De Luxe

by Lenny Bartulin

  ‘Ah, missy,’ said Kippax, rubbing his palm gently with the gun. ‘See where love leads us? Right to Shitsville.’

  Beaumont managed to crane his head up. ‘She’s got nothing to do with this,’ he said through chipped, gritted teeth, every word handcuffed. ‘Let her go.’

  ‘Let her go?’ Kippax wheeled around, a what-have-we-here smile on his face. ‘Nothing to do with this?’ he said, exaggerating the question. ‘I’m sorry. Am I hearing right? She called me to take care of you, son. Gave you up. Not that you don’t deserve to be given up, but.’ He frowned as though deep in thought. ‘And yet this chivalry? I must say, you surprise me a little.’

  ‘Duncan,’ said Claudia, clenching her words. ‘I was angry, I —’

  ‘Shut up!’ said Kippax, eyes still on Beaumont. ‘Should I just let her go, then? Yeah?’

  ‘She’s got nothing to do with — ugh!’

  Allan Kippax crashed another foot into Beaumont’s guts. Then he crouched down next to him and grabbed a handful of hair. ‘She’s Brandt’s fucking daughter. You think I’m going to just let her walk the fuck away? Oh no. I’ll be taking my due from wherever I want. Starting with you.’

  Jack thought of the Luger in his pocket but knew that if he moved even slightly towards it, Florez or Kippax would either shoot him or knock him out: or worse still, they could harm Claudia. He remembered the steel-eyed, Colt-brandishing cutthroat on the cover of Day of the Comancheros and wondered what he would do in just such a situation. Every book was worth a few read pages. You never knew when something relevant was going to pop up in your own life.

  Jack stood there, powerless. His only available move was to keep Kippax talking. He said: ‘Barangaroo.’

  Kippax looked at him, still holding a fistful of Beaumont’s hair.

  ‘What’s Brandt got on you?’ said Jack, wanting to distract the man and wanting to know. Allan Kippax was a hard, sometimes merciless son of a bitch, but business was business and Jack knew he was here for something more than simple revenge.

  ‘Brandt? Don’t even mention his fucking name in my presence,’ said Kippax, standing up and checking the Glock for ammunition. Seeing it loaded full, he turned to Claudia. ‘How many times did you want to kill him?’

  Jack said: ‘So Beaumont took a shot at Brandt to make it look like an attempt on his life. To set you up?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Because of the development tender?’

  ‘That’s right, Jack. How perceptive of you.’

  ‘Set you up how?’

  ‘Motherfucker got him on tape,’ said Florez, snarling into Jack’s ear.

  ‘Thank you, Roberto,’ said Kippax, annoyed, eyes hooding over. Then he seemed to notice Chester for the first time, still gagged and tied up like a medieval roast over by the window wall. Kippax looked at him seriously. ‘That the owner?’

  ‘Must be,’ said Florez.

  Sinclair’s eyes widened until they looked ready to pop.

  ‘On tape?’ said Jack, bringing Kippax back to the conversation. Beaumont glanced up from the floor, face broken into swelling shades of bruise-red. ‘Saying what?’

  ‘That he … that he wanted me to kill Brandt.’ Beaumont winced, holding his stomach with one arm and half leaning on the other. He edged himself, painfully, into a sitting position on the floor beside his chair. ‘Maybe you’ve forgotten … Allan … that I still fucking … have it.’ The bold tone wavered, but the attempt pumped a little blood into the guy.

  Kippax’s smile was like a heist clown mask, disconcerting as a bad dream. After a moment, he said: ‘The question now, my fair Duncan, is what you think it might be worth?’ He moved closer, pointing with Claudia’s gun. ‘An eye? A tooth? Or the long sweet neck of our lovely Miss Brandt here?’

  Beaumont grimaced, elbow up on the chair seat now. Jack could see the full shit-storm and how it had blown. Beaumont laying it all down on digital: Kippax telling him what to do with Brandt, telling him, Go get the prick. Probably on ASIC gear, too. Then bang bang bang, down in the car park, Ziggy not even bothering to show his head, just Astrid there letting go a couple of return rounds, either for the theatre or she was out of this particular loop: no matter, everything clean and smooth and enough for a call to the cops to get it all on record. Then Brandt just holding the thing to Kippax’s head. Get out of the tender deal or get ready to be fucked. Beaumont made the tape: taking the shots was just to make some noise, Ziggy making sure Kippax heard everything loud and clear. The only thing Jack could not get a bead on was why all the front and show with him? Jack’s role seemed way below all the effort.

