Sold. Blair Denholm
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First published by Clan Destine Press in 2017
PO Box 121, Bittern Victoria 3918 Australia
Copyright © Blair Denholm 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including internet search engines and retailers, electronic or mechanical, photocopying (except under the statuary exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-In-Publication data:
Denholm, Blair
SOLD
ISBN: 978-0-6481985-0-5 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-0-6481985-1-2 (eBook)
Cover Design © Willsin Rowe
Design & Typesetting: Clan Destine Press
Clan Destine Press
This one is for two great women:
my much-missed mum,
who thought I was cleverer than I really am;
and Sandra, who knows otherwise.
If you gaze too long into an abyss,
you’ll miss the first race at Eagle Farm.
– Gary Braswell
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