Читать книгу Sold - Blair Denholm - Страница 6

Five ignored reminders, three angry phone calls, two texts with graphic descriptions – Gary Braswell was shitting bricks. Big bloody breeze blocks. He pulled out his mobile, stared at the scratched screen. He had to make the call. Following a run of sweet wins on Big Bash cricket matches, the betting had turned pear shaped. First the horses started running like lame donkeys, then the Brisbane Heat crashed in a middle-order batting collapse. As a loyal supporter of the franchise, this left him upset, but even worse he now owed Duncan ‘Jocko’ Mackenzie a shitload of dollars.

For an illegal bookmaker, Jocko had a reputation of reasonableness. Hospitalisations were rare, but occasionally the damage to internal organs was so severe Outpatients was just a transit point on the way to the morgue. The prick simply had a long fuse with a cache of dry dynamite at the other end, as the thin ranks of surviving defaulters knew well.

Gary heard a rumour that one of Jocko’s standover men sliced a surfer’s thumbs clean off and shoved them up the bloke’s arse. The victim told the press a shark attacked him and he’d lost his digits when unsuccessfully applying the old ‘thumbs in the eye’ manoeuvre spread about by the Save the Shark lobby.

If this debt wasn’t repaid on time, the repercussions would be grievous – Gary was quite attached to his thumbs. But there was one skinny beam of light at the end of the tunnel. A flashy Russian businessman sporting a chunky Rolex and reeking of cologne and his cougar wife had visited the yard several times in the past few days. The Russian promised to purchase a car each for himself, the cougar and their two daughters. Four bloody cars. His commission would clear his debt with Jocko with a bit left over for a night of fun at Jupiters Casino.

And, through some shrewd gambling investments, he’d convert the commission into serious cash and take Maddie on a world trip – an olive branch for being a pain-in-the-arse husband lately. He just had to stall Jocko and beg for another extension. His quivering fingers pulled out the mobile. Struck with fear, he returned the phone to his pocket.

If he killed some time in the car yard, maybe he’d work up the courage to call Jocko. He wandered around the vehicles, looking for streaks on windscreens, tyres that needing blacking and other blemishes.

The luxury used cars gleamed, blinding beams bounced off glass and chrome. He watched a filthy feral ibis walk in front of the gold Mercedes C250 coupe; without warning its hideous black beak spontaneously combusted in the baking Queensland sun. The bird flapped its dirty white wings in an attempt to take off, gave a hollow honk and keeled over. Gary flung the smoking carcass over a cyclone fence, donned a pair of Ray-Ban aviator knockoffs and made a mental note to ask the Indian lads to use a less reflective polish – this one was murder on his hangover.

Southport Euro Motors, Gary’s place of employment, sat tucked behind the main road, a few streets from Pacific Fair shopping centre. Lack of prime street position affected trade not one jot. The business counted among its customers high-profile politicians and low-profile bikie gang members, pimps and shonky lawyers, as well as average Joes. It was a democratic dealership.

One of the Indian boys shoved a cigarette in his mouth and took a stride towards a battered tin overflowing with butts. But he caught Gary’s eye, thought better of it and went back to his robotic, tender polishing of bumper bars, hub caps and door handles.

Enough. Make the damned call!

He mentally rehearsed an excuse for non-payment and the ironclad promise to wipe the slate clean after Ivan the Russian purchased ten per cent of the car yard’s inventory. Gary dialled Jocko’s number and just when he thought Message Bank would kick in, Jocko answered.

‘Hello,’ the bookie mumbled.

‘Jocko. Gary Braswell. How are ya?’ He hoped the bookie couldn’t detect the terror in his voice.

‘I’m fucken ace, mate. But I’ll be much better when you pay back that four grand.’ The monotone gave nothing away. Jocko might be disguising fury or just didn’t give a flying fuck. Gary couldn’t pick Jocko’s mood at the best of times, so decided to set a convivial air for the negotiations.

‘Well,’ Gary enthused. ‘I’ve got some good news on that front. There’s this rich Russian bloke dropping by next week to buy four cars.’

‘Mate, that sounds like bullshit to me. Word has it you haven’t shifted a car in ages. Word has it you are a complete fucken muppet who can’t pick horses or what underpants to put on in the morning. So forgive me if I find it hard to believe your little fairytale.’

