Sold to the Devil

by Blair Denholm

  ‘Like what you see, Magnum?’ asked Ed.

  ‘Yes,’ He croaked, barely audible over the pulsating soundtrack. ‘She’s very pretty.’ How pathetic did that sound? Try to do better, Turrell.

  ‘You can play with her in a while. But first you have to do one thing for me. And you have to do it to my satisfaction. Otherwise, you’re going home with blue balls.’

  Ed stood, unbuckled his pants, unleashed an anaconda of a cock. Turrell tried not to gape. Christ, he’d only seen the likes of it in porn. Big as a copper’s truncheon. And he knew the damage those things could inflict.

  This was a Hamlet moment: to stay or not to stay. His inclination was to hightail it the hell out of there. But a compulsion gripped him. Surrender. Step out of that clichéd comfort zone. Without even understanding how or why, his legs conveyed him to where Ed stood, gripping his penis with two hands like it was Excalibur. The policeman dropped to his knees.

  ‘There’s a good boy. A few minutes and Selina’s all yours.’ Turrell felt the palm of Ed’s hand stroking the back of his head, pulling gently.

  ‘I’ve never done this before.’ His heart beat crazily out of rhythm. Eyes shut tight, he puckered trembling lips, unsure what was expected of him and edged forward, millimetre by millimetre.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.’

  Ed let out a sustained moan.

  Yep, he’d figured it out.

  Chapter 15

  Turrell nosed the car out of the hotel car park, looked left for oncoming traffic. At this hour, there was none. Once onto Macquarie Street, he straightened up, slammed his palms against the steering wheel. Woo hoo! He checked the dash clock. Ten minutes past midnight. Time to head home to the hateful matrimonial bed. Tonight, for a change, he’d fall asleep with a smile on his face.

  The threesome with Ed and Selina exceeded all his expectations. Playful, energetic, respectful. A nervous wreck all day, he’d hardly slept the night before. He’d not felt such nerves since his wedding night twenty-two years ago. Except then the dancing butterflies were warning signs he failed to read.

  But tonight’s romp confirmed he was on the right path. He could tolerate his going-nowhere marriage, even be happy, if he could only be a little naughty sometimes.

  He’d hoped for an amusing diversion at best, dignity intact at the conclusion. Fearful of failing to achieve and sustain an erection in a stressful situation, he rose to the occasion and stayed hard like a champ. A little chemical assistance courtesy of his friendly pharmacist helped.

  Yes, he’d done something he thought he’d never do and once considered downright disgusting, but so what? The squeals of delight from Selina when he got his turn with her made that sordid game worth the candle. And, in the wash-up, no one got hurt. Quite the opposite. Everyone finished happy, satiated, good friends.

  At least that was his perception.

  As an experienced cop he knew people see the same event in a myriad of ways.

  Ed’s parting words gave him reason for optimism. ‘Message me in a week or two if you’re interested in hooking up again.’

  Selina’s goodbye was even better. A sensuous, deep kiss with a probing tongue. He spied Ed’s face as blank as a clean sheet of paper, as if Selina and their new friend were simply shaking hands.

  He made a slow right turn at the old Hobart Gas Company building, glanced up at its towering brick chimney. The phallic structure stood proud and tall and permanent. The perfect reminder of tonight’s rendezvous. He’d never again be able to look at the chimney without thinking about Ed’s dick. Bloody hell.

  The light changed to green at the corner of Davey and Evans Streets. Roused from his reveries, he touched the accelerator and the car edged forward. Black ice was still an ever-present danger, especially on tight corners.

  Out of nowhere, a red Ford Focus flew through the intersection. It fishtailed wildly as the driver fought to maintain control. Christ, it must be travelling at around 90 in a 50 zone. One driver, one front seat passenger. Caucasians with dark beanies. Probably males, but they flashed by so fast he couldn’t be sure.

  Pursue it or let it go? Two Hamlet moments in one night. If he apprehended the bastards, there’d be reports to fill out. And court attendances if they were DUI or drugged. He did a quick head check for other vehicles. No cars on the road. Snow ploughs would be garaged. Fuck. Didn’t trucks sprinkle salt and sand on the roads to melt ice? When were they out and about? He had no idea.

