The Black Russian

by Lenny Bartulin

  Kim smiled. She had changed out of her earlier outfit: now she was wearing a red-and-blue-check Western shirt with pearl press-studs, and a black leather miniskirt, her slim legs smooth and endless below. Still the red Converse on her feet. She handed Jack a glass of water and a couple of tablets. ‘Nurofen. Wait here.’

  Kim went back out into the hallway. Jack heard her hollow footsteps up the stairs, and then floorboards creaking above his head. He wondered if it was a good idea to have come back to Kim’s place. Did Kablunak’s boys know her? Or Lewis? They probably all knew that Shane lived here, so there was always the chance someone might come over for a look. Maybe. Jack slumped in the chair, the day in his lap like a wet dog. From now on, he was swinging first. He washed down the tablets.

  Kim came back holding up a bottle of Chivas Regal.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think you’re very talented.’

  She bowed with a flourish, then collected some glasses from a cupboard. She sat opposite Jack at the dining table.

  ‘So what’s the next move?’ she asked, handing Jack a Scotch.

  ‘Got any cigarettes?’

  Kim reached for her bag hooked on the back of her chair, opened it and tossed him a crumpled packet. He shook for a cigarette. None came out. He inspected the soft-pack more closely, stuck his finger in it, then sighed. The gods really wanted him to stay off the darts.

  ‘Is it empty?’

  Jack nodded. Drank a good length of Scotch.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, eagerly. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘Why would you want to get involved?’

  ‘Don’t know. Nice eyes, maybe.’

  For once, the flush to Jack’s face was not the result of a blow to the body.

  ‘I love your shirt, by the way.’ She reached over and felt the printed cotton between her fingertips. There were small peacocks on it, pale rose and green and cream over blue. Plus a little blood now. It was a nice shirt, left over from when Jack used to have the odd dollar to spend.

  ‘Beautiful fabric. Soft as a favourite handkerchief.’

  ‘Just don’t blow your nose on it.’

  Her hand lingered a moment on Jack’s sleeve. Her touch was soft, her fingers gentle, feeling the fabric as though it was telling her something. ‘I’ve got some shirts that would look great on you,’ she said, her voice lower, a trace of huskiness at the edges.

  ‘Fashion designer?’

  ‘That’s me. Paris, London, New York. Bondi market stall.’

  The Scotch was putting colour back into his cheeks. Kim was putting it everywhere else.

  ‘The book Shane wanted you to pick up from me,’ he said. ‘Ever mention it before?’

  Kim leaned back and crossed her arms and frowned. ‘No. Has it got something to do with those guys?’

  Jack brought the glass of Scotch to his lips, paused. ‘It’s their book.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘Shane stole it from them and now they want it back.’

  ‘So how did you get it?’

  ‘Shane sent it to me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘What kind of book is it?’

  Jack stretched his neck carefully. ‘The kind that attracts guns.’

  ‘God.’ Kim slumped her shoulders. She stared out into the back yard for a moment. ‘So you’ve got the book that everybody wants?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘More complications.’ Jack sighed. He felt suddenly exhausted. ‘It’s still in the mail.’

  ‘Didn’t he just send me to pick it up?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Kim was thinking. Her eyes held Jack’s.

  ‘I’m being punished in this life so that I may attain peace in the next,’ he said.

  She reached over and poured more Scotch into his glass. ‘So the book’s in the mail and they want you to give it to them as soon as it arrives? Or else?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘So just give it to them. Who cares about Shane?’

  ‘Believe me, I’m not worried about Shane.’ Jack delicately felt the back of his head. Blood was crusted in his hair. ‘The problem is they’re not the only them who want it.’

  Kim grimaced on Jack’s behalf. She leaned back, thoughtful. The chair creaked beneath her. After a moment, she angled her head slightly and gazed at Jack. ‘How much is it worth?’

  He picked up his glass, swirled it. ‘Whims would not be a financial strain.’

  ‘Well … why don’t you keep it? Take the money and run?’

