~10~

MAYBE IT WAS TIME TO GIVE THE GAME AWAY. Pick out a few good books, some clothes, make a couple of mix tapes for the Toyota, and then grab Lois and hit the road, Jack. Broome was the furthest place he could think of, a healthy five thousand kilometres away, straight across the continent. It would put a nice piece of distance between him and all the overdue notices pinned to the corkboard in the kitchen. And give Jack plenty of time to work out his plans for the future. Selling second-hand books was hardly the dream job he had fantasised about as a kid. But what had been? Secret agent? Rock star? Living legend? It was hard to remember with Larissa Tate’s face bobbing around in his head like a champagne cork in a stormwater drain.

Jack slipped a thin worm onto his hook and cast out the line: tried De Groot Galleries in Woollahra again. This time, the call picked up.

‘Yes?’

‘Hello, Rhonda. Glad to see a little break and enter hasn’t stopped you opening for trade.’

‘Who is this?’

‘Jack Susko. We were tied up together the other night. You, me and Max. Remember?’

Silence.

‘How’s Richard?’

‘Fine, thank you.’

‘That’s good. He’s a lovely man.’

‘I’m very busy right now, Mr Susko. What do you want?’

‘Well, I’m thinking I want to call the cops, Rhonda,’ said Jack, evenly, so that each word was clear.

‘I thought you settled all that with my husband.’

‘So did I. But it looks like he changed his mind. A bit rude, really.’

‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ she replied, not sorry at all.

‘That way isn’t the half of it, Rhonda.’

She laughed. ‘I’m an art dealer, Mr Susko. My husband deals with his own problems. So unless you’re interested in something you saw at the gallery —’

‘Oh yeah, I’m interested,’ said Jack. ‘In the same thing you are. Has your husband told you what was in the safe yet?’

No reply. Jack let it hang for a moment. Then he said: ‘Don’t call the cops, don’t tell the wife; here, Jack, here’s some money to keep your mouth shut. All sounds a bit dodgy, doesn’t it?’ He was making it up as he went along. ‘What do you think?’

‘You didn’t hesitate to agree, Mr Susko.’

‘I’m just a poor boy, Mrs de Groot. And somebody stole my shoes while I was asleep.’

‘What a shame.’

Jack massaged his neck. Rhonda de Groot was tough as a rusted wheel nut.

‘Goodbye, Mr Susko.’

‘How do you get along with Larissa Tate?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘She works for your husband, doesn’t she?’

‘And how do you know Ms Tate?’

‘Old friend.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘I sense a tone. Don’t like her, Rhonda?’

‘And what of it, Mr Susko?’

‘Not sure. Why don’t you like her?’

‘I think I’ve had enough of this stimulating conversation.’

‘Do you think she knew what was in the safe?’

A pause. Rhonda de Groot held the line. ‘Why would you think that?’

‘I don’t. But it sounds like you do.’

For the second time that day, the line went dead in Jack’s ear. And now he knew nothing about what was going on twice.

All he did know for sure was that it had been over three-and-a-half days since his last, smooth, soothing taste of tobacco. A personal best. No patches, no gum, no relaxation CDs — though plenty of St Agnes, the patron saint of Australian cooking brandies and drinkers on a budget. Considering all that had happened in those three-and-a-half days, he was doing pretty well.

Three-and-a-half days. If anybody deserved a cigarette, it was Jack Susko.