‘I’m totally serious. This bloke Ivan’s a property developer. Cash dripping off him. And on Monday he’s coming in with his wife and two daughters and all four will be driving out of the yard in a bloody convoy. My commission will see us square. Please give me till Monday and you’ll get your money. All of it.’

He wiped a rivulet of sweat from his forehead. Spraying antiperspirant on his armpits this morning was a waste of time – the floodgates were open. Working outdoors in the heat and humidity of an average Queensland summer was a mug’s game, but it wasn’t just the high temperature drenching Gary in his own body fluid.

‘You are testing my fucken patience,’ said Jocko. ‘I’ve been more than generous. Your deadline was supposed to be tomorrow. If you’re bullshitting and don’t have the cash by Monday, look out.’

Gary heard the sound of a cigarette being lit followed by a cough.

‘And these measures involve a lot of physical pain directed your way. You’ve made me wait too many times and I’m over it. Ya got me?’

‘I get you.’ Gary’s balls suddenly started to itch and he scratched them with vigour. ‘Once my debt with you is clear, you won’t hear from me again. I think it’s time to give gambling away.’

Raucous laughter exploded down the line.

‘If I had a dollar for each time I heard that from deadbeat loser cunts like you, I could give this game away. By the way, I’ve got a new bloke working for me, a certain Bradley Albert Jones. Brad’s just out of maximum security. He done five years for armed robbery and violent sexual assault. Unfriendly, but a fucken hard worker. Keen to make a buck any way he can. If that means breaking your legs, tough shit. In fact, he’s the one I’m sending around on Monday to collect. One o’clock sharp.’

Gary’s heart galloped like one of the many winning racehorses he never backed. It thrashed at frightening speeds for a man with a hangover who’d slammed down way too many stubbies on the veranda last night, lost count and fallen paralytic on the couch. Jocko’s ultimatum on top of that was a recipe for a coronary.

Jocko meant business. No more warnings. But there was a problem; if Gary made the miracle sale, commission would be paid at the end of the month. He’d have to come up with another plan. Maybe appeal to the boss.

‘Righto. You’ll have your money on Monday.’ Cold sweat dripped under Gary’s jacket.

‘Great to chat with you. Take care now, petal.’

Gary ended the call and slipped the phone into his pocket. His hands shook like a gum leaf in a cyclone. Right, calm the fuck down.

A couple, mid to late thirties, dressed in jeans and t-shirts, ambled about the car yard and glanced at the information sheets on the dashboards – price, mileage and all the other shit buyers think they need to know.

Gary knew most customers could be swayed by a skilful salesman like him to buy a rusty 1980 Cortina with a million kilometres on the clock as long as they liked the shape and colour of the vehicle. He espoused the theory of emphasising the ‘look and feel’ and minimising the negatives.

He’d worked in some crummy car yards before, typically low on ethics and high on pitch. Southport Euro Motors was different; the yard bristled with top-notch stock, and the owner set strict policies with best practice business principles. What a crock of shit. Gary liked to wing it, play each punter by ear – a tactic that usually worked for him, although not lately. He couldn’t understand why.

He flashed the couple his top-shelf smile, reserved for people who could do him a favour. That winning smile was pulled from his kitbag when trouble came a’knockin’ as well as in times of joy. It was his all-purpose, universal tool, essential like a set of Sidchromes was vital to the mechanics who kept Southport Euro Motors’ cars in A-1 mint condition. Gary greeted the couple, charm gushing out of him like a freshly tapped engine oil sump.

‘Good morning, guys! How are you both doing on this beautiful day?’

Gary used this approach all the time, even if it was pissing down with rain. The boss wanted his salespeople to open with ‘Welcome to Southport Euro Motors. How may I be of assistance today?’ which Gary thought sounded like some pimply chick at Macca’s reciting a scripted routine when he ordered an Egg McMuffin. The boss cut him some slack on that one, mainly because Gary could sell cars. Lots of cars. But like all people who excel at one thing or another, he’d fallen into that inevitable slump.

‘Good fanks,’ replied the female half of the couple. ‘We just moved here from Sydney for work. Noice cars you’ve got ‘ere. Noice price tags to go wiff ‘em too.’

He profiled the potential customers in an instant. Broke-arse tyre kickers. Bogans in cheap T-shirts and shorts from K-Mart, matching rubber thongs and raspy nasal accents. Plus she spoke first, not her fella.

