Читать книгу Sold - Blair Denholm - Страница 15

‘About time you fucken got here.’ Gary tapped the edge of a coaster on the table.

He was waiting for his mate on the lifesaving club’s broad balcony, which boasted a postcard view of pounding surf and a litter of slick, black rocks on the foreshore near Oskar’s restaurant.

‘Traffic’s murder.’ Foss eased his insectile frame onto the barstool.

A curt nod. ‘Fair enough.’

‘Sorry for not showing up the other night. The boss made us work back, then some trouble later with Rachel. It started off about me not putting the toilet seat down -– mind you, why should I? She never puts it up. Then it escalated into something even more frivolous. Anyway, you’ve left me in the lurch plenty of times, so I refuse to get the guilts.’

‘Yeah sure.’ Gary caressed his schooner. ‘Funny that. You were the one who suggested catching up, then didn’t show. Whatever, I need your advice now like never before.’

Both men cradled beers like extensions of their hands. As if by an unspoken command, they raised their glasses in unison and despatched half the contents.

‘Things are fucked up big time,’ Gary continued, serious as a cop informing a parent their kid was killed in a car crash. ‘I get this amazing chance to start a new life with a new career and that cuntbag Jocko goes and spoils the party. If I don’t do as he says, he’ll send one of his minders round to work over Maddie… Here, have a look at this.’

When Gary pulled the phone from his pocket, it slipped from his hand. The device clattered on the tiled floor and landed screen- side down in keeping with the law of buttered toast.

‘Shit.’ Gary frowned. ‘What else can go wrong?’ He picked up the phone and glanced at the screen. ‘Wow, it didn’t break. This must be my lucky day.’

‘Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.’ Foss stuck out his hand. ‘Now pass me the phone, carefully.’

Foss sucked in his breath. A maniacally grinning Bradley Jones draped an arm around Maddie’s shoulder; the worst kind of selfie.

‘Bloody hell. That bloke’s smirking like a fucken maniac. Why’s Mackenzie doing this? Didn’t you pay him back all the money you owed?’

‘Yep, every last dollar; but to arseholes like him, making people suffer is a game.’

Foss leaned forward and squinted. ‘Something just occurred to me. Why are you here drinking with me and not with Maddie? What the hell?’

‘Calm down. I rang her as soon as I got the SMS. Said she should go and stay with her mother and not breathe a word of this to the old bag. I told Maddie to bullshit her mum that I had contagious gastro and she had to get out of the house for a while. Maddie promised she was okay but she sounded frightened.’

‘Didn’t she ask what was going on?’

‘Of course she bloody did. I fobbed her off. Said I couldn’t give specifics just yet but admitted I was in deep shit. That I was seeking advice.’

‘Well?’ Foss shrugged.

‘I’m seeking it from you, mate. And I’m also seeking a beer, so can you get us both a fresh one? I’m popping outside for a smoke. See you in five.’

‘So, I guess you want the details,’ said Gary, back after 15 long minutes.

He described Jocko’s fool’s errand, with emphasis that failure to perform would see pain rained down upon him and Maddie. He saw incredulity on Foss’s face.

The prick doesn’t believe me.

He’d spun his mate some crazy stories over the years – some true but many pure fiction – but this one topped even the Bathurst story.

Yes, Bathurst was a ripper.

He’d regaled Foss with a fable of how Gary had been invited to test drive a pre-market Sports Club Holden at Bathurst Raceway. A GM executive, whom Max Buckley had known for years, wanted the owner of Southport Euro Motors to sell ‘goddam Aussie-built cars’. Max wouldn’t budge – ‘Euro’ featured as the second word of the business name and that was that. But the guy was persistent and the thrust of his approach was to gladhand Max and, as it happened, Gary (as his top salesman), by organising a special corporate junket at Bathurst.

Up to here – true.

From that point on it was rolled-gold bullshit. Gary told Foss, with a face so straight you could rule a line on paper with it, how he coaxed the 200 kilowatt-plus behemoth beyond 280 kph. The Holden Racing Team were so impressed they asked Gary to join them as a driver. Gary even produced a newspaper clipping of a man in racing overalls stepping out of a car covered in stickers and sponsor’s logos. Foss admitted the bloke bore a resemblance to Gary – from behind and at a distance. Gary told the story with such conviction he saw Foss wanted to believe it but just couldn’t. Today, though, the boy was crying about a real wolf.

‘Any ideas?’

‘Nothing springs to mind,’ said Foss. ‘Except for going to the police, which I know you won’t agree to. I’m sure once I’ve had time to digest this ridiculous story something will emerge. Let’s just lay out the facts and look at things calmly.’