  Dammit. What if some pedestrian was wandering the streets. Or a jet-lagged tourist out for an evening stroll. Fuck it, he was a cop sworn to serve and protect.

  He wrenched the steering wheel to the right. The back tyres spun and spat slush. Siren and lights on. The Focus was a hundred metres ahead. The culprit must see the lights in his rear vision mirror. Hear the siren.

  The car was in the far right lane. Heading for Harrington Street and North Hobart.

  The Pajero gained ground. He flashed his high beam repeatedly, leaned on the horn.

  Yep, as expected right onto Harrington. The car’s back end swayed. The idiot indicated to turn.

  Thanks for the warning, mate. Appreciated. Why didn’t the dickhead pull over?

  He slowed to a virtual stop to take the sharp corner. Accidents were frequent at this intersection. Shattered brake lights, shattered lives.

  The red Focus crested the hill. Its tail lights dipped and disappeared. He radioed for backup. This cheeky bastard wasn’t getting away. The nearest patrol car was in Salamanca Place. Confirmed assistance on the way.

  He couldn’t make out the licence plate. No problem, get it on dash cam. Enlarge the images. Where was that bloody patrol car? A white Commodore filled his mirror. Zipped past to lead the chase.

  ‘Have you got them?’ Turrell barked into the microphone.

  ‘Nope. No sign.’ A female voice dripped with disappointment. ‘Like the car vanished into thin air. Want us to keep looking?’

  ‘Give it another couple of minutes. Then call off the chase.’ He knew high-speed pursuits could end in disaster.

  ‘Did you get the number plate?’

  ‘No.’ He pulled over in Collins Street, replayed the camera’s footage. ‘Dash cam should give us a clear picture.’ His shoulders slumped. He should have heeded Mickey Brandt’s advice to upgrade to a camera with onscreen display. That way he would have noticed the damn thing wasn’t switched on. ‘Or not.’

  ‘That was close. You okay?’ Jordie’s eyes were wide as the River Derwent’s estuary. His cheeks flushed bright pink, his chest heaved.

  ‘What the fuck is wrong with you? I mean, what the actual fuck?’

  ‘Calm down, mate. I’ve been bush bashin’ with Steve for years. Dodgin’ trees ‘n roos ‘n that. City driving’s a piece of piss.’

  The headlights shone on a brick wall smothered in harlequin graffiti. Gary glanced over his shoulder, saw darkness. ‘I never should’ve let you drive my car. Must need my head read, fair dinkum. Where are we?’

  ‘Dunno. Some side street. Lucky we ducked in here. The cops musta thought we went straight on. I had it all under control, but.’

  ‘Under control? And if this convenient alleyway hadn’t magically appeared?’

  ‘But it did.’

  Gary burst out laughing. ‘You’ll be the death of me, Jordie.’

  Jordie frowned, looked like he was about to burst into tears. ‘Don’t say that. I ain’t gonna kill you in a car crash or anyfin’.’

  ‘It’s an expression, dude. You take things too literally.’

  ‘Whassat mean?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  The pair sat in silence for a moment.

  ‘Wanna go home?’ said Jordie

  Gary unbuckled his seat belt and wound down the window. A wave of cold night air flooded the car’s interior. ‘Quick. Swap sides. I’ve sobered up enough to drive. Had enough excitement for one night.’

  As he shut the driver’s side door, his phone tingled. A te
xt message from an unknown number. Call me back. We need to talk. Ed.

  Chapter 16

  At 11:43pm, exactly 19 minutes before Gary and Jordie’s flight from an unmarked police car through the icy streets of Hobart’s CBD, the red Focus drove into the driveway of a two-storey property in upmarket Fazackerley Place. The hulking mansion appeared fifty metres past the wrought-iron gates. The owner clearly had no problems paying the power bill because every light in the house – and the garden – burned bright. Tiered flower beds of tall rose plants, pruned and naked, followed a curved pebble driveway. Neatly trimmed hedgerows and symmetrically spaced evergreens added to the grandeur. Manicured perfection under a wintery mantle.

  The residence was a sandstone behemoth, two levels of solid heritage probably worth a squillion. Not for the first time, Gary was struck by the proliferation of majestic colonial homes dotted around Hobart. Nothing like the modern monstrosities he used to sell on the Gold Coast. He was also struck with serious envy and regret he hadn’t been able to keep his shit together. Dream career down the toilet, beautiful wife dead, money stolen. Now running dodgy errands for an even dodgier farmer in between shucking fucking oysters in the freezing cold.

