It was a 40-minute drive back to Wattle Hill. Too long. He tilted the whiskey bottle and finished the contents. He tossed the bottle onto the back seat and turned to Jordie.
‘I reckon I’m over the limit. You haven’t had a drink tonight. Mind driving home, mate?’
Jordie rubbed his hands together and smiled. ‘Love to. Strap yourself in.’
Chapter 17
‘The text’s from Ed? And we were gonna try and track him down ourselves.’ Tracey wrapped her hands around a coffee mug and pulled it closer. ‘Fate’s dropped the guy in our lap. Ring him.’
The repaired wood burner threw searing heat into the room. Scarlet flames danced behind its glass panel. As he gazed at the fire, Gary imagined Tracey writhing on the floor with Steve, their limbs a tangle of pale flesh against the dark timber floorboards. He felt sweat running down his forehead, peeled his jumper off and tossed it on an armchair. ‘Bloody hell. You’re either freezing or boiling to death in Tasmania. Sick of it.’
‘Stop avoiding the issue. Make the call.’
‘Easier said than done.’
‘Rubbish. What’s happened to you? The bloke I met in Sydney had gone through hell, but he had confidence to burn.’
Truth be told, it’s easy to be a cocky bastard when you’ve got a shitload of money and outfoxed the bad guys and the law. Now he was a nobody with nothing. Running risky errands for peanuts. He tried to look relaxed when Nugget handed the payment over. He wasn’t sure he pulled it off. Probably had a gormless expression of gratitude plastered all over his stupid mug. Now all he could do was shrug.
‘If you’re too scared, I can–’
‘I’m not too scared.’
‘Bullshit. You’ve lost your mojo.’
‘Huh. And you’d know all about that. Strutting your stuff at the pub, flirting with all the blokes. God knows what you got up to with Jordie’s brother.’
‘He’s a bit of all right, isn’t he? Wanna know what I did with him?’ Her eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Do you really want to know, you dickhead?’ Tracey stood, punched the back of the chair.
‘I can guess.’ Gary’s voice was flat and hollow. He looked up, met her gaze.
‘Whatever you’re guessing would be so fucking wide of the mark you should be ashamed of yourself for even thinking it.’
‘I’m guessing heavy petting, at least. Wouldn’t be surprised if you offered him the full menu.’
‘Fuck you. I can’t imagine how you ever convinced a woman to marry you, you arrogant son of a bitch.’
A match scraped and sparked, ignited a cigarette. Gary dragged deep and expelled a fat cloud of smoke across the table. It meandered towards Tracey’s face like a fog creeping up a river. She could deny all she wanted, play him for a chump. She’d given Steve a taste. Of what he couldn’t be certain, but it wouldn’t have been a handshake and a peck on the cheek. He stared at a space a centimetre above her forehead, unflinching, dared her to keep going.
She grabbed her own packet of cigarettes, menthol tailor-mades that made Gary’s rollies look like something a tramp picked up from the gutter. She blasted a stream of smoke back at him. ‘Shit. Even a dig about Maddie can’t get you fired up.’
‘Yeah, well…’ He didn’t want to justify himself to her.
‘Well what? You absolute arsehole. Is that the best you can come up with? Your poor wife, abandoned when she needed you the most, left to—’
‘Okay, okay. I’ll make the bloody call.’ Why was Tracey busting his balls like this? The conversation started about a phone call but quickly took a detour down nasty street. He crushed the cigarette butt under his thumb, spilling ash onto the table. ‘But stop bringing Maddie up all the time. They had to turn her life support off. Nothing I could’ve done. I’ve told you the story a hundred fucken times.’
‘Okay, I’ll drop it. I could say more, but you’re not receptive to constructive criticism. Too bloody touchy. But you’ve gotta promise me something in return.’
‘Anything to stop the nagging.’
‘Stop accusing me of getting it on with Steve. Nothing happened, okay?’
‘So you say.’
‘You’re a fool, you know that? There’s nothing to stop me doing whatever I want while you’re at the oyster farm, is there? Gets lonely in this little old house, waiting all day for you to get home and take me to the pub for evening shift. So if you think I’d use a tiny window of opportunity while you were taking a stroll through the bush, you need therapy.’
‘Sounds logical, I guess.’