Foss snatched a clean Keno ticket and a nub of pencil from the blue paraphernalia holder on the table. He drew two vertical lines separating the ticket into three columns. ‘For an exercise like this I’d normally perform a SWOT analysis.’

Gary hated this technical stuff. His thoughts drifted back to Grade 11 economics taught by the lovely Ms Lloyd. She loved to bamboozle her students with just this sort of mumbo-jumbo. When she did, he took solace in staring at her shapely legs. Today, he had to look at Foss instead.

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘It stands for strengths, weaknesses, opportunities and threats. Since you’ve got no strengths in this situation, we have to conduct a WOT analysis – as in WOT the fuck are we going to do?’

Gary shook his head. ‘Geek humour sucks. But at least you’re making an effort.’

‘Let’s work backwards, because the threat is looming large. Jocko’s struck the fear of God into you and if you don’t carry out his demands Maddie gets it. Whatever ‘it’ is we can’t be sure, but it won’t be a day at SeaWorld watching the dolphin show. So,’ said Foss licking the nub of lead poking out of the pencil stump. ‘In column A we write Jocko Mackenzie and also Bradley Jones, his agent of destruction.’

Gary cradled his head in his hands. Agent of destruction? The dickhead’s been watching too many superhero movies. He groaned into his nearly empty beer glass, which drew an eerie reverberation.

‘Mate, can you be serious for a change?’ said Gary.

‘I’m dead serious. If you don’t want me to help save your worthless arse, just say so.’

Foss dropped the pencil stub back in the Keno holder and rebalanced on his barstool. He folded his arms and shot Gary a look that said: your move.

‘It isn’t just me, you idiot. There’s Maddie to consider,’ said Gary.

‘Like you’re considering her right now?’

‘That’s not fair. I told you she was with her mother. Best place for her. I mean look at me, I’m a mess. What good would I be to her?’

Foss nodded. ‘You’re right. Let’s go with this: You’re no good for her any time, not just now. You’re a drunk and a gambler who always loses. The only good thing about you is your loyalty, and even that’s questionable when you’re pissed. Which is often. You’re a worthless excuse for a man. Now, shall we get back to my WOT analysis, or what?’

‘Don’t you think I know all that shit?’ Gary fumbled in his pockets. ‘Get on with your stupid chart.’ With a shaking hand, he pulled out his smokes. Three spilled out onto the table. He shoved two back in the packet and tucked one behind his ear.

‘And try and be quick about it, I need another smoke and a lager.’

‘Patience. Okay, we’ve established you have two threats. Any more you can think of?’

‘Isn’t that enough? I guess I could have the tax department breathing down my neck. Or a court summons for unpaid fines, or terminal fucking cancer. Mmm... Let me think; nah, just a recently released violent thug who wants to rape my wife.’

‘What did I just say about sarcasm?’

‘Sorry.’

‘Forgiven.’ Foss resumed his serious finance broker pose, the one Gary imagined he adopted with clients when talking wealth strategies to make the rich bastards even richer. ‘Let’s jump to weaknesses – I can see a few coming up. We’ll leave the opportunities till last so you’ve got something to hang your hopes on. Then again,’ he said and retrieved the pencil from its holder, eyebrow raised half joking, half serious, ‘I’m not confident there’ll be too many of those.’

Foss scribbled on the Keno ticket for a minute, and scanned what he’d written. ‘Righto, mate.’ Foss pronounced. ‘Here’s a summary of your main weaknesses. Ready? One: alcohol dependency, clouding judgement and leading to poor choices. Two: gambling addiction, which along with ‘one’ reduces financial resources available to purchase and/or hire solutions. Three: no strong allies. Four: physically and mentally incapable of dealing with stressful and traumatic situations. And five: Maddie vulnerable to violent reprisals should you not do as instructed by Jocko.’

‘For fuck’s sake,’ said Gary, his voice gritty. ‘You’d better come up with some good opportunities. That last one alone is enough to make me want to slit my wrists, let the blood drip into this glass – which is empty by the way – and force it down Jocko’s throat.’

‘Great fight-back attitude. But let’s be honest; there’s no way you can take these criminals on by yourself. And that’s what they are. Criminals. The sooner you realise that simple fact, the easier it’s going to be for you to agree to my solution.’

Gary rubbed sweaty palms down the front of his trousers, sneaking a quick rake of fingernails under his ball sac.

‘So, Einstein, hit me up with these opportunities.’

‘You’re worried about involving the police. But in reality Jocko’s plan might make the next step easier. I’d opt for the Feds over the Queensland police. Remember what happened to the Bali Nine.’

‘He’s got me by the ’nads and you bring up those poor fuckers.’ Gary shuddered.