  ‘I can’t believe we’re doing this.’ Gary stopped a few metres behind a shiny black Jaguar XJ. No more proof required. This was a mission with a poisonous, pointy stick tied to the end of it. He’d sold one of these babies a couple of years ago at Max Buckley’s car yard in Southport, a 2012 model, but this one was built more recently. Probably sell for close to the quarter million mark new. ‘People who own Jags like that don’t acquire their expensive toys working 9 to 5 jobs. I’m smelling a dirty rat.’

  Jordie pulled a pouch of tobacco from his lumber jacket, deftly rolled two fat ciggies. He passed one to Gary: ‘Big deal. We hand over a little bottle of stuff and leave. And we get $200 each for our trouble.’

  ‘Trouble being the operative word. Something I’m keen to avoid. I wanna get this errand done and dusted, head back to my newly fixed wood heater. Never thanked your brother for doing that by the way. I suspect Tracey gave him a sexy treat for his efforts. She was giving him the eye something fierce.’

  ‘Nah, mate. Steve’s not like that. Happily married to his missus. Two kids to look after. He don’t mess with other guys’ women.’

  ‘That’d be a fucken first.’

  ‘I’m serious. They’ve been together since grade 10 at Sorell High. Neiver of ‘em ever played around.’

  ‘You’re as naïve as they come.’ Gary flipped open the glove box and grabbed a small cardboard box. The precious bottle nestled inside, wrapped in cotton wool. Nugget’s words rang in his ears. ‘We can only make tiny amounts of this gear ‘cos the active ingredients cost a fortune. Don’t lose it or break it. If you do, not getting paid 200 bucks will be the least of your worries.’

  ‘There you go usin’ fancy words again.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake. Are you that simple? It’s a normal, everyday word. Means you’d believe anything.’

  Another wounded expression crept across Jordie’s face. The last thing Gary needed was a sook for a sidekick. Especially when he imagined the power and status of whoever was going to greet them at the door.

  ‘How about you wait here in the car with the heater running. You can play games on my phone if you like. It’s got Angry Birds, all kinds of stuff.’ Jordie licked his lips, grinned like a petulant child whose parents got him to behave by giving him an ice-cream instead of a spanking.

  ‘Right. Back in a flash. If I get into trouble, I’ll scream.’

  Before his outstretched finger could press the bell, the front door opened. Perhaps the customers watched them arrive on CCTV.

  Holy shit! It can’t be him, can it? After all these months. The man standing beyond the threshold was someone Gary could never forget. The monster who defiled him. Ed stared back, one eyebrow arched.

  Suddenly it all came back in a rush: the name of Ed’s company. Devil Food Catering. How had he and Tracey forgotten it so fast? Hypnotism or collective amnesia? Lived in Sandy Bay. Is this his house? Possibly not. Too damn fancy for the owner of a catering company. Plus the Jag. Unless he’s a big-time crim. Which is starting to seem bloody likely.

  ‘Nice place you’ve got here.’ Gary aimed for nonchalant, but doubted he looked anything less than petrified.

  ‘Yeah. Not mine, though. More’s the pity.’ Ed took a step back and beckoned with his index finger. ‘Please, come inside. You’ll freeze to death out there. Dylan, isn’t it?’ A quick bow of the head from Gary followed by a side-eye to check on Jordie. Still engrossed in a game on the mobile phone. If Gary needed assistance, the little bloke would be no use. Maybe it wasn’t so smart to leave him in the car. Then again, it was doubtful even the two of them together could handle Ed if he turned nasty.

  Gary followed Ed into an expansive foyer but could think of nothing else to say. He glanced at his shoes as he shuffled along, gathered his thoughts. Should he come right out with it and demand his stolen money be returned forthwith? Accuse Ed of interfering with him? Fancy the cheek of the bastard pretending he wasn’t sure Gary was Dylan. What a cunt. How can you forget the name of someone you’ve sodomised? He wanted to kill Ed. Spit in his face, gouge out his eyes and strangle him slowly.