When it came to heterosexual couples and serious vehicle purchasing Mr usually did the talking and Mrs the listening, and sometimes the eye-batting, lip-licking and hair-twirling. There were rare exceptions, about as rare as Gary tipping the first try scorer. He imagined the ‘work’ the woman referred to might be pole dancing or selling pot. She was pretty in a suburban mum kind of way and had a decent shape, but the minute her mouth opened any hopes of a sale disappeared.

He was mighty pissed off; it was approaching 10.30am with no other punters in the yard.

‘No worries. If you need any help I’ll be in my office,’ said Gary. ‘Feel free to browse. We can arrange finance if you need it and meet our conditions.’

Which you won’t, so fuck off!

Gary made for his office and the sweet relief of the cool AC and sat at his desk, cluttered with contracts and yesterday’s Gold Coast Bulletin. He cradled his head in his hands, closed his eyes and tried to figure out what to do. What a shit storm. He’d have to ask the boss for an advance. Or feel the crunch of a baseball bat against his legs.

He glanced up and saw the young couple walk out of the car yard. He hoped his instincts would prove wrong and they’d march into his office, pull out an envelope stuffed with 100-dollar bills and demand the keys to the black 2010 Audi A4.

And give him a massive tip.

Plus she could suck his dick for his efficient and friendly service.

Instead, they disappeared around the corner, deep in conversation. About what, he couldn’t guess and didn’t care.

‘Braswell, can you step into my office for a second?’ The insistent voice shook him from his reverie.

The car yard boss, Max Buckley, a heaving gorilla of a man, stood in the doorway of Gary’s office. He waggled his fat index finger and waddled towards the sliding glass doors in the reception area. A few centimetres of puffy white skin and a hairy piece of arse cleavage separated Max’s pinstriped pants and business shirt. The man was a repulsive specimen, but Gary liked him.

Max had given him a chance three years ago when Gary wandered in off the street, desperate after being sacked from another car yard; a scapegoat for a mistake made by the dealership owner. Gary offered to work for Max for a while with no pay, just to test the waters. He made those waters roil and seethe, selling five cars during the short trial period. The result so impressed Max that he paid Gary commission anyway and offered him a fulltime job.

‘Be there in a minute.’ Gary rose slowly from his chair.

He surveyed his little dominion. His office was an oasis where he could forget about everything. It was modest but it was his. A lockable black two-drawer filing cabinet and a wall-mounted plasma television to watch whenever he pleased – a gift from the boss after Gary’s fiftieth sale in record time. A framed photo of him and Maddie sat beside his computer.

On mornings following a row, usually about Gary’s drinking and gambling, he’d shove the photo into the bottom drawer of the desk only to dust it off and place it lovingly back in its rightful spot after the inevitable make-up sex.

He looked at that photograph now and smiled. Their honeymoon in Tasmania, of all places. An obliging Japanese girl snapped the happy newlyweds joyous in the snow atop Mount Wellington. In the photo, his eyes were bloodshot after a night slamming down shots at Wrest Point Casino, his hair blown about by the constant chaotic gusts on the mountain. But through the hangover, his face radiated confidence – a young man with no worries or cares, living for the moment. Maddie’s face reflected the wonder of a Queensland beach girl’s first experience of snow and a beautiful wife besotted with her new husband.

Maddie wanted to honeymoon in Bali, but Gary had been there in his early twenties. He hooked up with a pair of skater dudes from Perth and swallowed some pills that made him spew up a day’s worth of food and brought on a fever hot enough to melt a candle. Gary suffered in his dark hotel room, too scared to admit to taking drugs in a place where such an admission brought unthinkable consequences. No way was he going back to Bali; it was a cursed place.

Maddie picked Tasmania after Aunty Kayleen said it was ‘bloody beautiful darl’. According to Maddie, Aunty Kayleen reckoned Tassie had fewer of the wicked temptations to lead Gary into trouble.

They’d planned to return but the years flew by without another holiday. He knew it was because of his drinking and gambling, but once this debt to Jocko was cleared he’d knuckle down and take Maddie back to Tasmania. Or maybe even New Zealand. Raewyn the Kiwi receptionist was always telling him how ‘fentestuck’ it was there.

To look busy, he tucked a clipboard under his arm. He passed Raewyn on the way to Max’s office. No flirting or vacuous pleasantries today; all business, but the smile flashed anyway, irrepressible.

