Jack did not like the again. ‘I thought seeing as the law was here with me.’
‘With? I don’t think so, Susko.’
‘Surnames, hey? You’d better tell me the deal. These drugs they got me on are strong and I’m swinging in and out of consciousness.’
‘Kippax and Beaumont, they’re gone, and so is that fool Florez. Conspiracy to murder, attempted murder, blackmail, illegal appropriation of government files, possession of illegal firearms, on and on, you get the picture.’
‘Sounds nicely tied up. Congratulations.’ And Ziggy, free again.
Glendenning screwed his face up a little. ‘Not quite. See, we’ve got a body.’
Jack licked his dry lips. ‘Yeah? Who?’
‘Mick Farrell.’
‘Kippax’s boy?’
‘That’s the one.’
Jack nodded, waiting. If it was not for the painkillers leaving chemical sediments in his liver and kidneys, he was pretty sure he would be feeling sick right now.
‘You met him,’ said Glendenning. ‘Didn’t you?’
‘Once or twice. Briefly.’
‘Yeah. So when was the last time you saw him?’
‘The card night, I suppose.’ Jack looked for water on the side table. Nothing. ‘Saturday night?’
Glendenning brought his large hands together. Cracked a couple of knuckles, then rubbed his palms.
‘Where’d you find him?’ said Jack, wishing he had held off a little longer with the question, but the game of pregnant police silences was beyond him this early and this shot.
‘In a recycling bin, in Kippax’s apartment, holding a bullet in his chest.’
‘Wow.’
‘Kippax denies having anything to do with it, of course.’ Glendenning brushed his thigh. ‘Said somebody put the body there.’
‘What, through the front doors, up the elevator, into the apartment and nobody saw?’
‘Hard to believe, isn’t it?’
‘Beaumont?’ Jack barely squeezed the word out through his constricting throat.
Glendenning looked out into the corridor where a nurse passed by. ‘He said it was you, Jack.’
‘Of course. I’m the man with all the motives, right? And now you’re here for my version — or is it my arrest?’ Jack cocked a leg and pushed himself up into the pillows a little. ‘I should have guessed. No flowers, no chocolates … not even a kiss.’
‘You’ve got a version, then?’
Jack could feel a cold prickling of his scalp. Detective Sergeant Keith Glendenning had not read him his rights, but that did not mean he was not going to. ‘I don’t think so, no,’ he said.
‘I see. Because the bullet in Mick’s chest came from that Luger. See what I mean? The one you were holding when we found you.’
‘And what, one plus one is three?’
‘I’m happy with two. You can do that, can’t you?’
He grinned, nerves eating into his post-op lethargy. Was this the way, then? After everything that had happened, the roots of the whole goddamn bramble out of the ground but now twisted around his neck? Christ.
‘Do your worst, Keith,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I’ve got no ideas regarding Mick Farrell.’
The detective stood up. Smiled and stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘Look after yourself, Jack. Hopefully I won’t have to see you again. Ever. Okay?’
Astrid came to see him later. She was wearing an oversized Burberry Prorsum coat and Chanel No. 5. It was about all she would ever need. He asked her about Glendenning.
‘You’re in the clear,’ she said. ‘He’s not interested. They checked out the gun, you, and they checked out Beaumont. They know you never fired the Luger. Beaumont had the paraffin test and they stopped believing a word he said. Though he’s trying hard. He’s still in there with the police, bullshitting as we speak. Glendenning doesn’t even need all the evidence he’s got.’
‘So why was he here razzing me up?’
‘Come on, Jack. He knows. You get it? And he wanted to let you know that he knows.’
‘Why the favour? Because of you?’
Astrid weighed it up. ‘Maybe a little. We go back and I’ve slipped a couple leads his way, you know, when it suited me. But really, though? You’d only complicate things for him. His case is clean, evidenced and smiley-face stamped. Good media, so the bosses will owe him. He doesn’t want you fucking anything up.’
‘Yeah, like that’s what I’d want to do. My life’s ambition, fucking the cops up.’
‘You know what I mean.’
Jack sighed, sank his head back into the pillows. He was getting out of hospital tomorrow. Back to his end-of-lease apartment, his empty bank account and back to his no doubt pissed-off cat.
