Sold to the Devil

by Blair Denholm

  ‘I’ve test driven it for half an hour. So spare me the “hang on”. I can’t see many other customers around. None, in fact. I’m sure business over this cold snap has been dead as roadkill. So I’m willing to offer you $2,000 here and now. Swipe my credit card and we’re done.’

  The red 2008 Ford Focus hatchback was easily worth the $3,400 price tag. Maybe more if the internal detailing had been done with more care. It drove nicely, tyres were new and there was nearly a whole year’s registration paid up. It was what they call in the trade, a neat and tidy unit. But times were tough, the vehicle had nearly 300,000km on the clock, and neither party was enjoying standing outside in a temperature of 0°C with a biting windchill howling off the mountain making it feel like -10°C. Most important of all, the look in this salesman’s eyes spoke of desperation to shift something. Anything. But Bernie wasn’t caving in – yet.

  ‘Tell you what. Lemme chuck in our extended two-year warranty, and you can have it for $2,900. That’s $500 off. Can’t get a better deal than that.’

  Gary headed for the gate, and with his back turned, waved goodbye to the salesman. ‘No can do, mate. I saw another car at a yard in Moonah. Reckon I can get it for two grand, no worries.’

  Five steps turned into ten. Maybe he’d overplayed his hand.

  ‘Okay. I don’t do this every day, but I’m willing to make an exception. Just for you ‘cos you’re a Ford fan like me.’

  There’s a smart boy. ‘Awesome. Take me to your EFTPOS machine.’

  After paying and signing the necessary paperwork, he said to Bernie: ‘Do you know of any car yards needing sales staff?’

  ‘Damn. I thought there was something strange about you.’

  ‘I used to sell a few up on the Go—, ah, in Sydney. Real estate, too.’

  ‘Most car yards are doing it tough in Tassie. You wouldn’t earn much here compared to Sydney, I reckon. Dunno about real estate. The market’s hot, unlike the weather, but not a lot of stock around and the agents are struggling. At least that’s what I hear.’

  ‘I believe you, Bernie. Car salesmen generally have their fingers on the pulse and their ears to the ground.’ He reflected on the absurdity of the imagery but continued on regardless. ‘One last question before I drive away in this spectacular vehicle. Do you know where I can get a set of snow chains? I’m gonna be driving a fair bit in the countryside.’

  ‘Of course. We’ve got some right here. I can offer you a brand new set of Konigs for $250.’

  ‘Make it $150.’

  ‘For crying out loud.’

  ‘Only kidding, sunshine. I don’t haggle over new products.’

  ‘Good. Neither do I.’

  Gary grimaced as he coaxed on the last tyre chain. The first three were a battle, but by now he had the hang of it. Wrapping them on proved a fiddly, time-consuming job and his exposed fingers copped the brunt of the icy wind. They ached for a few minutes and were now almost numb. He kept slapping his hands together to keep the circulation going. To make matters worse, that same wind was laser etching grooves in his eyeballs. Theoretically, he could have waited till the Wattle Hill turnoff to put the chains on, but doing it now meant a non-interrupted drive home, albeit a slow one.

  Finished at last, he stood and inspected his work. Not the neatest, but they should stay in place until he got the car home. He retrieved his gloves from his jacket pocket and wrestled them back on in seconds. Instant relief.

  Through a plate glass window, dripping condensation, he made out Bernie, blowing into a hot cup of something. Lucky bastard with a cushy job. Inside, nice and warm.

  Gary clunked closed the door on his new baby and smiled. A downgrade from his beloved XR6, but still a Ford. A speck of hope for the future. As he pulled out of the driveway into Argyle Street, a suspicious flap-flap-flap came from under the hood. Sounded a bit iffy, so he did what any car enthusiast would do in such a situation. Turned up the radio to drown out the noise.

  Chapter 12

  Twenty-sixth of July, mid-winter. Since March, the snow dumps and winds had eased. Temperatures hovered around zero on the warmest days, meaning any snow that fell didn’t thaw. Nights for the month averaged -3°C in Hobart and surrounds, down to -15°C in the highlands. Come spring and summer – assuming they’d come at all – the melt from the mountains would fill every dam in Tasmania, and was predicted to cause localised flooding when untold gigalitres were released. Authorities claimed to be ready for any scenario; hopefully there’d be no loss of life, and property damage would be negligible. As long as there was no unpredicted heat wave that melted the snowpack too rapidly. That would be totally fucked.