Gary gave a two-finger tap on the door frame. Max’s eyesight must be getting worse; the boss was sitting so close to his computer, it looked like he was pashing the monitor. No reaction; a louder tap, this time with his wedding ring.

Max started as if waking from a trance.

‘Gaz, come and sit down.’

Max nodded towards one of two black leather armchairs. Mugs of steaming coffee sat on a tray with a plate of chocolate biscuits. All set up for a cosy chat about business and life in general.

Gary fought his instincts to start talking; he hated silences and often spat out the first undigested thought that popped into his head. The smart thing to do now was to let the boss start. When the big guy finished, Gary would ask for the advance. Max poured milk into his coffee, added sugar and stirred at such a leisurely pace, Gary thought he was watching a slow-motion replay. He squirmed in his seat.

‘There’s no easy way of saying this,’ said Max. ‘What’s going on, son? The latest sales figures confirm what I already suspected. You’re dragging the chain. Even the new guys Hassan and Tony have had more success in the last couple of months. I’m worried about you.’ Max spoke in an even tempo, as he always did with Gary. His protégé could back a vehicle over a customer and Max would find a way to blame the customer.

‘I knew you’d be hauling me in here sooner or later and I’m kind of glad you did.’

Gary rolled up his sleeves, symbolising his desire to get on with the job. He read about this subliminal tactic in a self-help manual and now was as good a time as any to test out the theory.

‘Things have been a bit shit lately, I’ll admit it,’ said Gary. ‘But business in general is a bit slower than normal, right? People don’t have spare cash to spend with the downturn in consumer confidence, the end of the mining boom, rising unemployment. Shit like that’s a game changer.’

‘That sounds like a cop out, especially coming from you.’ Max frowned. ‘It still doesn’t explain the new blokes outperforming you. Something deeper’s troubling you. Are things right with Maddie? I need you to be honest with me.’

Gary summoned up all his courage to tell Max the truth, but couldn’t help pouring out the bullshit. Even as he began to speak, a wave of shame spread through his body. His face felt flushed and he itched everywhere – worst of all, in the damn balls again. He slid the clipboard across his lap and gave his testicles a relieving scratch.

‘It’s Maddie’s mum. She’s dying of leukaemia and I’ve been borrowing money from this guy in Surfers. He’s a mate of a mate, you know the deal. I’m gonna pay him back but he’s putting the hard word on me. I don’t know what to do. The more I worry, the harder it is to do my job properly. I’m so sorry Mr Buckley, I should have told you before things got out of hand.’ He picked up his coffee with shaking hands and took a sip.

‘You’re damn right you should have told me. I reckon we should contact the police. Or maybe one of our bikie customers.’ Max’s eyes narrowed in thought. ‘A word from one of those heavies should see that loan shark off your back. Just give me the bloke’s name and I’ll fix it.’ Max leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his ample chest, nodding as if he just solved a problem vexing humankind for centuries.

For a moment, Gary thought Max might have a good plan. But in reality it’d never work. For one thing, Jocko was mates with the Sergeants-at-Arms of the two biggest gangs in the city, the Cossacks and Satan’s Sons. Photos of Jocko sharing a beer with the two outlaw bikies hung in the bookie’s office. For another, just because Max sold a few cars to these guys, didn’t make them best buddies. As for contacting the police, forget it – everybody knew the cops on the Gold Coast were at best incompetent, at worst in cahoots with the crims. No, it was time to make Max see sense and stump up the money.

‘I know what you’re saying. I’ve thought about those options myself. But seriously, it will just cause me and Maddie even more trouble. For you, too. This bloke’s in the back pockets of the Cossacks and the Sons and those guys would chop your head off, rape your wife and daughters and burn down this car yard before you could blink. And to be honest, I’d hate to see anything bad happen to you because of my stupidity. You gave me a job when I needed help. I’ll never forget that, ever.’

‘How much do you need?’ Max asked bluntly. The horror scenario with the bikies must have changed the boss’s mind.

‘Three thousand nine hundred dollars, to be exact.’ Gary gave his sac another swift scratch. ‘But here’s the thing. I’m one-hundred percent confident my Russian client will come good. He’s gonna lay down at least a hundred grand; I’m thinking he’ll go for the more expensive cars. He was eyeing off the late model Porsches. I reckon he’ll take the BMW 328I Sport for himself. My commission on that alone will clear my debt and whatever I make on the other three I can use to help Maddie’s mum.’

