De Luxe

by Lenny Bartulin

  ‘Glad to hear it.’

  ‘You should be talking to Brandt, not me.’

  ‘Mr Brandt had a sudden, extremely convenient business meeting in Malaysia.’

  ‘You must hate it when that happens.’

  ‘I’m a patient man, Jack.’ The detective sergeant sucked his teeth. Held the silence just enough to bring it up to the boil. Then: ‘What do you know about Allan Kippax?’

  ‘Who?’

  The copper sighed. He came around the glass-topped boardroom table and stood in front of Jack in the chair. ‘I could use your help, you know?’

  ‘Oh yeah. And what would that entail?’

  ‘Telling me the truth.’

  Jack smiled. ‘That’s the business you’re in now, huh? Keith’s Cop Shop Honesty House.’

  ‘What worries me about you, Susko Books, is that you never seem to mind being nudged into trouble. Always get in the middle of things, don’t you? Not really here, not really there, but hanging around. Why is that? See, in my experience, it’s the fence-sitters who get the sore arses. And they always fall, eventually. What they’ve got to worry about is which side of the fence.’

  ‘And the choice is so obvious, isn’t it, Detective Sergeant? Crocodile-infested swamp on one side, thick jungle prowling with hungry panthers on the other.’ Jack had reached his threshold of street philosophy. ‘Either way, I’ve got nothing to tell you.’

  Glendenning shook his head. ‘Sorry, Jack. You’re not going anywhere until you talk. Everything you know about Duncan Beaumont, and don’t worry about the prose or punctuation. Starting now.’

  Jack knew the copper could not hold him, but relented and leaned back in the chair. If he stood up and left he had nothing to gain but Glendenning’s heat. And besides, maybe the detective sergeant might tell him something about the whole thing, too.

  ‘Be good. Just like your mother taught you.’

  ‘You never met my mother.’ Jack rubbed his face and yawned. ‘Can we get a coffee?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Glendenning. ‘My shout.’ Tone as soft as a tough cop could manage: like the sound of rope slipping through the coil of a noose.

  Half an hour later, Jack looked for Astrid in the main corridor. Instead, he found Claudia. She stepped out of a door further down and began walking towards him, heels click-clacking, each step the sound of poise and plenty: black pencil skirt over the pins and a white silk blouse giving good shape, reminding Jack of the femme-fatale bodies he had watched not too many hours ago. He sensed Glendenning standing behind him. Nobody moved, eyes on the girl.

  She walked straight past. Just a blank look down the hall, no words. Jack waited, glad there was nothing in her eyes because Glendenning was there — but disappointed, too. He wanted some small acknowledgement. A little split-second sparkle, just for him. Anything. The least she could do after asking for his help.

  ‘You have a good day, Susko Books,’ said the detective sergeant. Jack did not turn around but could hear the grinning all over the words.

  14

  It was Ray who answered the door at Faye Montgomery’s place in Louisa Road, Birchgrove, running a hand over his grey, Brylcreemed hair. Wearing a white shirt, brown cardigan and navy-blue cords, looking relaxed and casual, man about the house. Jack gave a quick guilty smile but got only a disappointed shake of the head in return.

  ‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, okay, but —’

  Ray held up his hand, closed his eyes.

  ‘You’re going to make me suffer? What about if I come by the shop tonight, help with the last bit of cataloguing? And I supply the booze?’

  ‘It’s all done now, thank you. Faye assisted me.’

  ‘So you didn’t want me to be there anyway?’

  ‘Doesn’t mean you couldn’t have called.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m sure that was on your mind the whole time.’

  ‘It was the possibility of you arriving that irritated me the most.’ Ray glanced behind him, said in a lower voice: ‘Messed up all my moves.’

  ‘Why didn’t you call me then?’

  ‘And have her overhear me?’

  ‘All right, fine. My deepest apologies for messing up your moves and next time I’ll be sure to call.’ Jack pointed at his friend’s feet. ‘Nikes? Since when?’