‘Enough bickering, hey? It’s so unproductive.’ She walked around the table, put her arm around Gary’s shoulder. ‘Call Ed,’ she whispered in his mangled ear. ‘Show me you’ve got some semblance of a backbone. Like the old Gary.’
Despite the biting words, her tone indicated she had confidence in him, and it rubbed off. A quick mention of his old brash self and his mood lifted. The criticism was fair, even though he hated to admit it. He should have stayed with Maddie till the bitter end. Instead, he ran away, a coward only interested in saving his own skin. But that, as they say, was water under the bridge. Here was a chance to get ahead again, if they played their cards right. He realised the clichés in his mind had gone from bridge to cards and he let out a soft groan as if he’d been punched in the solar plexus.
‘Whassat?’ said Tracey.
‘Nothin’. Okay. Here goes. I’ll put him on loud speaker so you can hear what the fucker’s saying.’ He took a lusty swig from a near-empty bottle of Gordon’s gin at his elbow and hit the call-back button. He looked up at Tracey, now sitting on the opposite side of the table. ‘Give me some hints if I get stuck. Probably won’t, but, you know…’
She nodded, an enigmatic smile lighting up her face.
The phone answered on the third ring.
‘G’day Dylan. Didn’t take you long to call back.’
Gary coughed twice. Hadn’t considered an opening gambit, so he activated Braswell the salesman. Bluff till you’re tough. ‘Your text said we needed to talk. That’s the biggest understatement I’ve heard in my life. I know what I want to talk about, but I want you to go first. Something you need to get off your chest?’
‘Yes. I want to make you an offer of employment.’
Gary’s eyes darted in Tracey’s direction. Her crescent eyebrows raised a fraction and she mouthed What the fuck? He shrugged and shook his head.
‘Excuse me? Not sure I heard you right.’
‘I’d like you to work for me.’
‘Doing what? I’ve already got a job. Plus opportunities to make some cash on the side.’
A tinny laugh reverberated in the kitchen. Gary thought it contained a trace of condescending sympathy. ‘Yeah, I know all about your current situation, work wise.’
‘How would you know anything about it?’ As soon as he’d uttered the words, he knew it was a dumb question. Nugget. Who also must’ve supplied Ed with Gary’s phone number. Probably via that old crone.
‘I figured you for a smarter guy than that. I’ll put it down to nerves, mate. You delivered the Taspep. My lady friend you met is buying the stuff, and I’m giving it a test drive. The manufacturer is our common denominator.’
‘They told me Tassie was a small place. Didn’t figure how fucken small.’
‘Yeah, you got that right.’ Jagged gravel breaths sounded through the mobile’s speaker. ‘It’s only one job, but the pay-off’s huge. It’s gonna take guts. You strike me as a guy who won’t shit his pants when the going gets tough. Is my assessment of you correct, Dylan?’
Gary and Tracey exchanged a look, like they were watching the live Lotto draw, five matching balls on the coupon with one to drop to win the jackpot. Tracey glanced at the device on the table, her expression said Go on, ask him what it is.
A cockatoo squawked in a snow-covered gum across the driveway, making Tracey jump. At the same time, the rejuvenated wood heater made a cracking sound like a gun shot. Gary snapped his head in the directi
on of the heater. The outline of Harrison Devlin seemed to dance a jig in the flickering orange flames. Devlin only warned him about Nugget, not Ed. Meaning the coincidental noises weren’t an omen. Probably.
‘That depends on the job. And how much money it’s worth. My financial situation’s got worse since we moved to Tassie. A lot fucken worse. I suspect someone took something of mine and I’m keen to get it back. Got any idea what I’m talking about?’
White noise.
‘I guess you do.’
‘Sorry, Dylan. But I can tell you something. Do this job for me and you’ll be as well off as you were before.’
If a voice could wink, then Gary heard the batting eyelid of confirmation. The bastard’s got my money.
‘But,’ Ed began to whisper. ‘I can’t give you the details over the phone. Let’s meet somewhere and discuss it. Might even shout you dinner.’
Gary tipped the gin bottle to his mouth. Fuck it, empty. He’d drunk the entire contents. He craved another drink of something, anything with alcohol in it. His mind raced with scenarios: what does Ed want? He lit a cigarette, the third in ten minutes, sucked in a lungful.
