Death by the Book (A Thomas Dunne Book)($24.95Value)

Description

Jack Susko is enjoying a quiet life as the owner of a secondhand bookstore, preferably in the company of his cat rather than actual paying customers. But when Hammond Kasprowicz, a crabby but wealthy businessman, offers Jack some easy money, of course Jack doesn’t turn down the offer. After all, what problem could there possibly be with locating as many copies as possible of the works of an obscure poet? And who cares what Hammond wants to do with them? For all that Jack cares, he could burn them. Which, in fact, is exactly what Hammond does. But very soon, books aren’t the only things disappearing… Bartulin’s debut is an old-fashioned mystery with lots of snappy dialogue and a noir atmosphere. A second-hand book dealer in Australia, Jack just wants a quiet life among his beloved books and far away from his former work as a Mob driver. Broke and with his store struggling, Jack accepts a commission from a local magnate to locate and buy all known copies of any books by a relatively unknown and out-of-print poet. But Jack isn’t the only one tracking down the books, and the businessman drives a tough bargain. The Australian setting doesn’t make a strong impression, but that is more than made up for by the well-rounded and believable characters. With a fast pace and a noir tone, this is bound to appeal to a wide audience of mystery readers but will be especially popular with book lovers and fans of John Dunning’s Cliff Janeway series. A strong debut and a promising series. --Jessica Moyer A published poet, LENNY BARTULIN is currently working on his second Jack Susko mystery. He lives in Sydney, Australia. 1 THE SKY WAS TWO O’CLOCK BLUE, cloudless on a Wednesday afternoon. The weather had forgotten it was winter: the air was almost sweet and the breeze had manners. Jack Susko lit a cigarette and began walking down the hill. He could not remember the last time he was in Double Bay. Nobody he knew earned the sort of money needed to live here. It was the kind of place where old women noticed your shoes, where lawns were green year-round, and the streets were clean and wide and lined with big old trees. A place where money had always done the talking and everything else the listening — even the pollution had been slipped a roll and asked to go west. Parks and playgrounds and plenty in the bank: the kind of place to consider having kids. Jack put his sunglasses on. Having a child was not a priority, though if you asked him what was he might take a while to answer. For the moment, it was a package he was delivering to 32 Cumberland Gardens. The streets were so nice around here, they were gardens. Over the rooftops on his right, Jack caught glimpses of water in the bay. On his left, houses and apartment blocks stepped up the slope of Bellevue Hill, straining against each other for a better view, their windows whitewashed by the sun. Jack had a vision of himself in one of those double-glazed sunrooms: cognac in hand, looking out at the city’s skyline, the phone warm on his ear as he gave calm instruction to a banker on the Bahnhof Strasse in Zurich. It was the kind of job he could settle for, part-time even. Pity they never came up in the employment pages. No, Jack Susko would not be retiring at the age of thirty-four. His view would remain the dusty shelves and battered paperbacks of the last year or so. Instead of up, he would climb down the steps into his basement shop in York Street in the city, where he spent the day making sure delinquent kids did not lift the stock. At least he was his own boss. Though sometimes it would have been nice to boss somebody around. The guy’s name was Hammond Kasprowicz. He had called Jack two days ago, asking for copies of four books: The Machine, Entropy House, The Cull and Simply Even. Every copy you have, he said. And it’s poetry, he added, as if Jack might not know what that was. Did Susko Books have a poetry section? His voice was cantankerous. At one point he coughed violently down the line for about a minute and Jack had to hold the phone away from his ear. When he stopped, Kasprowicz wheezed and his voice was tight. He would pay fifty dollars for every copy and an extra fifty if they were personally delivered. He gave his address, stated a time and day, and hung up. Afterwards, Jack wondered why Kasprowicz was willing to pay so much for very little. But he did not think about it for too long. He remembered a piece of advice he had been given many years ago: when someone wants to give you money, the least you can do is dress nice and take it. Jack could do that. Unlike a lot of second-hand bookshops, Susko Books was an alphabetised affair. There were two copies of The Cull in the poetry section. After checking through a few boxes of the latest, unsorted stock, Jack made some calls. He managed to locate one more copy of The Cull and two copies of Entropy House. But it was late and most places around town were already closed. The next day he went to King Street in Newtown and sco