Sold. Blair Denholm
pub tonight?
Gary replied:
Yes pls Foss. I need ur opinion on something. 7 at Castaways ok?
Foss:
Cool. C ya then.
Gary figured Foss would say to go to the cops but hoped the clever prick would have a better alternative. Getting the cops involved would be a recipe for suicide. If they came down on Jocko and Jones, there’d be other heavies lined up ready to take the field. He didn’t know the extent of Jocko’s reach, but it was no secret the bastard had plenty of muscle to call on if needed. The merciless bikie gangs, for one.
Please Foss, come up with something…
At 3.05pm Raewyn buzzed Gary in his office.
‘Mr and Mrs Romashkin are here. Shall I show them in?’
‘No, I’ll come out.’ Paperwork lay strewn over the desk. ‘But could you come in and give my office a quick tidy? I never got around to picking up the bits of Mr Jones’s … phone.’
‘Sure thing, but you owe me one.’
He wondered if Rae would ever stop flirting with him. The banter always brightened his day but he’d never go there, he knew that. And neither would she.
The couple sat in reception on a black leather sofa by the water cooler, sipping cold water from tiny paper cups. Gary ushered them into the meeting room where they could talk privately. He knew to keep small talk to a minimum; the Russians came all this way to buy cars, not talk about the stinking weather or the surfing conditions at Greenmount. He explained the mandatory crap about terms and conditions, signed a few legal documents and handed Ivan two sets of keys.
‘For you and Mrs Romashkin. I’ll have the girls’ cars delivered by close of business.’
‘Me and Irina like you,’ said Ivan in his halting English. ‘We stay in okay apartment, but too small and only room for two cars in parking basement. It is pain in ass to park cars on street. Soon we need house with big garage to keep cars safe.’
Gary wished he could help out since they – their money in particular – had got him out of a pickle. He sensed Ivan might get to steer the car most of the time, but it was Irina who steered the marriage. The pair stood on different levels of sophistication. But hubby’s body language left no doubt he’d go to hell and back for her.
The woman watched him with her head tilted on a slight angle. Her sapphire eyes were wide open, unblinking. Every now and then her tongue crept along her top lip. Gary pegged her at about 42, ten years older than him. Her perfume exuded undernotes of fresh musk. Irina oozed sex and Gary found himself mentally undressing her as Ivan spoke.
‘You know anyone who can help us find house? I look on Internet but so much choice, so confusing.’ Ivan coughed into his fist.
Gary shook his head to break Irina’s spell. Right. Back to business.
Of course! Dawn could help the Russians with their housing needs. ‘I know someone who can help you buy a house. She bought a car from me a while ago. Shall I pass your number on to her?’
‘Yes please,’ Ivan replied with a nod. ‘We are ready to buy something soon. Now, can I give you the money for cars?’
Ivan hefted a bulging sports bag onto the table and unzipped it. Inside bundles and bundles of one-hundred dollar bills struggled for room. Money spilled out of the bag like the intestines of a stabbing victim. Ivan grabbed the sliding bundles and assembled them in piles.
The man’s hands were calloused and enormous, like the paws of some powerful beast. A real Russian bear. Broad shoulders and stubby neck. Not handsome, but not ugly either. Average everything, except for scarring around one eye. All thoughts of seducing Irina evaporated.
‘Uh, would you mind waiting while I get my boss to help me count the money?’
At 4.17pm, the Romashkins eased their newly acquired vehicles out of the car yard. As Gary watched them drive away, he decided people who carry around that kind of money were worth knowing.
Gary’s mobile sat silent on the bar runner.
Foss should have arrived three hours ago; not even a call or a text to explain his no-show.
Gary stared at his warm light beer with disgust; he usually avoided the low-alcohol stuff and couldn’t stand the taste. But Bradley Jones’s words of warning to stay sober for Jocko still rang in his ears.
Some sage advice from Foss, a brilliant plan to get him out of this mess, would be as welcome as an emergency heart transplant right now.
Where is he in my hour of need? Best mate be fucked!
The clock above the bar showed 10pm. He slowly gathered his keys, wallet and phone. Time to face the music.
He watched in silence as Jocko flicked through a tattered notebook. Jones stood flush against Gary like an Aussie Rules player tagging his opponent. A cheesy body odour from the lackey’s armpits set Gary’s nostrils twitching.
‘Why do I even bother with flaky gamblers like you, Braswell? I must need my fucken head read.’ Jocko ran his forefinger up and down the page. ‘I’ve got mixed feelings about you finally paying that debt. Bradley here hasn’t given anyone a decent flogging for a couple of weeks and needs the practice. I thought you’d be the perfect punching bag for him, but I’ve got me rules. Ethics ‘n that. No bashing debtors who have a clean slate.’ Jocko tapped the notebook with a nicotine-stained finger. ‘Aha, here’s one on me list that’s had his absolute last warning. Bradley, you can go get this cunt out of his warm bed after we’re done with young Braswell here. I’ll give you the bloke’s details later.’
‘Thanks, Mr Mackenzie. I’ll look forward to that.’
Jocko brushed crumbs from his vintage Iron Maiden tee-shirt and looked up at Gary. Jones wrapped his tree-trunk arm firmly around Gary’s shoulder.
‘I’m pleased you decided to listen to Bradley,’ said Jocko with a wink. ‘He can be persuasive when he needs to be.’
‘I paid back all the money. Isn’t that enough?’ Gary tried to affect an air of defiance.
‘Usually yes, but since you made me wait so long I’d like you to run a little errand for me. I reckon you might even enjoy it.’ Jocko smiled; his teeth hadn’t seen a dentist for years. ‘I’m not the bad cunt people make me out to be. How many other bookies would send one of their customers – not even a good customer but a prick of a customer like you – on an all-expenses paid holiday to Bali, hey?’
Gary felt his knees buckle. For a second he feared he’d faint and faceplant on Jocko’s office desk. But he was never going to fall – the vicelike grip around his bicep made his eyes water.
‘Jocko, please – anything else. I can do you a great deal on a BMW, how about that?’
‘Come on, mate. You know I only drive Holdens. European cars are for wankers. Either you do this little job for me or your Maddie is going to be enjoying the company of our friend Bradley here.’
Jocko gave an almost imperceptible nod to his henchman who delivered a lightning bitch slap across Gary’s ear. Gary dropped to the floor and whimpered. Jones hoisted him up again and applied a wristlock for good measure.
‘That was nothing; no blood, see?’ Jocko ran a finger behind Gary’s ear and showed it to Gary. Clean. ‘In two months you’ll fly to Bali and deliver a little package for me, nothing too heavy, but containing valuable merchandise. You’ll take it to Paddy’s Bar and hand it to a local man, probably called Katut. All of them cunts are called that. You won’t hand over the package at the bar. He’ll take you to a safe house in the hills. In return for the goods he will hand you two hundred thousand US dollars in cash.