  At the same time he wanted to be as far away from the evil prick as possible. The awkwardness rose to a crescendo; all he could do was thrust out a hand gripping the precious little cardboard box. He retracted it in a blur. He remembered Nugget’s instructions. And his warning.

  ‘What’s the code word?’ Asking was a moot point. Ed could easily overpower Gary. Formalities nevertheless should be observed. Professional pride and shit.

  ‘About time,’ said a muffled voice from behind Ed. Under glittery chandelier light, a figure emerged beside a winding marble staircase. A slender woman in a yellow tracksuit with black trim. The only thing missing was a sword. She glared at Gary. ‘You’re late. It’s almost midnight.’

  ‘Incorrect,’ said Gary. His eyes scanned the woman from top to toe. At least 65 years old, trying to be 25. Her face was stretched so taught from numerous procedures she’d never need Botox. Living in fantasy land if she thought she could pull off the Kill Bill look at her age. He had to give credit for the costume, though. Exact replica, if a little baggy on the skinny old broad. ‘I was ordered to get the code word before I hand anything over. So let’s be having it.’

  ‘What on God’s green Earth are you talking about, you stupid man?’ The woman ran her eyes up and down Gary. ‘Look at those lips. Narrow nose, squinty eyes. Clearly the work of an inferior surgeon. I can refer you to the best. You’d have to fly to Zurich, though. Doubt you could afford him.’ She touched Ed on the shoulder. ‘Take the package, my dear. Then we can go back to bed.’

  Ed took a long stride towards Gary who gripped the box inside his coat pocket. Let Ed earn it. He made a face he hoped made him look like a tough hombre. ‘Fuck you two weirdos. Gimme the code word or you’re not getting it.’

  The woman guffawed, an ageing hyena with asthma. ‘Okay, young man. I like your spirit. Very well, the code word is Jigsaw. I’ll go even further to prove my bona fides, even though I have no reason to. Jigsaw is the draught horse the team’s been using to trial Taspep. Am I legit now?’

  So this shit’s got a name. ‘I guess you are.’ Gary extracted the package and placed it carefully in Ed’s outstretched hand. ‘See you loonies later.’

  If the old boiler wasn’t there, he’d have pressed Ed for information about the money. Asked him why he’d committed such a despicable – make that criminal – act on an innocent man. But not with her there. He’d bide his time. He had one ace up his sleeve, though. He remembered the name of Ed’s company and that was all he needed to get the ball rolling.

  ‘Bye, Dylan. Take it easy,’ Ed whispered in Gary’s ear at the doorway. Maybe he didn’t want the woman to know they knew each other. Not only that, and Gary couldn’t be 100 percent cer
tain, but thought he detected a trace of concern in Ed’s voice. Fair enough, too, because that bastard was going to suffer some serious karma.

  The remote blipped to open the car door. Jordie looked up with a start. ‘Fuck me, you gave me a fright.’

  ‘Nothing like the fright I’m gonna be giving some arsehole in the not too distant future.’

  Gary snatched a cigarette from a crumpled packet of budget lung busters he kept for emergencies. For those moments rollies didn’t cut it. Tendrils of smoke wafted around the interior of the car. He reached under the seat, grabbed a small bottle of Johnny Walker and took a deep draft.

  ‘Who are ya talkin’ about?’ Jordie blinked rapidly.

  ‘Never you mind. Let’s get home and put today behind us.’

  Jordie switched off the phone, dropped it in the console and gave Gary a puzzled look. ‘Whaddaya mean? It’s been a fun day. We had a nice trip up to town and now we’re gonna get paid $200 each.’

  ‘Your idea of fun and mine don’t exactly coincide.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’re fucken different.’ A reworked version of an old classic song popped into Gary’s head. Arseclowns to the left of me, jerkoffs to the right.

  ‘I’m not sure I wanna stay friends with you, Dylan.’

  ‘Toughen up, mate.’

  Gary smoked the rest of the cigarette in silence. If the woman was the investor, then Ed’s playing the role of human guinea pig in the affair. The bloke’s vanity and narcissism made him the perfect candidate. Anything to get the edge, more energy to maximise his body building potential, look good for the girls and boys.

  Checking up on Ed would be the number one priority now. They’d be meeting again, and soon. Gary wasn’t sure what to do exactly, but Tracey would help him devise a plan. He’d need to be more attentive to her for that to happen. Show her some tenderness.