  These mundane thoughts cascaded through Gary’s mind. He was perched at the bar of the Shearer’s Arms in Sorell, admiring the skill with which Tracey plied her trade as the town’s newest and already most popular bartender. She’d quickly learned the names and drink preferences of all the locals, and was flirty enough with male patrons to keep them drinking and spending money while not angering their female partners. The women drinkers, far fewer in number although no less enthusiastic in alcohol consumption, liked her too. Tracey achieved this feat while maintaining an accuracy of money handling the publican had never seen in his life. The till balanced each and every time.

  For these qualities Tracey was rewarded with the choice of shift – overtime if she desired – and one free meal each day. Not only that, but as her boyfriend, Gary got counter meals at half price. This made his little Tassie country pub nearly as good as his old stomping ground on the Gold Coast. Except it didn’t have his best mate, Foss, whom he thought of at least once every day and missed terribly.

  Tonight was panning out like any other Thursday evening. Gary sat cradling a ten-ounce Boag’s draft at the bar, shooting the breeze with Jordie Rixon, his new friend from the oyster farm. The Footy Show played on the big screen and the room buzzed with chatter.

  ‘How’s that infected finger, Jordie? Getting any better?’

  Jordie, baby-faced, short of stature and chubby as a piglet, held up a bandaged middle finger. ‘Throbbing like mad. Reckon I picked up an infection off an oyster shell. Bit of grit found its way into a cut. Mustn’t’ve washed it off properly.’

  ‘Mate, you gotta be careful. They give us those protective gloves to wear for a good reason. You should—’

  Six-foot-seven of bearded, burly farmer in a checked shirt suddenly towered over Jordie. ‘I don’t appreciate people flipping me the bird,’ the man grumbled. ‘Apologise now or I’ll take you outside and bury your ugly head in a snow drift.’

  ‘Sorry. I wasn’t giving you the finger. Honest.’ Jordie’s bandaged digit darted back into the pocket of his lumber jacket. ‘I was tellin’ Dylan about me infected cut ‘n that.’

  ‘Calm down, mate. I’m kidding. Looks like working at that shitty oyster farm’s got its downsides, huh? Along with the crappy pay.’

  Gary frowned. Nugget was right, and the truth hurt. The job at the oyster farm was a dead-end waste of time. No satisfaction or hope for advancement, only hard yakka in freezing cold sheds, sorting stinking oysters off a conveyer belt. Then there was the horrible outside tasks – jumping into icy water to collect the oysters. Maybe it was more enjoyable in the warmer months, but he doubted it. Water temperatures didn’t vary much in Tasmania from one season to the next. Let’s pray for a career change by summer. On the positive side, thanks to the job he’d managed to scrape together a bond. Now he and Tracey were renting an old farm house ten minutes’ drive from Sorell.

  The time spent at the Glenorchy dump was sheer hell, but they had endured without killing each other. Somehow. Now, on their own and paying exorbitant rent in a market tighter than lycra shorts on a middle-aged cyclist, they were barely keeping their heads above water. Tracey didn’t exactly love her job, but she got the shifts she wanted. It was minimum wage and brought in enough for home-brand groceries, cheap booze and ciggies. Renting was such a drain on resources, Gary wondered how young people could
even contemplate saving up a deposit to buy a house. Dreamland stuff.

  ‘Sorry if I upset you. Finger’s staying in me pocket for the rest of the night.’

  A pair of pale pink lips puckered amid Nugget’s luxuriant brown beard, and a loud guffaw exploded across the room. ‘You’re a funny runt, Jordie. I’ll give you that.’ He leaned in closer and whispered, ‘If you losers want to earn a bit of extra cash, let me know. Might have an errand for you. Good coin in it.’

  Jordie grinned, opened his mouth to reply, but Gary cut him off.

  ‘We’ll think about it.’

  Jordie closed one eye and shot Gary a look that said what the fuck do you mean, we’ll think about it? But no words came out.

  ‘Suit yourselves. Let me know if you’re interested.’ Nugget picked up a frothy schooner and a rum and coke, resumed his perch by the window. His busty wife and local bridal shop owner, Debbie, raised her glass and winked extended eyelashes at the boys.

