Читать книгу Sold - Blair Denholm - Страница 7

‘Hey, how’s tricks?’ a female voice chirped behind Gary’s right shoulder. He was studying the racing form guide, a nubby pencil clenched between the teeth. He had to find a winner – and soon. He’d already lost $200, and had only $40 cash and a few coins left. Bad news because his maxed-out credit card now refused to give cash advances at the ATM. Plus there was the $3,900 he owed Jocko. He spun around on his bar stool ready to tell the voice to please fuck off.

Smiling broadly at him was a woman who’d bought a car from Southport Euro Motors three months ago. Short bleached blonde hair framing a squarish face. Corporate outfit – black skirt and red blouse – and carefully applied makeup. She radiated confidence. Gary remembered he’d sold her a neat little Audi, plenty of kilometres on the clock but mechanically sound and with an impeccable service history.

‘Hi Dawn,’ he replied, ‘Great to see you again. How’s the Audi running?’

‘I’m surprised you remember my name.’ She beamed a hundred- watt smile that rivalled Gary’s best effort. ‘Like a dream. It’s perfect for work. Not too big, not too small and it looks great. Only problem I’ve had is a flat battery, other than that I couldn’t be happier.’

‘I always remember the names of my customers.’ Gary laughed. ‘And don’t be offended, Dawn’s an old-fashioned name that’s hard to forget. The only other Dawn I’ve heard of is Dawn Fraser and you look nothing like her, thankfully. Plus there’s that rather obvious name tag you’re wearing.’

His internal flirt button switched itself on and he couldn’t turn it off. From what he could make out, clouded though his mind was from the half dozen schooners he’d stuck away and the imminent threat of physical injury and/or death, Dawn was flirting right back.

‘You’re a cheeky bugger. My mother told me to be careful of men like you,’ she said, twirling her hair in the time-honoured manner of females engaged in the mating ritual.

‘Don’t worry. I’m married to a wonderful woman.’ He held out his hand to show off a gold wedding ring. Did he imagine it, or did Dawn look like she’d won the Lotto, only to find out it was a big mistake? There was something magnetic about her; if he was a single man he’d do everything in his power to hook up.

‘So, what are you doing in Castaways? Doesn’t seem to be the kind of place someone like you would go for a casual drink.’

Before she could answer, the barmaid tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Hey Gaz, ya wan’ another beer?’

The elegant enquiry came from Angel, one of the busty models in barely-there bras the pub employed to boost patronage. Her boobs bulged out the minuscule triangles of cloth just covering her nipples.

‘Yeah sure, and…’ he turned to Dawn, ‘can I get you one?’

He hoped to hear ‘yes’ so they could keep talking. On the other hand, his money was disappearing fast and he needed to catch up on the lost bets. Catch bloody 22.

‘Um…’ Dawn pretended to waver; she looked at her watch and glanced towards the door. ‘Just a quick one. But I’ll buy it. And I’ll get you a beer, for selling me such a great car. I never thanked you properly.’

She ordered another schooner for Gary and a house Chardonnay that looked like a pathology-bound urine sample.

Gary eyed off the glass before him with the appreciation of a connoisseur. A layer of foam crowned the liquid amber and condensation beads formed on the glass. It was about time his luck changed. A free drink and the lovely Dawn to talk to. He’d just see how things went. Nowhere would be best. Just one drink with a charming blonde client, that’s all.

‘You didn’t say. What brings you to this pub?’ Gary asked. He slammed down the remains of his schooner.

‘I’m supposed to meet a client at five. He’s selling his house down at Robina but works on a construction site in Southport. Building some units I think. Anyway, he’s been kind enough to spare me the drive down to Robina and agreed to meet here.’ She took a sip of her wine and squinted. ‘Ooh, that’s a bit shit.’

‘Yeah, this place isn’t renowned for its wine list. But the beer’s always cold. I’ve been drinking here for years.’ He felt no need to apologise on behalf of his local. It was what it was.

‘Doesn’t matter. I’ll manage.’

A third of the fresh schooner’s contents disappeared down his throat. Dawn’s presence disrupted his thought process. The alcohol also exerted an increasing influence, but as a seasoned drinker he was still coherent and capable of conversing at a social level. He decided to keep talking business so he could stop picturing her naked on the bar stool.

‘When you say customer, what do you mean?’

‘I’m in real estate. Been selling property here on the Coast for a couple of years now, three and a half to be exact. I used to be a hairdresser but thought I’d try something more challenging. It was bloody hard at first but now I love it. That Audi I bought from you – it was all my own money. No loan. If I’d stayed cutting hair I’d still be driving the crappy Berlina I had since high school. Surely I mentioned that when I bought the car.’

He must have been hungover as hell that day. How else could he have forgotten those details? Bit of a worry: he was too young for alcohol-induced memory loss.

Gary just wanted to flirt and fantasize about having sex with Dawn. Now he was intrigued about Dawn’s job.

‘That’s impressive.’ Gary pursed his lips in admiration.

‘Not at all.’ She shook her head. ‘One of the guys where I work made two hundred thousand in commissions last year. And if they’re motivated, agents can also build up passive income from rent referrals.’ She went to have another sip of her wine, screwed up her nose and put the glass down.

Gary looked at his watch. When’s that bastard Foss getting here? If he didn’t show soon, Gary would ask Dawn to take him to the park for a blow job, which might just get him slapped in the face. Or it might get him a blow job. Hard to tell.