  Jack grinned. ‘It’s an option. After today I’ve been giving it some thought.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Too complicated. It’s still a famous stolen antiquarian book, not actual money yet. And it’s all too rushed. You need time to come up with a good plan. Contacts.’ Jack remembered driving his old boss Ziggy Brandt around. His activities were often illegal, often complicated, but never rushed. And he was still out there, not rushing, which was probably proof enough of the formula.

  ‘Maybe you just need some help?’ Kim looked at Jack, helpfully. ‘You need to jump on things when they come by.’

  ‘What if you’re on a moving train over a deep gorge?’

  She shrugged. ‘I just think that life is full of possibilities. And when they come … jump.’

  Cicadas started up outside, the noise instantly loud and penetrating, as though they had dropped the clutches on a thousand two-stroke motorbikes, all at the same time. Jack looked out into the narrow yard through the glass-panelled doors to his left. Yeah. It sure would be great. Possibilities just falling in your lap. And the girl, too.

  Kim screwed the cap off the Scotch and poured Jack some more. ‘So when do you think this book is going to arrive?’

  ‘It already has.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘At the post office. They delivered the pick-up slip the other day.’

  ‘Hang on. So you could just go and get it?’

  Jack nodded. ‘Yep.’

  ‘So … ?’

  He saw the look in her eyes, could read the excitement, the sparks of possibility that her imagination flicked up like flint being struck. He recognised it. The impulse was his own. ‘They’ve been through my apartment, they’ve been through my shop. If I’d have picked it up, it would be gone by now,’ he said. ‘But while it’s there, I’ve got a bargaining chip. So the post office is the safest place for it at the moment. Nobody knows it’s there.’

  ‘But if they knew, could they pick it up?’

  ‘I don’t think so, not without the slip.’

  ‘Is it registered? Do you need a signature?’

  ‘No, but without the slip, they’d still need ID. They’d need to be me.’

  ‘Or get a very slack postal worker.’

  Jack shrugged.

  ‘Always the chance,’ said Kim.

  ‘Still safer than my place. And anyway, they don’t know it’s there. And even if they did, the post office doesn’t open again until 9.00 a.m. tomorrow, so I’ve got some time up my sleeve.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘I’m still thinking.’

  ‘You look like you’re in pain. Maybe you should lie down.’

  ‘I’d hate to be rude.’

  She gazed into her Scotch, swirled the glass. ‘Why not? It wouldn’t bother me.’

  Jack looked at Kim Archer. He said nothing and kept looking. She did not seem to mind.

  ‘It wouldn’t bother me, either,’ he said and finished his drink.

  ~

  23 ~

  THERE WAS A KNOCK ON THE FRONT DOOR. Jack rolled onto his back, his sleep only lightly dented by the sound, like a teaspoon tap on a soft-boiled egg; then just as he was about to slip under again, another knock. He could feel clammy skin pressed against him down his left side. Jack remembered whose clammy skin it was and thought about turning over and putting an arm around
it. But the room was too hot, still and heavy with stale air, and Jack needed a drink. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was full of rust. The thought of a glass of water stirred his dehydrated brain some more. A third knock at the front door finally did the trick and Jack opened his eyes.

  The room was pitch black: there were no dimensions to it and he felt a little dizzy. He looked for something to hold on to with his eyes. After a moment, he could just make out the curtained window, a square of pale night flat against the wall across from the foot of Kim’s bed. With an anchor laid, Jack strained his ears into the darkness, listening.

  This time the knock was louder. Kim shifted beside him. Who the hell was there? It was the middle of the night. Better if he went and checked in case there was some kind of trouble — because if there was, Jack figured he was probably responsible for bringing it over.

  He got out of bed and felt around on the floor for his jeans. After the blow to his head and the Chivas Regal, it was more difficult than it should have been. Got his jeans on, finally. He walked unsteadily down the stairs and along the hall, his bare feet sucking at the polished floorboards with every step. He paused before the front door. ‘Who is it?’ he said, in a loud, annoyed whisper.

  ‘It’s me,’ said a surprised voice. ‘Who’s that?’

  Jack swore. He swung the door open. ‘How’s it going, Carl?’

  Carl stared, did not answer. Then he walked in, straight past Jack and down the hall. He knew where he was going.

