Sold. Blair Denholm
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.
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