‘You’d be good at it,’ Dawn added, staring him right in the eyes.

He gave her a blank look. Good at what? She must mean selling real estate.

‘You sold me that Audi when I wanted something much cheaper. You convinced me that I needed it.’

‘Nah, I dunno,’ Gary replied with false humility. ‘Max’s cars are that good they sell themselves.’

‘I promise you, it was your selling ability that made me buy it. The fact that it’s a great little car doesn’t mean much. Lots of dealers have quality cars. And there’s the private sales. But I wanted to buy a car from you, Gary.’

Bloody hell, I think she’s trying to hypnotise me. He drained the last of his beer.

‘Well, I do love my job; most of the time,’ said Gary. ‘To tell you the truth, the last couple of months have been a bit hit and miss. But I’ve got some big sales coming through next week. I’m a bit like a kid though, ‘cos one of the best things about the job is getting to drive fancy cars every day.’

‘My client just walked in the door.’ Dawn dropped her red purse into her handbag and snapped it closed. ‘It’s been great to see you again. Take care and good luck with the car sales.’

She eased herself off the barstool and headed towards a stocky bald man in a high-viz singlet.

‘Hang on a sec. That stuff you said about real estate. Sounds interesting. I’d love to chat a bit more, if you don’t mind.’ Gary dropped his card on the bar. ‘Maybe a career change is just what I need.’

Dawn took the card, leaned in and pecked Gary on the cheek. ‘See ya.’ She took a card from her pocket and handed it to Gary. ‘You may as well take mine too.’

Her perfume was subtle, musky – unlike any scent he’d ever smelled on a woman – he found it intoxicating. He hoped he’d be seeing Dawn again soon, either to discuss a possible new career or to… no, that would have to be the only topic of conversation. No indiscretions. He’d managed to cover up a one-night stand, long ago, and had kept his nose clean since. And he wanted to keep it that way.

He resumed his examination of the form guide. Clapper Belle – a longshot in the next race at Sandown. He liked the name, and decided to throw $30 on the nose for a win, which left him a tenner for another schooner. The selection method was a departure from his usual approach: analyse past win ratios, weight handicaps, state of the track, jockey’s mother’s maiden name, run it all through the horse racing algorithm in his head and pick a loser anyway.

On the way to the betting counter, he saw Foss swaggering into the pub. Foss waved hello and headed for the bar.

‘Grab me one too, will ya?’ Gary called.

‘Fuck me.’ Foss placed Gary’s beer on a coaster. ‘I thought you were going to stop chucking money away on the horses. Mate, if you’ve got cash to spare, I can point you in the right direction with sound, high-yield investments.’

Foss undid his top button, loosened his yellow and black power tie, ready for a relaxing session on the piss. He was six foot three, lean and angular, with a BMI at the lower end of the scale in a third world country and limbs that stuck out like a praying mantis. Deep brown eyes peered at Gary from behind frameless glasses perched on wingnut ears. In a pub filled with tradies, the two friends looked as out of place as snowboarders in Darwin. But they were regulars and accepted by all.

‘I’ve got it all under control.’ Gary waved a hand in the air. ‘Let’s just have a quiet beer without any lectures, okay?’

‘Sure thing.’ Foss took a long draught from his pot. ‘Don’t bite my head off. I’ve always got your best interests at heart, you know that.’

‘Yeah, mate, sorry. Just got a lot of shit happening. You might be feeding me grapes at the Southport hospital next week.’

‘Bloody hell, mate. What have you got yourself into this time?’ Foss burst out laughing.

‘It’s not funny! I owe this bookie nearly four grand. Bastard’s threatened to send one of his thugs around to bash me if I don’t settle by close of business Monday.’ He sucked in a big breath. ‘Thankfully, Max advanced me the money, which I’ll pay back when I sell four cars to one customer. But don’t say anything about this to anyone, especially about Max lending me the money. Promised I wouldn’t breathe a word to anybody.’

‘You are a complete fuckwit, seriously.’ Foss shook his head ‘You haven’t sold a car for weeks and now you reckon you’re going to offload a bunch of ‘em?’

‘It’s a certainty. I’ve got a Russian businessman primed to make the deal on Monday morning.’ Gary beamed hopefully. ‘One car for each member of the family.’

‘Mate, that sounds like a fairy story to me.’

‘He’s for real, I know it. I’ve had deals fall over at the last minute but usually I get a feeling if things are going sour. This time, I dunno, something tells me it’ll be sweet.’

The volume of the TV increased. Gary pulled a betting slip from his pocket. ‘Hang on. My horse is about to run.’ He swung around to watch the plasma TV above the bar. On the screen, seagulls hovered over the starting gate; some perched on the metal barriers and dropped little messages of good luck onto the jockeys’ hats.

The gates flew open and a mass of brown horse flesh and harlequin silks burst out of the barrier. Soon Gary’s horse was dead and gone; it trailed the pack by a length as the beasts thundered around the last corner. He couldn’t watch. Clapper Belle’s performance proved why the TAB and bookies rated her a rank outsider. When the race caller declared the winner and place-getters, Gary tore up his ticket.

‘Have a feeling about that horse, too? Like the feeling you’ve got about your Russian saviour?’ said Foss.

Gary looked up slowly. ‘Spare me the sarcasm. Horse racing’s just a laugh. Selling cars is my real game and I’m telling you to put money on the Russian deal happening.’