  They went into the kitchen. Jack poured a glass of water and drank it and then poured another and drank that, too. He sat down at the dining table. Carl stood. It was just after 5.30 a.m. There was the nearly empty bottle of Scotch left on the dining table. And the cousins, Jack and Carl. Under the weak kitchen light, with the lino and the laminex and the pale pastels around them, it was as though they had gone back in time: a bottle of brandy instead of the Scotch, and they could have been in Aunt Eva’s kitchen, so many years ago. Though Jack had not admitted it to himself at the time, when he met Renée at the house in Bankstown, he had felt the urge to step inside and look around, see the old rooms from his childhood weekends: hiding places in the bedroom closets, and the see-through plastic runner down the hall that you could slide over with a run-up. He remembered one particular Sunday, church-day afternoon, in the kitchen at Aunt Eva’s house in Bankstown. Full of people milling around, eating and drinking. Carl with his Messerschmitt, dive-bombing the walnut cakes and shortbreads on the table. And Jack’s aunt talking to somebody about her deceased husband. ‘Oh, yes, he loved confession,’ she was saying. ‘He used to go in regularly and confess to things he hadn’t done yet. He called it building up credit.’ Her tone was bitter. ‘Then he’d go out and get up to all sorts of no good.’ An old woman shook her head and made the sign of the cross, though Jack remembered thinking it was not a bad idea.

  ‘I thought Shane might be here,’ said Carl, his tone all tough-guy-taking-no-shit.

  ‘At five-thirty in the morning? You must be good friends.’

  ‘Yeah. So what?’

  ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘But you are.’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  Carl nodded. Then stuck his chin out a little and pouted.

  ‘I hear you’re pretty good at the Palomino,’ said Jack. ‘That your Rebel without a Cause routine?’

  ‘Fuck off.’ Carl slid his hands into the tight pockets of his jeans. Looked around the kitchen. ‘I’m not doing anything.’

  Jack saw Kim’s mobile lying on the dining table. ‘Okay,’ he said, reaching for it. He flipped the phone open. ‘I promised Renée I’d call her when I saw you again. She’s been worried.’

  ‘What?’ Carl’s cool demeanour went up like a struck match. ‘Hey, no …’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Don’t call her.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Jack, contemplating the Chivas because his head was pounding and his eyes felt like little bags of hot sand. ‘I like Renée,’ he said. ‘And I don’t like you.’

  Carl closed his eyes for a second. Opened them again. ‘Please,’ he said.

  Jack looked at him for a moment. He closed the mobile and put it down on the dining table. ‘Better start from the beginning.’

  ‘You’ve got to help me, Jack.’ Carl held his hands up in a gesture of sincerity. ‘I’m in big trouble.’

  Jack said nothing.

  ‘Did you hear me?’

  ‘Yeah, I heard you.’ Jack’s voice was low but firm. He felt the blood flow into his hands and pulse at the back of his head. ‘How about you give me the keys back,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Or did you drop them at Susko Books while you trashed the place?’

  Carl stared down at the floor, shook his head seriously. ‘No, no, no,’ he said, then looked back up at Jack. ‘That was not me. I let ’em in, but that was not me.’

  ‘You let them in, but it wasn’t you?’ Jack swore. ‘My shop’s all over the floor and you’re telling me it’s got nothing to do with you? And what about the damage to my apartment?’

  ‘I told you, I had to let them in! They’ve got me by the balls, Jack. You’ve got to understand.’

  Jack picked up the bottle of Chivas Regal and turned it in his hand. ‘All right, Carl. Let’s do it then. Who, what and why. From the beginning.’

  ‘Have you got a cigarette?’

  ‘No.’

  Carl ran a hand through his hair. ‘Richard de Groot,’ he announced. ‘He wants the Sergius back. And if I don’t get it to him, I’m cactus.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  Carl nodded.

  ‘Richard de Groot busted my place up?’

  ‘Yeah. Well, mainly Lewis.’

  ‘And you let them in?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Jack shook his head in disbelief. ‘You found the spare keys to Susko Books in the car and then rang de Groot and said Hey, I’ve got the keys, come round and have a look for your Bible?’ ‘No.’ Carl took a breath, looked away. ‘Not like that. They caught me in your shop the first time. Lewis was staking the place out, saw me going in. Then they made me go to your apartment.’