  Beaumont laughed, pointing at the gun in Kippax’s hand, then broke down into a cough. He swallowed it down, wiped some blood from his lips. ‘Allan, you … you should have stuck with the ABBA tribute shows, my man. Because, really? Question is … is what it’s worth to you, huh?’

  Jack had to admit: the guy had balls.

  Kippax lifted the gun and shot him.

  ‘Aaargh!’ Beaumont went to the floor, holding his wrist. The bullet had gone straight through: Jack could see where it had splintered the chair seat and taken a divot out of the floor.

  ‘Duncan!’ Claudia scrambled over to him on all fours. Before she could get her outstretched hand to him, Kippax grabbed her by the arm and pulled her roughly up beside him.

  He looked over at Florez. ‘Let’s go talk to Brandt.’

  ‘You think he’s got it?’

  Kippax scoffed. ‘Think he’d give it to this fool?’ He brought Claudia in closer, his bearded lips just inches from her neck.

  ‘We bringing her?’ said Florez. Jack felt the gun barrel kissing the back of his head suddenly lift.

  ‘Oh yeah. Our only bargain dealmaker, this little lady.’

  ‘Sure?’ Florez raised his eyebrows. ‘Brandt’s hardly the perfect father. Maybe nothing comes between him and a deal. Not even flesh and blood.’

  ‘His only living flesh and blood, let’s not forget, Roberto. But yes, he’ll try to bluff, without a doubt. It’s like a reflex he has no power over. But he’ll see I’ll be willing to call it.’

  ‘What about Beaumont?’

  Kippax looked down. His small, murderous eyes sealed Beaumont’s fate. ‘We’re taking him to see Mick.’

  ‘And this fucker?’ The gun barrel returned to the warm spot on Jack’s head and pushed hard.

  ‘Oh, yes, definitely. Jack can come along, too.’

  Florez shoved him along. ‘Let’s get out of here, then.’

  Jack noticed Chester trussed up over on the floor. The guy irritated him at the best of times, but Jack hoped he had sussed out the situation and would remain still and make no sound. With any luck, they would forget all about him. Maybe somebody would come by and find him later.

  Or maybe now. A gunshot cracked the room in half.

  ‘Oh shit!’

  Florez pushed Jack into the bookshelf and ducked down, unleashing his weapon. Two quick shots barked in the warehouse space, echoing loudly and shattering the air some more as though it was glass. Jack hit the deck, knocking into a stack of books that collapsed in front of him like a sandcastle tower. Astrid had appeared suddenly, coming out from one of the aisles, gun in hand, then disappeared just as quickly. More shots were fired and Kippax yelled, now with his arm around Claudia’s neck and the gun there at her head, his eyes darting from left to right, trying to see who was where as he backed up, dragging Claudia with him. Jack glanced behind him and saw Florez fire his gun a couple more times at nothing in particular and run around into the next row of shelves. He dropped his forehead to the floor, closed his eyes and breathed. Shit.

  When he opened them again, they took in an old Corgi paperback with a pink, bullet-singed psychedelic eye gazing out from the cover: The Book of Psychic Knowledge by Herbert B. Greenhou
se. All Your Questions Answered. He reached for it as a few more shots rang out and he flipped through the pages with his thumb, paused to read something … thinking would Herbert B. Greenhouse have known about this situation before it happened …

  ‘Jack!’

  No time for revelations. Kippax and Claudia stumbled away backwards, her eyes reaching for him. Because of her height, Kippax was having trouble, holding on with one arm and waving the Glock around with the other. Then Jack saw a flash of blonde hair behind them. Uta? One of the bunnies? He felt a little better knowing Astrid had reinforcements but worried about more bullets flying around the place. Jesus. As though Florez needed any more encouragement.