Gary’s plan to let Max do most of the talking flew out the window like a bird on a Broadbeach breeze. But Gary was on a roll.

‘I reckon this Russian dude could easily afford brand new Rolls-Royces for himself and his family, but my instincts tell me he got rich by not throwing his money away. Not like other Russian guys you hear about, Mafia and that. Solid used cars with a prestige badge make more sense than new ones that lose half their value the minute they leave the showroom.’

He hoped all this detail would make Max think Gary had done his homework.

‘So um, maybe you can advance it to me?’

Max leaned back in his chair, crossed his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. For what seemed like five minutes, Max weighed his decision.

‘Okay. I will give – lend – you the money, but on two conditions. First, promise you’ll have nothing further to do with this crook. And second,’ said Max, drawing in his breath as if pronouncing a death sentence on his own child, ‘you mustn’t speak about this. I have a reputation as a bit of a hard arse myself, and don’t want word getting around that I’ve become a soft touch. If you blab, I’ll sack you on the spot. Understood?’

Gary exhaled with relief and stifled a chuckle. Other car dealers thought Max Buckley was a pushover who gave customers discounts and extended warrantees without being asked.

‘I promise you won’t regret this.’ Even as he spoke, Gary worked out the mathematics. Sell four expensive cars. A couple of grand to keep, so not a bad result, as long as Ivan didn’t give him the runaround, which was always a possibility. The more Gary thought he understood human nature and what motivated people, the more he realised a surprise lurked around every bloody corner. But please God, no surprises this time.

‘All right,’ said Max. ‘I can see you’re stressing about Maddie and her mum, so how about you clock off after lunch. See you back here on Monday morning, bright and early. Let’s just hope your Russian friend turns up. You don’t get the money if he fails to buy.’

‘Sure boss. He’ll be here, I know it.’

Gary made his way to his own car, a 2010 Ford XR6 with green metallic trim sporting a Gold Coast Titans sticker on the back windscreen. His mobile buzzed – Maddie.

‘Hi, babe.’

‘Hi, Gaz. What’s happening?’

‘Busy as. I’ve got a few fish nibbling and hope to offload some units early next week. They’re bloody expensive, so the commish should be a couple of grand, could be a game changer. Take you out to dinner at that new Thai restaurant in Surfers everyone’s raving about. Waddaya reckon?’

Gary opened the car door.

‘That sounds great, honey,’ said Maddie. ‘I knew you’d turn the corner. What time will you be home tonight? I’ll cook a T-bone for you.’

‘Oh shit, babe. Max wants me to stay back after work tonight. Team meeting with me and the new blokes.’ Gary tried to inject a bit of I’m sorry into his voice. ‘He wants me to pass on some of my knowledge of the trade. These guys are raw but I can see their potential. The boss is taking us out to dinner, which means I won’t be home until at least ten. You know how these things drag on.’

‘Okay babe. I’ll leave the outside light on.’

‘I’ll try to sneak out early. See ya,’ he said, ending the call. Why the hell couldn’t he just tell her the truth? He had no illusions: Maddie knew he’d come home a wreck tonight, but turning off the bullshit tap was proving impossible.

Perhaps he should ring Foss and maybe catch up for a couple of jars. Foss was a good sounding board; the advice was sometimes a bit iffy, but he regularly came up with genius ideas. Gary speed dialled.

‘Hey Foss, it’s Gaz. How are ya?’

‘Drowning in work this week and I’m glad it’s over. Could do with a couple of beers tonight.’ Foss’s voice was like the voice- over guy for just about every Hollywood movie, deep as the Pacific Ocean, except with a broad Aussie accent. Gary sometimes wondered if his mate had a third testicle.

‘I’m taking an early mark. Just gonna grab some KFC at the drive-thru and head down to Castaways. You coming down later?’ Gary’s usual Friday routine was to pick up some takeaway junk to line his stomach before downing vast quantities of beer, scotch or wine; whatever took his fancy.

‘Yep. I’ve got to meet a client in an hour and finish up some paperwork back at the office, should get away by about four-thirty. Don’t be too pissed before I get there.’

Gary sensed pessimism mixed with sarcasm – Foss had known him a long time.