  ‘I have injured my toe.’ Ray did not want to talk about it. ‘So where were you anyway?’

  ‘Last-minute shooting, so it slipped my mind.’ He left his meeting with Claudia out of it.

  ‘Would you care to try that again?’

  ‘Somebody popped one off at Ziggy Brandt. Cops wanted to chat to me about it this morning.’

  ‘It wasn’t you, was it?’

  ‘He’s still with us.’

  Ray sighed. ‘Is that what you told them?’

  ‘I told them I was with you.’

  ‘Oh good. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be a perjurer.’

  ‘Little white lie, Ray. Just like the realms, ten cents an acre.’

  ‘Can I ask where you actually were?’

  ‘Taking Lois for a walk.’

  ‘Jack …’

  ‘It’s okay, don’t worry.’ He looked over Ray’s shoulder. ‘So how’s Faye?’

  ‘She’s getting ready. Come on then, I’ll show you the private entrance.’

  Jack followed Ray through a wooden gate and along a gravel path down the side of the house.

  ‘I told Faye you were a respectable businessman.’

  ‘Just don’t bring her around to the shop.’

  ‘I’m not that stupid,’ said Ray. ‘It’s just down here.’

  Jack was still not convinced that he wanted to live in somebody’s backyard. Let alone around the corner from Duncan goddamn Beaumont. That morning he had been thinking about caravans again, about getting out of town and shrugging off the rent and the bills and the business of clapped-out books, and the cops and Brandt and all the rest of it. The wisdom was all there in his little green book on caravanning every time he picked it up and opened another page. Just before leaving Susko Books to come here, page 78:

  There are many people who would benefit by living in a caravan for a few years: one learns what is really necessary and what can be thrown away.

  ‘So what do you think?’

  Jack took in the view. It was not a caravan, but just about. Square, white weatherboard cottage with a blue corrugated-steel roof. Quarter-drawn ruffled curtains in the wood-framed windows. About the size of a horse float. All it needed was wheels.

  ‘Shall we have a look inside?’

  ‘Why not?’ He was getting a feeling.

  An open-plan living area with a sleeping alcove in the corner and a kitchenette opposite. Separate bathroom and toilet. The ceiling slanted at an angle and there was a row of windows across the vertical, letting in the day’s bleak light. Timber floors and exposed beams and not a lot of room in which to swing a sarcastic cat.

  ‘Cosy, huh?’ said Ray.

  ‘Like a helmet.’ There was some wear and tear about the joint. But he liked it. ‘When’s it available?’

  ‘Whenever you want. Now.’

  He nodded, trying to imagine his stuff in the limited space. A tight fit, but he could see it being at home. The place had a nice feel, almost like it was in the country. Trees and shrubs filled the windows and a rectangle of luxuriant lawn stretched out front. Across it, a crooked line of flagstones led to the corner of the main house and the path that climbed up to the street. Sydney Harbour was right behind, blocked by a barrier of dark-green hedge, but its presence still felt in the sound of lapping waves and the diesel rumble of boats and ferries.

  ‘You like it, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, I do.’

  ‘Faye’s great, Jack. You’l
l love her.’

  ‘Like you?’

  ‘So far so great.’

  Jack smiled. ‘I’m glad, Ray.’

  ‘Me too. Let’s go and say hello.’

  She was putting cupcakes onto a plate when Ray led Jack through the sliding door into the kitchen.

  ‘He’s here.’

  Faye Montgomery looked up with a smile. She was tall, with blonde-grey hair clipped into a short ponytail. Pale-blue eyes, a wide mouth and strong nose, in a face that had seen some years and was happy to wear them. She came out from behind the kitchen bench and whipped off her apron. Light-grey pants and a maroon fine-wool jumper. An amber pendant hung on a chain around her long neck. Graceful and mannish at the same time, like an antipodean Katharine Hepburn.

  ‘Hello, Jack,’ she said and reached out to shake hands. ‘Welcome.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Mrs Montgomery.’ Her grip was firm and cupcake warm.