  ‘Don’t wink back, or even smile,’ said Gary.

  ‘No chance of that.’ Jordie spun on his seat, tilted his head up at the TV in time to see the Collingwood ruckman and the Carlton captain engaging in a fatuous trivia contest. The studio audience pissed themselves laughing at the players who were incapable of getting any questions right. ‘Everyone knows how jealous he is when it comes to Debbie.’

  ‘She is kinda tasty, though, hey?’

  Jordie giggled like a schoolboy. ‘Not wrong. But I’d never go there.’

  ‘You’re not kidding. She’d never have you.’

  She might have me though, Gary mused. No, he mustn’t entertain those thoughts. The consequences of previous dalliances with wives of tough guys were too dire to contemplate. Still, Debbie was a stunning, busty cougar. She stood out like a neon light in the company of the drab local females. Those breast-mountains flashed milky white in the corner of his eye, drew his attention like a magnet. How he’d enjoy nuzzling his face between those beauties. His head made a slow, involuntary turn in her direction before snapping back. Nugget was watching.

  They sipped their beers in silence for a few minutes. ‘You’re not in’erested about Nugget’s offer, are ya?’ asked Jordie.

  ‘I’m curious, I’ll admit that much. Not sure I want to know the details. Remember what happened to the cat.’

  ‘Whose cat?’

  ‘Never mind. Your shout, by the way.’

  Jordie fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a crumpled note which sprang back to its rightful shape when it landed on the bar. A brick.

  ‘That’s me last $20. I got nothin’ left till next payday. Thank Christ I’ve got some cans of baked beans stashed away or I’d be starvin’. Can’t nick oysters from work to eat ‘cos I’m allergic.’

  Gary thumbed the contents of his wallet, looked up slowly and shook his head. He drew in a breath, banged his fist on the counter. Glasses rattled. ‘I’m in the same bloody boat. Let’s have a chat to Nugget. I’m sick of being broke.’

  ‘What about the cat?’

  ‘Fuck the cat.’

  ‘Debbie, would you be a love and go and order me some wedges? And a couple of beers for me two mates here. Here’s another $100 for a flutter on the pokies.’

  ‘Ooh. Thanks, darl. Wish me luck.’ With her tail section waggling, she swanned towards the rows of electronic thieves, and drew sneaky glances from the men in the bar. Gary wondered why she wore high heels in a working class venue like the Shearer’s Arms. He looked out the window at a snow-swept streetscape from the movie Fargo, and the choice of footwear seemed even more incongruous. He guessed when it was time to go, Nugget would drive to the front of the pub, open the door, scoop her up in his tree trunk arms and deposit her in the passenger seat before her feet froze.

  ‘Come on boys, don’t be shy. Take a seat.’ Nugget waved his hands at a couple of stools. ‘This won’t take up much of your time.’

  ‘Take as long as you want. I can’t leave till Tracey finishes her shift at close-up. We’ve only got the one car.’

  Nugget chuckled, slowly stroked his whiskers. ‘Big deal. Debbie doesn’t have a car either. Expects me to drive her everywhere in mine. But I’m only too happy to do it. She’s the world to me.’ Gary couldn’t be sure but felt the big man’s tone was inviting him to pay a return compliment about Tracey. Show what a caring partner he was, too. But he resisted, took another tack.

  ‘For us a second car’d be ideal. Tracey and I don’t wanna be in the same place all the time. But there’s stuff-all public transport around here, so we’re stuck with each other mostly.’

  ‘Men oughta appreciate their women more. Enjoy their precious time together.’

  Gary had a few replies to that. There were better things in life to appreciate, for example. And time spent on his own was the most precious. But he chose to leave those thoughts in the drawer. He grabbed a pile of coasters and started shuffling them.

  ‘So. What’s this job you’ve got for us?’

  The farmer looked left and right, made sure no one was in earshot. ‘I need you to deliver something to a contact in Hobart. A small package, but highly valuable.’

  ‘You don’t need two blokes to deliver a small package.’ Gary screwed up his eyes ‘One’s enough.’

  ‘Normally, yes. If it wasn’t so valuable I’d post it registered mail. Perhaps send it with a taxi driver. But I need to be absolutely sure the package gets delivered. That’s why I want youse two to go.’

  ‘What’s in it?’ Jordie’s first contribution to the conversation.

