The Black Russian

by Lenny Bartulin

  He knocked on the metal frame of the screen door, the sound flimsy, like the splash and rattle of aluminium foil. After a moment, he heard somebody moving around inside and waited. He looked over his shoulder, out into the broad bright street. Nostalgia always made him nauseous. Somebody ought to invent a procedure where you could drain it off and bottle it and shoot it into outer space. Most times, Jack reckoned the past was a pointless exercise.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  A woman looked through the screen door. She had messy, shoulder-length ash-blonde hair, tucked in behind her ears, and tired hazel eyes in a tired tanned face. Early forty-something, though probably younger in fact. She wore a white singlet and pale-pink shorts, barefoot with a tea towel in her hand. Her toenails were painted red. There was a two-year-old clinging to her leg. The woman had a small, rounded body, soft-fleshed and a little post-baby plump, but shapely and smooth brown. Attractive, but needed a week off, just her and a lot of sleep. Her left hand rested on the child’s shoulder. She was smiling and it was like a warm backlight in her face; Jack saw that she was one of the world’s troopers, weary but trying to be happy, and getting there, slowly.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, returning her smile. ‘I’m Carl’s cousin, Jack Susko.’

  She pressed her lips together and gave a small look of pain, as though the two-year-old had pinched her. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Is he in?’

  ‘Um, no. He’s out. On a job.’

  Jack noticed the warmth in her face fading. ‘Back soon?’

  ‘Um … no. I don’t know.’ Behind her, another child, four, maybe five, appeared in the hallway, holding on to the doorjamb, peering out, his face glum.

  ‘Look, I don’t want to —’

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ said the woman, reaching to give the back of the little boy against her leg a rub. ‘I know he should have returned it by now, but he still needs the car.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘The van,’ she said, unsure, and nodded towards the carport. ‘It’s no good.’

  Jack glanced down at the boy. He had his mother’s ashblonde hair, round cheeks and brow; his father’s small eyes and sharp nose. ‘Yeah,’ said Jack. ‘Carl mentioned something.’

  ‘Mum …’ The other boy stepped into the hallway behind his mother. ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘Yes darling. In a minute.’ She looked at Jack, her face meek, a touch flushed and embarrassed.

  Jack tucked the edge of a grin into his cheek. He wanted to put the woman at ease. ‘We can sort the car out later. But I need to speak to Carl.’

  Her face unburdened, relaxed a little. Somewhere in the house, a baby began crying. The woman straightened up, gave a here-we-go-again roll of her eyes. ‘Won’t be a second.’ She went down the hall and then through a door on her right. The two-year-old scurried along after her, calling ‘Mummy, Mummy, Mummy’, dragging a small, wornlooking length of blue flannelette behind him. The older boy remained where he was and watched Jack from under the fringe of his blond hair.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Jack shifted his feet, uneasy before the boy’s unblinking gaze. He pulled what he thought was a friendly face. The kid stared, did not move, said nothing.

  ‘That’s great.’ The kid was starting to freak him out a little. Jesus. In the penetrating high beam of his eyes, it was as though Jack had done something wrong.

  The woman came back, a baby in her arms. Pink, plump wrists and cheeks and feet, everything bursting with chubbiness. Crystal blue eyes, narrowed and unfocused and bemused, almost annoyed, like the kid was over the world already. The two-year-old trailed behind, holding on to the hem of his mother’s shorts.

  ‘Got any more?’ said Jack.

  She smiled. ‘No. Just the three.’ She held the baby up in the nook of her arm. ‘This is Amelia. Our little surprise. Weren’t you, darling?’

  ‘Must keep you nice and busy.’

  She gave him a look of exasperation. ‘Uh-huh. Just a bit.’ Her rounded shoulders slumped slightly.

  ‘So Carl will be back tonight, then?’ Jack remembered why he was there. Waiting until tonight to give his cousin one in the guts, maybe two, was not something he wanted to do.