‘Sure. You know the Shearer’s Arms Hotel in Sorell?’
‘Yeah. But I’m not coming all the way there. I get nervous driving on icy roads, especially the highway. If you wanna earn this money – and I’m sure you can guess, it’s a bloody lot – get your arse into the city. Wrest Point Casino, revolving restaurant. Saturday night, 8:30pm. Don’t care how you get there. Just don’t be late.’
‘Sorry, but my little Focus struggles if there’s snow and the ploughs are out of action.’ The bastard’s got my money.
‘Ask our mutual friend, Nugget, for a lend of one of his tractors.’ A weird, cackling laugh echoed around the kitchen. ‘I’m sure the dickhead’s got something industrial in the shed that’ll get you here.’
Click. Ed terminated the call. The sudden silence was shattered by a gust of wind whistling through a 10mm gap in the lounge room window. That’d need mending soon; Gary noticed tiny snow crystals piling up on the sill.
‘Well?’ said Tracey.
‘Let’s see what this so-called job is. We’ve gotta get that money back, for Christ’s sake.’ He wrapped his palms around his stumpy ears, and bowed his head. ‘I can’t take any more of that bloody oyster farm. The repetition, the cold, the godawful stink… it’s too much. Shit, my next shift starts in an hour.’
‘You think standing on my feet all night at the pub is my idea of a dream job? We gotta do what we gotta do to survive. Another year or so of doing what we’re doing, then reassess. You have to keep your head down. Ed’s slippery as a bucket of snot, can’t you see? My advice is to ignore him and soldier on.’ Tracey rubbed Gary’s shoulders, massaged around his collar bones. ‘We can get through this rough patch together.’
‘At least let me hear him out. It could be something harmless.’
‘Bullshit, Gary. He’s dangling $150,000 in front of you. Whaddaya reckon he’s gonna want you to do to earn that back? Iron his shirts? He said, and I quote, “It’s gonna take guts.” Get real for once.’
‘Look. I’m no idiot. I know this job’s going to be…unusual…but I’m seriously at breaking point. Night after night I’ve had dreams about selling stuff. Cars, houses, even electrical goods at Harvey bloody Norman. And then I wake up to the grim reality. My mental health’s at stake. I’m an opportunities guy. Could be the game changer we need. I…’
Gary realised he was talking to an empty room.
Tracey had gone to bed.
Chapter 18
The woman in the yellow track suit slapped her liver-spotted hand on the training mat. Smack! She staggered to her feet, threw herself backwards and slapped down again.
‘Excellent, Beverley. You’re coming along nicely. I think you’ve got those break-fall moves down pat. Like I said before, mastering Ukemi is vital to learning other judo moves.’
Ed busted out the terminology like he was a blackbelt master. Wasn’t sure what Ukemi was, but it sounded cool. Truth was, his knowledge of martial arts came entirely from online videos. He suspected Beverley knew he was a fraud, but she didn’t care because of the extra-special services he provided the old crone. Services, Ed suspected, she appreciated nearly as much as the size of her own wealth portfolio.
He’d met her in the gym a couple of months ago. She smiled lasciviously at him as he heaved and strained, barbell-squatting twice his body weight. He seized upon an opportunity. Couldn’t believe his luck, striking up an acquaintance with Hobart’s best-known businesswoman, owner of a chain of nationally franchised pet supply stores. Beverley Cooke was one of the five wealthiest people in Tasmania and had more power and influence in this part of the country than the Prime Minister. She was worth having in your arsenal of friends.
Beverley rested her hands on her hips, bent at the waist, took in three deep breaths. Her coiffure stood solid as the Tasman Bridge under, Ed knew, generous amounts of hairspray. Her face flushed around a broad, open-mouthed smile. The teeth were too perfect, the skin too taut and smooth. But the voice didn’t lie; it belonged to an older woman. ‘You know, Ed,’ she croaked. ‘I believe – huff – I am – wheeze – making progress. You motivate – gasp – me so – pant – much.’
Ed handed her a towel. ‘Most of that comes from in here.’ He flat palmed the top of her chest. ‘Not from me.’
