~2~

JACK’S STARS HAD SAID NOTHING ABOUT VENUS aligning with Mars for the first time in fifty years and him entering a whole new phase of the universe giving him hell. His week so far had more than hinted at it, but now it was official.

‘Move it,’ ordered the gunman.

Jack held up his palms. Stepped back slowly. The guy was tall, muscular: number two haircut, black T-shirt and jeans. The edge of his white eye-mask sparkled with diamantes, giving his heist-guy-with-a-gun look an interesting twist. As the rest of the gang came to the top of the stairs, he shoved Max into the gallery, hard. Max tried to stay on his feet but fell to the floor as his espadrilles came off and his legs scrambled beneath him as though he was on ice.

‘I thought you said it was just the two of them?’ The gunman scowled at Jack and then glanced back at his partners. ‘Who the hell’s this guy?’

Rhonda de Groot turned from the small painting she was unwrapping and saw the man standing over Max. Her jaw dropped a little, but nothing came out of her mouth. The second hood up the stairs rushed over and grabbed her by the arm.

‘Nice and quiet, lady.’

‘What … what’s going on? Who are you?’ Rhonda’s voice held firm. Shock was still a couple of seconds away from registering. Then she started blinking, as though dust had blown into her eyes. Jack knew it was the hot presence of the gun.

‘Better if you don’t talk.’ The second hood squeezed her arm, just above the elbow. He was short with a significant weight problem, curly blonde hair lank with sweat, a blue shirt like a tent and three-quarter-length shorts baggy over hairless, ham-sized calves. Black eye-mask with silver fringing. Maybe they were off to a fancy-dress party afterwards.

‘Did you hear me, Walter?’ The gunman still had his weapon aimed at Jack. ‘I said who the fuck is this guy?’

Fat boy Walter shrugged. ‘I didn’t see him go in.’ The fringing on his mask glistened over his round, flushed cheeks.

‘Christ.’

The third guy came over and stood with hands on hips. ‘It doesn’t matter now,’ he said. He was about six foot and cowboy slim, wearing jeans and a tight white T-shirt. Thick leather band around his wrist, that appeared to have no other purpose than fashion. This time the eye-mask was plain and black.

‘Doesn’t matter? What if he’s a fucking cop?’

‘He’s not a cop.’

‘How the hell would you know?’

‘Does he look like one?’

‘Guys … come on …’

‘Fucking amateurs.’

‘You’re all under arrest,’ said Jack. ‘For the masks.’

Slim guy walked over and shoved him in the chest. ‘Back up, smart-arse.’

Jack stumbled a little, regained his balance, and then stood and stared at the man for a moment. He adjusted the bag on his shoulder.

‘You deaf ?’

‘Come on, Shane, settle down. We haven’t got time.’

‘You’d better listen to Walter,’ said Jack, nodding at the fat guy holding Rhonda de Groot by the arm. ‘Shane, was it?’ Two names out of three so far. Jack wondered if it was their first heist.

Shane puffed up his chest. ‘Go on. Say something else.’

‘What happened to the balaclavas?’

Behind him, the gunman said: ‘Yeah, Shane. What happened to the fucking balaclavas?’

‘I told you, for Christ’s sake!’ Shane continued to stare at Jack. ‘The masks were all I could get.’

‘You got them from the props cupboard, didn’t you?’ said Walter.

‘So what?’

‘Why didn’t you get the big rubber masks, they were right there, second shelf —’

‘Shut up.’

‘Bullshit,’ said the gunman. ‘You’re never fucking working with me again.’

Shane hung his head, hands back on his hips. ‘Fine with me,’ he said. Then he looked back up at Jack. ‘Pascal.’

‘Why don’t you just give ’em my fucking address!’

‘Come on, let’s just get on with it.’ Walter slapped his thigh.

Shane reminded Jack of somebody. The way he stood. Kind of oily-hipped. He concentrated on the face, but could not see past the ridiculous mask. The name sort of rang a bell, too, but Jack was not so stupid as to ask if they had ever met before.

Max was still on the floor. Pascal the gunman reached down and snatched the keys off his belt. He tossed them to Shane. ‘Lock the front door.’ Then he kicked Max in the leg, hard. ‘Get up, you ponce.’

‘Leave him alone!’ cried Rhonda.

Jack was starting to wonder if the hoods had the right address. ‘You know there’s a bank not too far up the road?’

Pascal pointed the gun at him again. ‘Shut your neck.’

Jack nodded and shut it. The man obviously did not handle stress too well.

‘What do you want?’ Rhonda was having trouble comprehending the situation in her gallery.

Pascal kicked Max again. ‘Up!’

Max groaned and dragged himself back onto his now espadrille-less feet. He walked into the smaller gallery room, head down and face still drained of colour. Jack followed, Pascal and Shane behind him. Walter held Rhonda de Groot’s arm and led them into the connecting hallway.

They walked past a couple of doors. There was a kitchen on the right and then an Exit sign above the open door on the left, stairs descending beyond it. At the end of the corridor, a windowless room. It was long and narrow, lit by fluorescent lights on a low ceiling. Along the back wall, a white-laminated workbench: on the tiled floor, a couple of boxes, a timber packing crate full of polystyrene bubbles and two ergonomic swivel-back chairs. In the far corner, a vacuum cleaner sprawled like a sleeping drunk. And right next to it, a large dark grey safe, about hip high and a couple of feet wide. Jack could see there would be plenty of room inside for lots of valuable things. He was pretty sure the three masked men felt exactly the same way.

Pascal pointed at the safe. ‘When you’re ready.’

Rhonda looked at him, confused.

‘Open the goddamn thing!’

‘But there’s nothing in it.’