  ‘Look, um, no. Probably not.’ The woman adjusted the child, bounced it slightly like a stack of weekend newspapers too heavy on her arm. Her face darkened and some kind of pain sucked in her cheeks. She glanced behind her, then leaned a little towards Jack, spoke in a softer voice. ‘Carl’s at a friend’s place. We’re … we’re having a break for a while.’ She closed her eyes for a moment, squeezed them hard, held back whatever it was that wanted to spill freely from her. Her neck flushed and her eyes were glazed when she opened them again.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘It’s all right, darling.’ With great skill, a happy, unconcerned face slipped into place, like a holiday slide, clicked into a projector’s beaming light. She smiled at Jack.

  ‘Do you know where he’s staying?’ Jack felt seriously awkward.

  She nodded quickly, turned to the older boy behind her.

  ‘Toby, could you get Uncle Jack a drink from the kitchen, please. There’s a ginger beer in the fridge.’

  Uncle Jack. He had never heard that one before.

  ‘That’s my ginger beer.’

  ‘Mummy’ll get you some more. Please, darling.’

  ‘Just a glass of water is fine.’

  ‘It’s all right. Come on, Toby. Skip to it.’

  The woman reached out and pushed open the screen door. Held out her free hand. ‘I’m Renée, by the way.’

  ‘Hello, Renée.’

  ‘And this is Nicholas. Say hello, darling.’

  Nicholas turned his face and pressed it into his mother’s soft brown thigh. Renée tousled his hair. ‘Come on, shy boy.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Oh, grumpy bum …’ Toby came back, handing his mother a half-glass of water. ‘Here.’

  ‘Say hello to Uncle Jack.’

  ‘No.’ He walked off and disappeared through a door.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Renée. She looked down at her youngest.

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  Renée closed her eyes for a moment. Her forehead sweaty and flushed. Then she glanced up and smiled another apology, creased the skin in all the small corners of her face. She handed Jack the glass of water. ‘I’ll try and speak to Carl.’

  Young Nicholas turned his head slightly and peeked up. ‘Sure,’ said Jack. For a moment he wondered if she was talking about Carl busting up Susko Books. He drank the water.

  ‘So do you know where Carl’s staying?’

  ‘Friends in Surry Hills,’ she said, with a look of disgust. It quickly changed to anger. ‘His actor friends. I don’t know the address. And I couldn’t give a shit.’ Renée looked out past Jack into the street, rubbing the young boy’s shoulder a little harder.

  The skin around Jack’s skull tightened. ‘Actors?’

  ‘Losers. They’ve convinced Carl that he’s got talent. Ha!’

  She stopped, gathering her self-control.

  ‘What was the name of — ’

  ‘He’s a father of three, for God’s sake!’ Renée was not listening. ‘Not to mention a husband.’ The kid looked up at his mother, his eyes big and round and wet.

  ‘You know,’ continued Renée, ‘I saw them all in a play once. Oh, yes. And you know what? It was embarrassing! Just terrible.’ She looked down, ruffled her boy’s hair. ‘It was pathetic. Better actors at my son’s school.’

  ‘Can you remember the theatre?’

  ‘Palomino or something,’ she replied. ‘The effing Palomino.’

  Same as Larissa. Same as Shane.

  ‘The bastard.’

  Awkwardness worked its way between them again. Jack had no idea how to respond: thought that he should say sorry, or something, but said nothing.

  Renée let out a large breath and a long sigh.

  Jack handed over the glass of water, gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘Thanks for that.
I’d better make a move.’ He took one step backwards, down from the small area of concrete in front of the door, onto the curved, cracked path that led to the street. Blue and red chalk was scrawled here and there, nondescript drawings only the boys could decipher. ‘Look, if you do see or hear from Carl, could you tell him to call me?’ he said.

  Renée closed her eyes again and nodded, moving back into the house and closing the security door at the same time. She disappeared behind its shadowy, flyscreen darkness. Jack held up a hand and moved off, back across the hot, scrappy lawn, towards the Fiori parked down the street.

  It did not start first go. Or on the second or on the third, but that was not what had suddenly begun to annoy Jack. Nor was it the cramped interior and sauna-level temperature. It was Lewis the bodyguard in the de Groot Maserati, parked about a hundred metres behind him down the road, trying to look inconspicuous among the Fords and Mazdas and Hyundais, which combined were probably worth about the same as the leather trim on the Maserati’s steering wheel. Son of a bitch. Now they were following him?