  ‘Jack … please —’

  They disappeared into the next aisle. He reached for the Luger in his pocket and got into a crouch. Racked the gun. Tried to remember where the rear doors were and raced back to the end of the bookshelf, knocking a couple more stacks over. Heart thumping itself into the size of a phone book, chest drumming. He stuck his head out cautiously around a corner of books, then ducked into the row, each step heavy and slow as though the floor was a minefield.

  ‘Jack! Help me!’

  Kippax and Claudia in front of him again, about ten metres down the shelves and heading in his direction.

  ‘Get out of the way, Susko!’

  He stood perfectly still. They kept on with staccato steps, Claudia’s heels clicking, Kippax’s Cubans scratching a flat-footed shuffle. Jack held the Luger at his hip, caught between doing nothing and doing nothing.

  ‘Let her go,’ he said, voice cracking, no meat on the words. He needed a stiff drink and a cigarette, a nice lie-down for half an hour or so.

  ‘Get out of the goddamn way! Move!’

  From behind him, a whisper: ‘Jack.’ The voice seemed to slip away, then returned. ‘Keep him there.’

  He braced, the muscles in his legs firmed, but Jack felt more stationary target than obstacle. Terrific. It was the penultimate moment, ripe for heroics and meaning, life brought to a sharp point that you could either wield or fall on, like a blade. In the blur of seconds ticking, Jack’s eyes locked on Claudia and he knew, in that instant, that she was not his and never would be, and that this moment was beyond inflated meaning: was instead simply raw and real and happening. His heart thumped and spoke to him. The thing was to keep moving.

  ‘Okay.’ Kippax pointed the Glock at him. ‘One last time, Susko. Get out of the fucking way.’

  Jack saw Astrid appear behind Kippax. Florez yelled from somewhere nearby, firing his gun, but the words were lost in the blasts. Kippax must have heard, though, because he suddenly wheeled around, taking the gun with him, pulling the trigger before he even saw Astrid there. Bullets smacked into the books on the shelves, ripping a rough arc of holes into spines and covers. Claudia half dived, half fell to the floor and Jack sprang towards her, reaching out. Before they could touch, something tore into his shoulder like a giant fish hook, and twisted him to his left: for a moment he was airborne, arms stretched like Superman taking off, then he seemed to spin onto his back and — wham — the floor hit him hard. All the wind blew out of his lungs and caught fire. High on the ceiling above, the harsh light of a fluorescent burnt into his eyes. He hoped somebody would do him a favour and turn the goddamn light off. And then somebody did.

  30

  Complete darkness, almost. Jack’s eyelids flickered. Open, shut, rest … open, shut, rest; like that for a minute or so. Groggy, dry-tongued. Then looking, a headache brewing behind his eyes. He frowned: everything hurt. Soft, blue-light outlines here and there. Where the hell was he?

  It felt as though he was strapped down, except that his head was slightly elevated. As his body came to him, Jack realised it was just the area around one shoulder that felt tight and tied, and the same arm was immobile across his chest. When he tried to move, a wave of dull aching washed through him. Then he could hear some kind of ringing, something canned and electronic, gradually getting louder, and he squeezed a slow fist, listening, trying to work out where it was coming from and what it was. Then it clicked: mobile phone. He understood that it was just to the left of his head and he reached over with his right arm, the one that did not feel strapped down, and grimaced and felt around the area not far from his ear. There was a side table. He clipped the phone with the edge of his hand, then found it in his palm and brought it before his face. Squinting, he hit the green fluorescent button and put the phone to his ear. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Jack, darling. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Ziggy?’ His mouth felt full of cotton wadding. He tried to swallow and get some moisture going, but nothing was going to happen without a glass of water.

  ‘So what did the doctors say? You going to live?’

  Jack turned his head to the left and made out a doorway of pasty light that led into a corridor. He heard rubber soles squeak somewhere, then an antiseptic smell filled his nostrils and he knew that he was in the hospital. Middle of the night? Ziggy Brandt was calling him in the hospital.

  ‘You hoped that I’d kill Beaumont,’ said Jack, as though they were halfway through a conversation. Maybe he had been dreaming it. ‘Hey?’ Things were coming back to him, strong and vivid. ‘Was that it?’