  ‘Goodness, call me Faye.’

  ‘Done.’

  She clapped once. ‘Oh, I can see we’re going to get on like a house on fire!’ Her voice was educated, all the grammar in the right place and the pronunciation smooth and precise. Jack could feel himself liking the woman already, and smiling because it felt natural to do so around her.

  She narrowed her eyes a little. ‘Can I ask you a question, Jack?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘The flat is not too small?’

  ‘Perfect for one man and his cat.’

  ‘I see.’ She went back behind the kitchen bench and began filling a kettle with water. ‘And living in an old woman’s backyard? That suits you, too?’

  Jack half grinned, not sure how to respond.

  Faye nodded. Her face became serious. ‘I mean to point out, Jack, that I’m not the mothering type. If that’s what you see here.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘What are you? Thirty-four? Thirty-five?’

  ‘Thirty-six.’

  ‘In my experience, handsome young men of your age who come looking at my little garden flat here have, nine times out of ten, been just divorced, just dumped, just left, or just stupid. If you fall into any of those categories, Jack, our situation would simply not … gel.’

  The straight talk braced the room like a sudden draught: but it was fresh, not cold, and Jack sensed that Faye had a touch of the theatre about her. ‘I’m single,’ he said.

  She thought about that and frowned. ‘So what’s wrong with you?’

  Jack brushed some hair across his forehead. His good feelings were still there but getting a little confused. ‘I must have one of those faces.’

  She placed her palms down on the bench, like a barrister about to make a concluding speech to the jury, and looked right into his eyes. ‘Can I trust you, Jack?’

  ‘Are you about to ask me to help get rid of a body?’

  Faye turned to Ray. ‘I like him,’ she said. ‘When can he start?’

  ‘Don’t be rash. He’s not joking about the body.’

  ‘Oh, Raymond. It would only make him more interesting.’

  ‘Yeah. Why don’t you shut up, Campbell?’

  ‘Well said!’

  ‘Now I’m wondering why I ever suggested the idea. Must be mad.’

  Faye walked over and placed a hand on Ray’s cheek. ‘It’s why I love you.’ She kissed him on the forehead. ‘Now, let’s sit for a nice cup of tea and a chat. Jack can tell me all about himself while I steal some of his cigarettes.’ When she looked over at him again, her eyes had misted over. ‘My late husband used to smoke. I haven’t smelt it on a man for a long time. Not in here, anyway.’

  Jack reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the pack. ‘Whenever you want, Faye. Don’t even ask.’

  She poured hot water into a teapot. ‘Very good,’ she said, then sat down and patted the seat of the chair next to her. ‘But now. You must tell me all about Lois.’

  15

  The woman was something else. She could jump from You can move in over the weekend to Do you get on with your father? in the time it took to have one sip of Earl Grey. But it was not just a front, a deflection from herself: she gave as much as she asked for. A woman of experience and grace, in full possession of herself and proud of it. The lady had bearing, oh yeah. Impressive. And Jack had a good feeling about it all, his first true good feeling in months. He and Faye Montgomery were going to get on just fine.

  Unlike Jack and Allan Kippax. He found the man’s business card and stared at the number. He thought about Glendenning trying to pull him into something he did not want to get into. Almost as bad as Ziggy Brandt. Maybe worse. And Claudia, too, asking him for help. Jack thought about her the most. There was no obligation unless he wanted to make one. He did not owe her a thing. And right now was the perfect opportunity to take a big left and drive the hell out of the whole mess, straight down to Faye’s place. Easy.

  He picked up the bookshop phone and dialled.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘No secretary, Allan? I would have thought, you know, a man of your position …’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Jack Susko.’

  ‘Oh, Jack, it’s you. I should have guessed with the jive talk.’

  ‘Jive? Always 1969 with you, hey?’

  ‘’Sixty-four, actually. Maybe the first half of ’sixty-five. Anyway, before the fucking hippies. All downhill after that.’

