inside was chaos. There was a ground floor and mezzanine level, both sick with books. They were crammed onto exhausted shelves and piled on the floor like war dead after an offensive. Everything blended into the colour of mulch. It was a place where you could easily go insane.
It was colder inside than out on the street. Jack saw Chester at the front counter, sorting through papers. He wore a pink, long-sleeve polo top and a navy blue muffler, the collar up high around his neck. Jack could hear a fan blowing air. Music drifted softly from a radio somewhere.
“Here he is,” said Chester when he saw Jack. “The man himself.”
Jack nodded. “Mr Sinclair.”
“Taking the afternoon off, I see.”
“Nothing gets by you. You’re amazing.”
Chester shook his head and tapped a bundle of papers on the counter. He had soft, pale hands, with fingers that started wide at the base but then tapered into thin ends, crowned with long, narrow fingernails. He put the papers down and reached under the counter for a tube of moisturiser. He squirted a good amount in the palm of his hand and proceeded to rub the moisturiser in. His hands writhed together obscenely.
Jack tried not to listen to the sound they made. “Did you get my message?” he asked.
“Yes I did. And I found a few copies, too. Four in fact. That make you happy?”
“How did you find them in all this?”
“There’s a system in operation here, compadre. Just ’cause you can’t see it.” Chester looked down at his hands as he massaged in between his fingers with his thumb.
“I wouldn’t want to go blind with the brilliance of it,” said Jack.
“Genius is like that.” Chester’s grin tucked into his right cheek. “So, who’s this Edward Kass then?”
Jack picked up a book from the counter: The Book of Miracles — How to get to Heaven AND make a Profit! “He’s a poet,” he answered, dropping the book.
“Famous?”
“Unhappy.”
“But, of course. There’s no money in poetry.” Chester began searching under the counter. “They’re down here somewhere, hang on.”
A young guy came in the front door. He wore black jeans, a black denim jacket, a red-and-black striped scarf and a tight black knitted beanie. A dark green knapsack was hooked over his shoulder. He was as skinny as an incense stick. Jack guessed a university student: his face was white and pimply and wore all the burden of global injustices perpetrated by multinational companies.
“You work here?” he asked Jack.
“No.”
Chester stood up. He put the Edward Kass books onto the counter. “Can I help you?” he asked in a stern voice.
“Have you got a philosophy section?”
Chester pointed toward the back of the shop. “Straight ahead, on your left. And what’s there is what I’ve got so don’t ask me for anything.”
“Right.” The kid gave a pained look and walked off, shaking his head.
“Now, Mr Susko.” Chester leaned on the counter and spread his grin to both cheeks. “You know, there was a guy in here yesterday asking for the very same author. Bit of a coincidence. I was tempted to sell, I have to tell you. A man’s got to eat. But it wouldn’t have been too professional of me, would it?”
“Your integrity has always been impeccable.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear.” Chester picked up one of the books and flicked through the pages. Jack leaned on the counter with both elbows.
“When you’re ready, Chester,” he said, looking down at the scratches in the wood.
“I’m thinking.”
“Don’t hurt yourself.”
“So who was this other guy then?”
Jack looked up and sighed and tried to look bored. “How the hell would I know?”
“I can smell something that’s all.” Chester scratched an armpit. “Why do you want ’em?”
“I got a collector.”
“What are you getting?”
“Do you think I’m going to retire on the sale of four books of poetry? It’s not fucking Lolita, signed by Nabokov and dedicated to Graham Greene.”
Chester scratched his other armpit. “Ten bucks each.”
“Come on, Sinclair. This isn’t Sotheby’s.”
“Take it or leave it.”
“Leave it,” said Jack. He turned to go.
“Thirty bucks for the lot.”
Jack pulled out his wallet. “Don’t spend it all on jelly beans.”
Back in the city, there was a note pushed in under the door of Susko Books. It was from Annabelle Kasprowicz.
I waited. Interesting concept of running a business. I’ll try tomorrow. 2pm.
It was all happening today. Jack held the note to his nose. Her pricey perfume was all over it. He folded the note and put it in his coat pocket. Nothing like having something to look forward to.