‘Oh, Ed. You say exactly what a girl – puff – wants to hear.’ Bev sucked down some water from a designer drink bottle that probably cost more than Ed’s Fitbit tracker. She’d long stopped being a girl, which all the cosmetic procedures in the world couldn’t hide. But she spoiled him like no one else and he wasn’t going to argue the point.
‘Nonsense. I’ve never met anyone with your grit and determination. You inspire me.’ He was sure she knew it was bullshit. Her inspiration was in being a ruthless bitch prepared to stomp on anyone in her way. Ed could certainly learn from that. A feature article in yesterday’s paper described her as a ‘hardnosed businesswoman with a take-no-prisoners approach to life’. That was way too charitable. When it came to cutthroat business practices, she made Margaret Thatcher look like Mother Theresa.
‘Yes, well, perhaps we inspire each other, you big hunky man. Now, can you show me some of those grappling holds again? Perhaps in the bedroom.’
‘Lead the way. My lady’s wish is my command.’ As he watched her bony bum wending its way up the stairs, hips clacking like a ratchet doing up a hex nut, he replaced the image with one of Jennifer Lopez from her heyday. Ed was no slouch in the imagination department. He’d be calling upon it again once they got into Bev’s bedroom.
‘You amaze me. Not only ripped with muscles, but stamina to burn. You’ll kill me in the cot, but what a way to go.’
Ed turned his head on the pillow, glanced up at Beverley as she walked to the en suite. He’d given his best for thirty minutes – he’d hoped to have the job finished sooner, but both of them took the full half hour to climax. He didn’t mind. Beverley had plenty of her own tricks to make the encounter fun. The fact that he’d been ingesting small doses of Taspep must also have had an effect on him sexually. His erection had felt different, somehow. Harder. Like granite. He’d tried Viagra, Cialis, horny goat weed. Everything except ground rhino horn. All those supplements had a discernible effect, but this new shit was the bomb.
Her gait to the bathroom was clearly an attempt at sexy sashay, but it came off as lumbering lurch. Which was hardly surprising, given the limb-twisting, back-bending contortions she’d performed. Got to be taxing on a senior’s frame. Not for the first time, Ed marvelled at how she actually looked better naked than clothed. Choosing well-fitting clothes and being trendy didn’t seem to be priorities for Beverley. Who’d be brave enough to give her fashion advice? Certainly not him. He’d continue to compliment her on looking fabulous whatever the outfit, or lack thereof.
One valuable lesson Ed had learned over the years:
everyone enjoys being flattered and having their egos massaged. Some, like Beverley, fell for it more than others. And the more he buttered her up, the better the chances of a big payoff down the track. Sure, she paid him over the going rate for personal training sessions, but receiving a big chunk of money in her will would be a better result. That was the long-term strategy. Beverley was fit and healthy and not likely to keel over any time soon, barring a tragic mishap. Mmm. Could he? Maybe make it look like an accident? He might be a mercenary, self-centred, narcissistic prick, but he hoped he’d never cross that line.
He’d be more than happy for someone else to cross it, though. Dylan Wagner, for instance.
Ed reached over to the bedside table, grabbed his phone. Beverley’s voice called out above the sound of the extraction fan: ‘Be a love and bring me a towel.’ Her shower was over in minutes. Not a lot of body to wash. No time for him to check messages. A green light flashed on the mobile. He’d missed some calls but would attend to them later.
Ed wrapped a fluffy black towel around Beverley’s thin shoulders, dabbed glistening water droplets from her corrugated spine.
‘I meant to ask. Have you contacted that young man about the task we discussed?’
‘Yes. I’ve arranged a meeting. I think I can get him to agree to do what you want.’
‘Awesome.’ An incongruous word coming from a 69-year-old woman. Not only was she striving to look young, clearly she wanted to sound young too. ‘Have you had a dig around to find anything interesting about him?’ Beverley turned, stood on tiptoe and draped an arm around Ed’s thick neck. She let go slowly, turned to face the mirror and began slapping on makeup with an implement that could apply mortar to Besser blocks.
‘The guy’s a mystery. No social media presence, which is odd. His girlfriend has a Facebook account, but it’s been dormant for months. And her old posts don’t provide much. No Twitter, Instagram, nothing like that.’
Sold to the Devil Page 11