‘Exactly,’ Foss countered. ‘They got stitched up by the Australian Feds because of a tipoff. The AFP let the couriers fly to Bali when they could have simply nabbed the kids at the airport before they left the country. There was an agreement with the Indos so an example could be made. Our jails are full of junkies and dealers but they won’t be executed for their crimes. Not like in Indonesia. Loud message that is – loud and clear.’

Behind the surf club, a drove of parakeets descended on the Norfolk pines behind the surf club, their raucous sound drowned the drumming breakers. Gary shouted to Foss to sit tight while he got the next round.

Foss smiled reassuringly at his returning mate, whose gait grew wonkier with each drink. Gary plonked a pair of pints on the table and slumped into his seat, one arse cheek hung over the edge while the other battled to keep him vertical.

‘Let’s give the Feds a tipoff before anyone goes anywhere,’ said Foss. ‘I can’t guarantee it, but I reckon this isn’t the first time Jocko’s frightened somebody into being a drug mule. For all we know, he could have had some involvement with the Bali Nine.’

‘Fuck,’ Gary slurred. ‘You could be right.’

‘If so he’d be a prize scalp for the AFP, don’t you reckon?’

‘Fuggen oath. Let’s give ‘em a call first thing tomorrow. And I want them to get Jones too. He put his fucken filthy hands on my beautiful wife. The sick cunt’s gonna have to pay for that.’

Bravado oozed out of Gary like John McClane, alias Die Hard.

‘We show the cops that MMS you got from Jones and they’ll be jumping over each other to get him. Bastard’s just out of prison and already up to his old tricks. I’ll call the AFP, outline the gist of the problem and tell them there’s some big fish to be caught.’

‘Fair ‘nuff. Can you take me home after this beer please? I’ll grab the Ford in the morning.’

‘Sure.’

‘Just one other thing. I might be a bit pissed, but that TWAT analysis was just a bit of theatre. You wanted to involve the Feds from the start.’

‘You’re not as dumb as you look.’ Foss felt about in his pants pocket for his car keys. ‘Oh, and let’s pick up Maddie on the way back to your place. She needs to be with you, not her mother. Can you finally man up and be a husband to Maddie?’

‘Fucken oath,’ said Gary. ‘But what if Jones shows up again?’

‘Not likely to happen soon. Plus, the Feds will be working with us.’

‘Righto, Foss. Drive on!’

Foss drove out of the pub car park with Gary out cold in the back seat. He wondered how their friendship had endured; they had little in common these days apart from following the fortunes of the Gold Coast Titans and a dislike of politics.

A deep mutual affection blossomed in childhood when events brought them together, close as brothers. BFFs before the term was even invented.

One day in grade seven Gaz came to school, purple bruises spread over the back of his thighs. Foss knew something was wrong. He knew it because they’d both played in a tough footy match the day before. Gary was an elusive halfback who’d evaded the opposition’s hard-tackling forwards throughout the game. He finished without a single scratch on his body.

That afternoon after school Foss insisted on walking his teammate to his home – a Queenslander with peeling yellow paint, a riot of weeds and long grass in the front yard. Gary asked Foss to come inside for a cold drink.

‘My foster father might act weird when he sees us,’ said Gary. ‘Just ignore him, okay?’

Foss nodded.

The exterior of the house was repellent enough, yet Foss wasn’t prepared for the squalor inside. Gary’s foster father dozed in a recliner, beer bottles and dirty plates scattered on the floor. The lounge room stunk of stale beer and tobacco.

‘Don’t look at him.’ Gary beckoned to Foss with a sideways nod. ‘Come into the kitchen.’

Foss was a stocky lad all those years ago, and taller than his peers. The deadbeat in the chair didn’t scare him. He walked up and poked the man hard in the chest.

‘Whassup kid?’

‘If you hurt Gary again I’ll report you.’

The man snarled and staggered to his feet, but the 12-year-old boy stood his ground.

‘I mean it! Stop hurting him.’ Foss shoved the man with all his might and sent the foster father flying to the floor.

Gary’s foster dad continued to be an abusive prick, but Foss never saw any more bruises. After that, whenever Foss visited Gaz’s place he gave the bastard the evil eye. He knew it saved his friend from a number of hidings.

He and Gaz remained inseparable right up to the end of high school when their interests diverged.

Foss turned away from football, discovering he liked maths better. He wanted to make a success of his life, so knuckled down and studied hard. The payoff – a Bachelor of Business and Commerce with honours.

Gary struggled academically. He stopped playing sport, started drinking and smoking. Pot sometimes. Despite Foss begging Gary to stop, the stubborn little fucker wouldn’t be told. Now Gaz was in a deep pile of excrement and needed a hand.

Foss had to help, because that’s what mates do.