  ‘Nothing like being direct. I rate that, Jordie. It’s a new, ah, health product, shall we say. The person you’ll meet is a key investor. Without their backing, the project won’t get off the ground.’

  ‘Anyone we know?’ said Gary. ‘Owner of a famous museum, perhaps?’

  ‘No. It’s not him.’ Nugget grinned. ‘No need for you to know the name. They’ve got a colleague who’s gonna test it out on himself. So far it’s only been tried on animals. We gave a dose to an old draught horse before the snows came. The animal pulled a bogged Kombi van out of a swamp like it was nothing. Then it ran two laps of a paddock at full gallop, shagged a couple of mares. When the drug wore off, the beast was fine. All vital signs good and no apparent side effects. We checked him a month later, and he’s healthy as ever. He’s been getting regular doses and performing like a horse half his age. Once we’re convinced it’s safe for humans over a prolonged period, the product will go to market.’

  Gary tapped a Keno pencil on the table. Memories of a potentially fatal drug-muling exercise for a Gold Coast bookie flooded back. And something else: Nugget had no problem letting loose with information you’d reckon would be top secret. The bloke must think Gary was a complete non-threat, an idiot.

  ‘Nope. Not interested. Sounds dodgy as fuck. Why don’t you deliver the stuff yourself? You’ve got no reason to trust us any more than the next person. Less, in fact. I’m a new kid in town and Jordie’s, well, Jordie.’

  Jordie frowned. ‘Hey. What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Gary laughed. ‘I’m only yanking your chain. Anyway, like I said, why us?’

  ‘Well, for starters you need the money, right?’

  Two heads bobbed up and down.

  ‘Hang on a minute.’ Gary held up an index finger. ‘This doesn’t sound like something based out of sleepy Sorell, Tasmania. More like some kind of Columbian cartel. Not to give too much away, but that’s not something I’m particularly interested in getting involved in.’ He almost said ‘again’, but held his tongue.

  ‘I’d like to offer you a one-off cash payment of $200 each.’ Nugget took his arms off the chair to make way for the delivery of a plate of steaming hot potato wedges.

  ‘When do you want this package delivered?’ said Gary. Fuck principles. He’d hoped for a bigger fee, but $200 was still $200 he didn’t have. Chicken feed, but it’d help pay some bills. He looked at Jordie beaming beside him.

  ‘Th
at’s more like it. Soon. I’ll know for sure in a day or two.’

  ‘Would there be more jobs like this later?’ Gary tried to inject blasé into his voice, but feared it came off as desperate.

  ‘Hard to say. All depends. Let’s meet back here same time next week and I’ll give youse an update.’

  ‘One thing I’m curious about,’ said Gary. ‘How does a man like you get involved in something like this?’

  ‘You fellas probably think all farmers are dumb-arse hayseeds. Wrong. The old ways of doing things don’t cut it anymore. I’ve had to broaden me education. Not many people know it, but I’ve got a degree in genetics and biotechnology. And another in industrial chemistry. Knowledge and skills like that go a long way.’

  ‘I guess it’s true you should never judge a book by its cover,’ said Gary with a tiny nod.

  ‘I’m hoping the same about you two lumps of shit.’ Nugget chuckled and gave a curt flick of the head that told the boys to piss off.

  Sitting back at the bar, Gary and Jordie spent the next hour postulating about the grand things they’d like to do with an extra $200. Jordie never had female company but was always leering at women, so Gary took most of his mate’s words about buying a hunting rifle with a grain of salt. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Jordie’s money found its way into the purse of a Hobart hooker.

  When Jordie bade goodbye, he had nothing to do but surf the Net on his mobile. Checked the NRL ladder. Seeing his beloved Gold Coast Titans languishing at the bottom with no wins for the season made him shut off the phone. He looked up to see Tracey closing the till, about to switch off the lights and set the alarm.

  ‘C’mon, babe. Time to go,’ she said, tossing a towel onto a bench. ‘I’m bloody knackered.’

  ‘Yeah, me too.’ Gary yawned and stretched.

  ‘Really? You’ve been sitting on your arse for the last four hours. By the way, what was that secretive little meeting with Nugget and Jordie?’

  ‘Nothing much, babe. He asked if we’d like to swap working at the oyster farm for a veggie farm.’