Then of course there was her — or rather, the lack of her. He tried to turn his emotions down but the volume dial was sticking. ‘How’s Claudia?’ he said, plainly as possible. She had not been in to see him and the text message and voicemail Jack had left on her mobile both remained unanswered.
Astrid looked awkward. ‘She’s gone for a trip. While the dust settles.’
Jack nodded.
‘She’s back, um …’
‘Whenever, huh?’ Jack regretted the heat in his voice. It had nothing to do with Astrid. He checked the bitter feeling rising inside him. Smiled, though he did not feel like it. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
Astrid returned the smile and went to a chair at the back of the room. She came back with a large cardboard box, wrapped in paper decorated with all the suits in a deck of cards. ‘Here,’ she said, handing it to him.
‘You trying to be funny?’
‘Open it.’
Jack glanced at his bandaged shoulder, arm in a sling. ‘You mind?’
Astrid placed the box in front of her, on the trolley beside Jack’s untouched lunch. ‘Anything else?’
‘I’m cold.’
‘You’re not getting the coat.’
‘That wasn’t what I was thinking.’
‘Then you’d better stop thinking. It obviously doesn’t work.’
‘I know. But I keep trying. It’s like a disease. I love you, Astrid.’
‘You ready?’ Her hands were inside the box. ‘Close your eyes.’
He closed them, heard paper rustling and could not resist a smile.
‘Here you go.’
Jack opened his eyes. It was a Fada Bullet Bakelite radio. ‘Kippax’s?’
She grinned, enough to disarm a firing squad. ‘Psychological warfare.’
‘He was pissed.’
‘Not as much as he is now.’
‘No, probably not.’ He looked the Fada over as Astrid held it before him. ‘It is beautiful, huh?’
She agreed. ‘So don’t go selling it.’
‘Why, madam, I’m shocked that you would think —’
‘That’ll do, Jack. I know you’re broke. So here. Look.’ She pulled an envelope out of the radio box. ‘The girls all thought you should have it. Your winnings from the other night.’
Jack eyed the DL-sized envelope, with the flap unsecured and a thick red rubber band around it, the whole thing bulging with cash. As Astrid handed it to him, Faye Montgomery flashed through his mind. He would have to call her.
‘I should get shot more often,’ he said. He looked up at Astrid. ‘Thank you.’
‘It’s all right. You just look after yourself.’ She headed for the door, then stopped. ‘Oh, by the way. That friend of yours, Chester? He says you owe him five hundred dollars.’
Jack was too tired to be exasperated. ‘Let me guess. Damages, huh?’
Astrid nodded. ‘Uta is taking him out to dinner tonight.’
‘What?’ Jack almost stood up. �
��Chester gets the girl?’
‘He was very attentive to her after she untied him. And, you know, she thinks he’s kind of cute.’
‘Okay. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.’ Jack grabbed his forehead. ‘Tell the nurse my head hurts.’
‘Bye, honey.’ She blew him a kiss. ‘Rest well.’
Jack watched her leave. Soon the room settled back into a vague thrum of hospital noises. He shoved the envelope of money into his sling and let his eyelids get heavy. He felt good, really. A little rough, but okay. Jack knew that sometimes things had to be broken so they could be reset again.
On the weekend, he called Faye from Susko Books, asked if he could move in sooner rather than later. She said anytime was fine and he felt the warmth of her voice even over the line. She told him that she was very much looking forward to his company. After Jack got off the phone, he lit a cigarette and smoked it with great pleasure. On the counter he noticed Caravanning by John Vincent Brittain, still there from days before, face down and open on a page. He put his cigarette down and turned the book over, saw the black-and-white photograph of the Pemberton Hacienda. Why not live de luxe? said the girl in the picture. Jack grinned. He thought about moving into Faye’s flat and of his new life there and flipped through the book. Closed his eyes and stopped on a page and put his finger down. Fifty-one.
It is not easy to describe the free and easy feeling with which one sets out …
About the author
Lenny Bartulin is the author of A Deadly Business and The Black Russian, which was shortlisted for the 2010 Ned Kelly Award for Best Fiction.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
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About the Author
De Luxe Page 18