The gunman slapped her across the face. ‘Move it,’ he said. ‘Don’t make me ask again.’

Rhonda put a hand to her cheek. Her eyes were wide and wet and terrified. She went over to the safe.

‘Strap those two up.’

The two ergonomic chairs were pulled away from the wall. Jack was pushed down into one, Max into the other. Shane grabbed Jack’s bag and dumped it on the floor. He began to twist packing tape around his arms, chest and the back of the chair.

‘Nice mask,’ said Jack.

Shane ignored him, concentrated on winding the tape.

‘Why didn’t you wear the cape?’

‘Lone Ranger doesn’t wear a cape.’

‘You mean you’re not the Scarlet Pimpernel?’

Pascal stepped over and grabbed Jack by the neck. His hand was large and dirty, like a welder’s. ‘One more fucking word.’ He gave Jack’s neck a bit of a squeeze and put the gun to his jaw and pressed the cold barrel into the skin. His breath was hot, smelt of too much coffee. Through the mask, the eyes looked bloodshot and dry. He let go.

Jack coughed, tried to swallow. The day had gone completely to shit. Maybe it was a full moon and all the nuts were out? He should have checked the calendar on the fridge. Next time he was locking himself in with Lois, his cat. They could play Scrabble until it was all over.

‘Are we there yet, Mrs de Groot?’ Pascal had moved down to the far end of the room and stood behind her as she turned the combination on the safe. She was fumbling the lock, missing the numbers. ‘Five more seconds. Concentrate now.’

Walter picked up Jack’s bag from the floor. He lifted the flap and had a good look inside. He pulled out a package and waved it around. ‘What’s this then?’

‘A bomb,’ said Jack.

The fat guy began to tear the brown paper wrapping. Jack watched his face, shining and red as a grilled chorizo. His three-quarter-length shorts hung low, pleading for a belt. The paper came off and he held up the book, turned it around so that he could read the cover. Then he smiled, broadly. ‘From Russia with Love,’ he said. ‘The boss will love this!’

Jack closed his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest. The book was a first edition, worth a reasonable little bundle — the only little bundle Jack Susko had left in the world. Last year a Swiss–Japanese woman had almost bought it for her father, but it never happened. Not even after a fancy dinner, a couple of lime-green cocktails at fifteen bucks a pop, and a taxi back to her place. This afternoon he was hoping it would sell. Jack’s next stop after De Groot Galleries was to have been a swish hotel in Woolloomooloo: an American businessman wanted to see the book. Dan Osbourne, from Detroit. He was flying out tonight and had asked Jack if he would bring it over personally. If he was interested, Dan said, he had plenty of cash on him. American dollars, too. They could maybe do a deal. Jack wanted fifteen grand, but was willing to go down a little. Looked like he was about to go down a lot.

‘I think it’s an original,’ said Walter. Jack squirmed as the man licked his finger and turned some pages. They had bound him to a chair and now they were torturing him. The name’s Susko. James Susko.

‘Listen.’ Walter pointed to the top of a page. ‘This is the first line.’ He cleared his throat. ‘The naked man who lay splayed out on his face beside the swimming pool might have been dead.’

‘Show me.’ Shane reached out for the book.

‘I’m having it, so don’t get any ideas.’

The dust jacket was covered in protective archival plastic. On the inside flap, Jack had placed a small, rectangular sticker: SUSKO BOOKS. It was a nice, classy design, navy blue lettering over cream, an elegant, thin border with curved corners. Underneath, in smaller font, address and phone number. Jack had five hundred of them printed when he first opened. Just for the good stuff. The plan had been to supplement the bread and butter of his general stock trade with the odd lump-sum sale of more collectable books. All he needed to do was build up some capital from the day to day, and then speculate on the odd first edition. Everything was going just great. After a couple of years, he only had four hundred and ninety-nine stickers left.

Shane lifted his eyes up from the inside cover and stared at Jack. He passed the book back to Walter.

Jack had the funny feeling again, that he knew the guy. ‘There’s a discount for cash,’ he said. ‘But I’d need ID for cheque or credit card.’

‘Sure,’ said Walter, grinning. ‘No worries.’ He tucked the book in under his sweaty arm. ‘I’ll just test drive it over the weekend.’

There was the metal clunk of the safe door being unlocked.

‘Good girl.’ Pascal pulled Rhonda de Groot up from her crouching position in front of the safe. He nodded at his colleagues. ‘Strap her up. And gag the lot of ’em.’ He knelt down and reached in. When he stood up, there was something the size of a phone book in his hand, wrapped in a purple velvet cloth.

‘What’s that?’ Rhonda stared at the object in the gunman’s hand. She was frowning. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing for you to worry about anymore.’

She looked over at Max, strapped and silent in his chair. ‘Max? What was in the safe?’

‘I … I don’t know. I’ve got no idea.’

‘Get a fucking chair!’

Walter hurried out of the room. He came back a few moments later with a white plastic chair.

Rhonda de Groot was made to sit down and then tied up with packing tape. ‘What was in the safe?’ she repeated. Pascal ignored her. Jack watched the gunman flip a corner of velvet cloth off the object in his hands. He grinned. Must have been something nice.

Shane came over, tape in hand, mouth set straight beneath his stupid mask. Jack leaned towards him a little, whispered. ‘What about the Three Musketeers? Huh?’

No response. The length of tape went across Jack’s mouth. Another couple of strips gagged Max and Rhonda de Groot.

The three masked men left. Jack listened to their footsteps down the hall: then heard them fade as the thieves descended the stairs and escaped into the street.

Silence filled the gallery, rippled only by the soft electric hum of air-conditioning.

Jack closed his eyes. Conceptual art catalogues. Never again.