  He heard a faint breath, shaped by a silent laugh. Then Ziggy, placating, saying his name like a smile: ‘Jack …’

  ‘You were hoping, yeah, me, Claudia, Beaumont, a gun, a little sour love in the air. Anything could happen, right?’ He had not been able to think of why Brandt had pulled him into the whole thing, until right now. Jack was his wildcard, the fool in the tarot, a string that may or may not be plucked, depending on how things turned out.

  ‘A gun?’ said Ziggy. ‘They giving you some special medication there, making you a little delirious? When did I ever mention guns?’

  Brandt was right, he never had, but Jack should have seen the bigger picture before now. Whenever Ziggy Brandt was in the frame, there was always going to be a shooter lying around somewhere within easy reach. All it needed was a touch of drama to get it into somebody’s hand. Along with loopholes and missing bodies, another of Brandt’s particular talents.

  ‘You wanted to throw me in there, mess things up, get some friction going,’ said Jack, not caring that he was giving voice to things that would not please the man on the other end of the line. ‘See if Beaumont didn’t pull on me and get himself thrown out of there all on his own, or maybe good old Jack might take the necessary steps to help the guy on his way.’

  A pause. ‘Well, son. I thought you might have displayed a little more jealousy than you did. She’s a fine girl, after all.’

  ‘And you’re the loving father.’

  ‘I didn’t want her in the middle, Jack. Getting hurt. You can understand that.’

  ‘Much better if I did it.’

  ‘And look how well you’ve done.’

  Jack wondered where Claudia was. Sore points woke all over his body, mainly in the joints. He remembered being shot and the cops coming and the ambulance taking him to the hospital. He remembered Claudia not crying, her face white with realisation, staring out into the wet street as Jack was wheeled out of Sinclair’s bookshop on a trolley. Duncan Beaumont had used her, risked her life and torn her heart, but it was her old man who had danced the puppets and tossed his daughter into the game, easy as kindling into a fire. You did not necessarily have to bleed to lose the good colour in your face.

  ‘She knows all about it, Ziggy,’ he said. ‘She knows you wanted Beaumont out of the picture. She knows that you waited until he’d stopped being useful before you decided to cut him off. Who wants an ASIC investigator hanging around with first-hand information about some development hustling, right? And if he happens to be involved with your daughter, well, tough shit. The last thing in the world you’d want is that kind of potential blackmail in the family.’
<
br />   Silence. Then: ‘Things have played out … unfortunately,’ said Brandt, his disappointment a cheap bootleg.

  ‘Really? How’s Barangaroo? All clear now for the Ziggy touch? What are you going to call it? Brandtaroo?’

  ‘You should rest, Jack. Don’t strain your brain, eh? You might get a headache you can’t fix with a tablet.’

  Jack winced, trying to sit up in bed. ‘Kippax and Florez out of the picture, Beaumont out of the picture, and you holding the camera.’ He felt himself getting angry. ‘Everybody moving out of your way. Business as usual.’

  ‘You’ve always had an imagination. Don’t let it mislead you. Or worse.’

  ‘And you’ve always known exactly what you’re doing.’

  ‘What other way is there?’

  ‘Maybe ask your daughter.’

  ‘Maybe you should see somebody about your big mouth. In case it turns into something serious.’

  ‘I’ll make a note.’

  ‘I’d make an appointment, Jack.’

  Ziggy Brandt cut the call.

  Detective Sergeant Keith Glendenning sat in the chair beside Jack’s bed. It was early, before visiting hours, the hospital still relatively quiet. Jack had been sleeping when the copper arrived and had woken to find him there, elbow on the armrest and head in hand, fingers kneading into his temples. For a moment, Jack did not say anything, simply watched the detective try to squeeze whatever concerns there were out of his head, like the last bit of toothpaste in a tube.

  Jack was thinking in random, dream-fugged cut-outs: had they found Mick? The Luger? But he didn’t shoot anybody. Claudia, where was she? Beaumont? What did the cops know?

  He moved his leg and the rustling of the sheet broke Glendenning’s heavy contemplation. The detective sergeant looked up. The expression on his face was not encouraging.

  ‘Got a cigarette?’ said Jack.

  ‘You want to break the law again?’