  The Fiori moaned and squealed and finally started. Jack pulled out, eyes flashing to the rear-view mirror as he watched for traffic. There was somebody in the passenger side of the Maserati, too, but he could not see who it was. He wondered whether Chester would mind if he got up a little speed and rammed the Subaru into de Groot’s wheels. Jack was tempted, but knew he could do more damage with a full can of Pepsi.

  He drove off. Glanced over at his bag on the seat beside him. Three-point-four-million-dollar postal slip inside.

  Jack had noticed before that Lewis had trouble moving his head left and right. Too many muscles in the neck. Maybe if Jack took a few sharp corners, he might lose him.

  ~

  19 ~

  AS FAR AS JACK WAS AWARE, the Subaru Fiori had never featured as a getaway car, on film or on the page: but he quickly discovered the hidden talents of Chester Sinclair’s little shit box. Two, in fact. Firstly, the car was difficult to see in traffic — especially from the low, slinky driving position behind the wheel of a Maserati Quattroporte; and secondly, it could be driven down laneways barely wide enough for mothers with prams. What the Fiori lacked in style and power, it made up for with cunning. Just like an old, arthritic rat.

  Jack drove back up Old Canterbury Road, then crisscrossed Parramatta Road, heading for the city. He wound through Glebe and Annandale, swung over into Newtown and drove through the narrow streets, eyes flicking nervously up to the rear-view mirror. He could feel Lewis’ arm around his neck. The bodyguard kept up for a while in the fancy Italian wheels, just a few cars back, but by the time Jack slipped down a couple of bin-lined rear lanes in Redfern, his tail was free. He drove to Susko Books in a hurry. Chester could wait.

  He came to York Street, turned the Fiori down Market Row, and parked right outside the rear door to Susko Books. It was a prime tow-away area. Jack flicked the hazard lights on and wrote a note that he left on the dashboard: Delivery — if need car moved, pls ask at desk, Susko Books.

  Jack unlocked the door and entered the shop. Books still all over the floor. What next? He stood there, thinking. Heart beating. He felt as though he had walked into his own head. Everybody wanted what he had and everybody knew where he was. Maybe the first thing to do was make himself less accessible. That was a start. But where?

  A tap on the window outside made him look up. Kim Archer waved at Jack from behind the glass, smiling. Jack held up his hand and walked over to let her in. Some of the tension in his body eased.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, face bright and shiny with a thin film of sweat. ‘Boy, it’s a stinker out there!’

  ‘Welcome to my cavern of cool. Just don’t mind the mess.’

  Kim took in the space. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Stocktake sale,’ said Jack, letting Kim in and then locking the door behind her. ‘They always go nuts.’

  ‘Really?’ She looked around, hands on hips. ‘Do they buy anything or just throw it around?’

  ‘Mostly throw it around. It’s the new retail therapy.’

  She grinned, turned her dark-brown eyes onto Jack.

  The faintest tint of blue around them. Nude lips shining, her white-blonde hair soft and brushed messily forwards.

  She was wearing leopard-skin tights and a baggy black T-shirt with a 1950s Elvis Presley on the front in white. Red Converse sneakers and a shiny gold handbag in the shape of a clam, the thin strap across her body. Expensive-smelling perfume and a general air of cheekiness. Kim Archer grew on Jack a little more.

  ‘Seriously,’ she said. ‘Did somebody do the place over?’

  Jack nodded.

  ‘My God! Have you called the police?’

  ‘They said they’d get here sometime in January.

  Afternoon, most likely.’

  Kim continued to look around, stunned. ‘Did they take anything?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘You’ve got to call the police.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I have.’

  She frowned at him, unsure. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  Jack pulled a sad, serious face. Walked to the counter.

  ‘Then we have no future together.’

  When he turned around, he saw Kim’s mouth stretched wide, clean white teeth glowing through her lips. She picked up a couple of books from the floor and brought them over to the counter.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to work in a bookshop,’ she said.