  ‘No psychedelics with you.’

  ‘I knew it was never going to last. Even said so at the time.’

  ‘Still a few left about the place.’

  ‘What, pretending they were there?’

  ‘But the music, Allan,’ said Jack, pushing him a little. ‘Pink Floyd and —’

  ‘Fuck Pink Floyd and all the other hippy-trippy shit. Tom Jones could sing them off the planet.’

  ‘Well, I never liked the Floyd either.’

  ‘That’s because they were rubbish.’

  Jack heard a chair creak down the line. Kippax reclining. Interested? He said: ‘Did you get your radios, Allan?’

  A pause, remembering. ‘Yes, Jack. I did. Some rare specimens, as a matter of fact. And a bargain price, too.’

  ‘You’ve got a large collection, then?’

  ‘Enough to keep me amused.’

  ‘Well, after you mentioned your particular interest the other day, I happened to come across a book on the very same thing. Thought you might like it.’

  ‘Are you offering me a gift? Some people could easily misconstrue the gesture.’

  Jack held the silence for a second. Closed his eyes. Answering Kippax’s question would take him where he had intended to go. Now that he was nearly there, he was not so sure.

  ‘Jack?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘From me to you.’

  ‘That’s very kind.’ Kippax’s smile could be heard in his voice. ‘Might I ask which book it is. I may already have it.’

  ‘Radio Days.’

  ‘Ah yes, from 2008. Yes, I own a copy. Signed by the authors, too. Sorry.’

  ‘Well, there you go.’

  ‘But I appreciate the gesture.’ A faint sound down the line, like fingers drumming a desk. ‘Actually, Jack, you know what? I’d like to invite you to a little … do, tomorrow night.’

  ‘What kind of do?’

  ‘Play cards?’

  Jack grimaced. ‘Once upon a time,’ he said, still feeling the pain of the last deck he had touched and got burnt by, nearly five years ago now. He had planned to stay a spectator.

  ‘Good. We’ve got a little friendly get-together, you know, a regular thing, flip the deck every month or so. Get away from the wives, have a drink. Nothing too high-stakes but … exciting enough. Why don’t you come along?’

>   ‘What’s the stake on a friendly flip?’

  ‘Just an easy grand to buy in. Five-card stud, five hundred ceiling.’

  Only men like Kippax and his ilk could call a grand easy. And they said the same thing about ten. Jack screwed up his face, in pain at the thought.

  Kippax read the silence. ‘A little tight at the moment, Jackie? We can work something out. Special introductory offer. You can pay back the stake with your winnings or … Well, you know. I can lend it to you. And you can just owe me.’

  There were rumours that during his time, Allan Kippax had put more than a couple of guys to bed for missing loan repayments. Jack did not like the idea of borrowing bus fare from the man. ‘No need for that,’ he said. ‘I can cover it.’

  ‘Excellent. So you’re in?’

  ‘When and where?’

  ‘Just come to my apartment at about ten. I’ll text you the address.’

  ‘Who else you got?’

  ‘Remember Stu Lonergan and Will Noble?’

  ‘When I want to feel sick.’

  Kippax laughed. ‘Florez, too.’

  ‘Roberto?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. The lovely Roberto.’

  Jack shook his head. Christ. An old flame of Claudia’s, the guy Jack had won her affections from. Like some kind of nemesis now, always telling people he was going to kill Jack Susko, but never going beyond sneering. ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘Small world, Jack. All that.’

  ‘Sure. All that.’

  ‘Well, actually, he’s a business partner of mine. New ventures, opportunities and such like.’

  ‘Still hustling wealthy widows?’

  A pause. ‘He only does it for fun now. A little gambling money, you know?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. And who else will be there to make the evening a pleasure?’

  ‘What, you want me to tell you how they all play as well? You’re not bad.’

  ‘Just tell me where all the mirrors are.’

  Kippax laughed. ‘Give me your number and I’ll text the address. And then I’ll see you there, Jackie boy.’