  ‘So you were looking for the Sergius at Susko Books, not de Groot? How the fuck did you know about it?’

  Carl paused for a moment. ‘Larissa.’

  ‘Christ.’ Jack picked up the Chivas bottle and poured a couple of fingers’ worth in the glass he had been drinking from last night. He drank. The Scotch let go its fire and reamed his throat with heat. ‘Larissa told you to go see if the Sergius was at Susko Books?

  ‘That’s right.’

  Jack thought about it. She was checking to see if he had lied about it not turning up. Okay. Nature of the business. No need to get too upset. ‘So you and Larissa, huh?’

  ‘It’s not what you think.’

  ‘That’s a very tired line, cousin.’

  ‘Yeah, well it’s true.’ Carl tried to look insulted but maybe should have practised more. ‘We’re just good friends.’

  ‘I don’t even want to know.’

  ‘We talk. All right with you?’

  ‘You sure it’s me you’ve got to ask?’

  Carl put his hands on his hips, went to say something, but kept it down.

  Jack let it go: he could feel other questions start to prickle his scalp, like spiders’ legs hustling around his head. It was not a pleasant sensation. ‘Why was Lewis staking Susko Books out?’

  ‘I don’t know. Waiting for the Sergius, I suppose.’

  ‘Right.’ Jack tried to sift the facts. The dubious ones floated to the surface like old champagne corks. Why would de Groot think that he had the Sergius?

  ‘Jack. I need that fucking Bible.’

  ‘Or what?’

  Carl stood a little taller, puffed out his chest. ‘I’m fucking serious.’

  Jack’s hackles hackled. He squeezed the bottle of blended malt and then shook it. He placed the bottle back down, slowly and precisely. He wished he
had a cigarette in his hand so that he had something else to think about other than curling it up into a fist. ‘You said you came here looking for Shane,’ he said. ‘What for?’

  Carl took a moment. ‘Help.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know! De Groot’s going to stick Lewis onto me for fuck’s sake! Rearrange my face if I don’t bring him the fucking Bible. I’m running around like crazy trying to get out of this mess and my wife’s kicked me out and there’s no money for the bills and shit and … and … fuck.’

  ‘You came round on the Friday night,’ said Jack, remembering, holding Carl in his sights. ‘Right after the De Groot Galleries heist. You knew about it all along.’

  ‘Yeah, I knew it was going down. I went around to watch.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Opportunities. What else?’

  ‘Like what?’

  Carl shrugged. ‘Like … something. I don’t know,’ he said.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Jack. ‘I didn’t realise I was related to a criminal genius.’

  Carl curled his top lip into a snarl. ‘Didn’t you use to work for Ziggy Brandt?’

  ‘I work for myself. Who do you work for?’

  ‘My family.’

  ‘And doing a fine job, too.’

  Jack thought he might have pushed it too far, but Carl flushed and shifted his eyes away. ‘All right. I’ve fucked up. But now you’ve got to help me, Jack.’

  ‘That night you came over and borrowed the car. Why?’

  ‘I needed it, simple as that. I saw you come out of the gallery and couldn’t fucking believe it. And the Toyota when you drove off … Like Mum was driving it. I almost yelled out.’ He paused. ‘Still don’t know why she gave it to you.’ There was bitterness in his voice.

  ‘Keep the fucking thing.’

  Carl stared blankly at his cousin. ‘Can I have a drink? Please?’

  ‘The tap is right behind you.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘More stories, Carl.’ Jack shifted in his chair. ‘And be aware that I’m currently in the throes of nicotine withdrawal.’

  A pause. ‘You here with Kim?’

  Jack saw his cousin’s brow tighten slightly over his eyes. ‘None of your concern,’ he said, tone hard as ice. He slugged more Scotch. His head felt a little better, if not his predicament. ‘So Larissa’s had you in from the beginning. Keeping an eye on Shane, I suppose.’ Jack held the glass of Chivas up, closed an eye and aimed it at the ceiling light. ‘But Shane’s not here and neither is the Sergius. De Groot’s after you and the wife’s changed the locks. Looks like you’re pretty shit at everything, cousin.’