  ‘You can start today. Five bucks an hour and all the books you can eat.’

  ‘Done.’

  Jack’s knees felt a little oiled. ‘So, you’re here for a book?’ He scratched his chin. ‘I’d say … Charlotte’s Web.’

  Kim grinned, pleased. ‘Very good. You could also add A Thousand Things to Do on a Rainy Day.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Jack. ‘Now I see it all. What else?’

  ‘Well, actually, Shane sent me to pick up a book for him.’

  Jack held his breath for a moment.

  ‘Said you’d know all about it.’

  ‘Right.’

  Kim looked at him, a little confused. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Jack cleared his throat. ‘I know about it. Is he back?’

  ‘No, still in China. He said it was a gift for someone and could I send it for him.’

  ‘Who’s the lucky person?’

  ‘Larissa someone, I can’t remember her last name. She’s a friend of Shane’s. I met her a couple of times at the house.’

  Jack nodded.

  ‘What’s the book?’ asked Kim. ‘Shane didn’t tell me.’

  ‘A little Bible.’

  ‘Really? She didn’t look like the religious type to me.’

  ‘Evangelical Christian, apparently.’

  ‘Right.’ Kim crouched to the floor and gathered up a few more books. ‘Anyway, it’s nice of Shane. He’s never bought me a thing.’

  Jesus. Jack wondered where Shane actually was. Obviously being beaten up was no deterrent to the unemployed actor. Then again, three-and-a-bit mill was pretty hard to resist: especially if it had slipped through your hands once already.

  ‘Shane does a bit of theatre stuff, too, doesn’t he?’ he asked.

  ‘On and off. Actually he was in a play … when was it?

  Last month?’ Kim raised her eyebrows. ‘Shane was … okay.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The Palomino. Not far from our place, just down on Devonshire Street. They did Molière: Le Malade Imaginaire.’ ‘Know your seventeenth-century comic dramatists then?’

  ‘The costumes were shit. The elastic on Shane’s eye-mask snapped in the middle of a scene.’

  ‘Really?’ Jack hoped it had stung. ‘Know any of the other actors?’

  ‘Oh, a couple. Why?’

  ‘I was wondering if it was the same one my cousin was in.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Carl,’ said Jack. ‘Carl Reiss.’

  Kim’s face brightened. ‘Carl
Reiss is your cousin? Really?’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s friends with Shane as well. He comes around all the time. He’s really sweet.’

  ‘Like a tray of baklava.’

  Kim brushed book dust from her hands. ‘Isn’t that funny?

  He’s your cousin!’

  ‘Hilarious.’

  ‘You don’t like him?’

  ‘I don’t think so, no.’

  She went to say something else but pointed over Jack’s shoulder instead. ‘Somebody wants to buy a book.’

  Jack turned. There was a face up to the glass of the door. Hands cupped around the eyes, peering in. A big, tall guy.

  Kim checked her watch. ‘Are you closed?’

  Jack grabbed her by the wrist. ‘Come on,’ he said, pulling her towards the rear door. ‘We’ve got to go.’

  ‘Hey, what —’

  ‘Now.’

  She stumbled as she turned but let herself be led. Jack stopped at the back door and released her arm. He listened for a second, then gave Kim what he hoped was a sincere look. ‘Sorry I grabbed you like that,’ he said, voice low and serious. ‘But that guy isn’t my long-lost twin separated at birth. Know what I mean?’

  Kim nodded, pulled the strap of her bag further up her shoulder. Her freckles had faded to the barest tint of light brown.

  ‘Best if you just walk normally down the lane and back round to York Street or wherever you’re going. Look like you’re on your way somewhere. He doesn’t know you so there’s nothing to worry about. Okay?’

  Her face tightened. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Take my super-car for a run.’ He enjoyed her momentary tone of concern. Lately, it had only been Jack Susko worrying about Jack Susko.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ she said.

  Jack did not answer. He held the door to Susko Books open a crack and peered into Market Row. Nobody there. He turned to Kim and ushered her through. ‘Right. Off you go.’