Sold. Blair Denholm
of Jerry Luscomb smiled down upon the burghers of Burleigh.
The receptionist peeked around her computer screen, wide as the Kirra surf break. She had on one of those headsets that meerkats in call centre cubicles wear to keep their hands free for other jobs, like scratching crotches and sucking biros. She was on a call clearly more important than Gary’s arrival. She mouthed: Be with you in a minute.
After a hurried smoke and a quick Internet surf on his mobile, an office door opened and the owner of Beachside Realty thrust his hairy-knuckled hand at Gary. Densely implanted hair plugs crowded the man’s expansive scalp which offered plenty of acreage for more.
‘Morning. I’m Jerry, owner of Beachside Realty. It’s great to finally meet you.’
Gary felt a buzz in his pocket. Probably another intimidating text from Jocko. Ignore for now.
‘So,’ said Jerry, ending a rambling monologue about the vagaries of the real estate industry. ‘Tell me about yourself and what you hope to achieve.’
Gary described his meteoric rise as a used car salesman and touched on previous jobs. He skipped details of his dysfunctional childhood, his violent foster father and neglectful foster mother. And his descent into alcoholism from the age of 17. Nobody needs to hear that stuff.
So he kept it upbeat – sunshine and frangipanis all the way.
A firm handshake signified the start of Gary Braswell’s new career.
On his way back to the car, Gary felt the mojo flowing through his veins again. He was going to become an important man in town. The most successful real estate agent in the city. Make that the state. He’d wield power and influence, command everyone’s respect: mums and dads, business owners, politicians, all the movers and shakers. Filthy pond scum like Jocko Mackenzie would tremble at the mention of Gary Braswell’s name. If they didn’t bow or show proper respect, he’d crush them like empty beer cans.
Outside in the burning sun, he checked the SMS that arrived during the blitz interview. There was an image of Maddie embedded in the message. She had company. Bradley Jones.
Under the picture were the words:
Just gettin to no ur missus arsehole. Dont forget to pack ur toothbrush for the trip.
Gary squatted beside his car and wept.
‘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