Dinner Date At Mt Isa

by Ken Blowers

CHAPTER 4

  MATT PAINT

  Mathew Painter was an odd sort of a bloke, not just quiet by nature but also short on charm, you know, with no apparent warmth or concern for other people's needs. One might go so far as to say he was generally lacking any ‘shine’ to his character; which I suppose may well have accounted for the fact that just about everybody called him Matt Paint.

  Matt was about 35 years of age, average height and average build, in fact, just about average in everything really. But to give him his due, he was always smartly turned out in the company uniform, as he went about his job at a petrol station in the rough end of the town; earnestly and honestly, with exceptionally strict attention to detail. His immediate superior, whilst maybe not liking him much, considered him to be a very loyal and reliable employee. Other staff members, all too aware of his meticulous manner and particularly his willingness to do that little bit extra over what was required of him, tended to regard him as a bit of a creep and a crawler. Something of ‘a boss’s man’.

  Customers who came in to pay for their petrol expecting a bit of chat, well, they would be sadly disappointed. He seemed to have no interest in the weather, TV, women, sport, or much else other than his job. The regular customers all dismissed him out of hand as being too distant and too difficult to talk to.

  If Matt knew any of this he didn't show it. Every day appeared to be just another day to him. He did his job and he got his pay. Could there be anything more?

  You might think that such a character was destined to go forever without hope of fame or fortune, or the slightest chance of experiencing anything uplifting or exciting in that strange adventure we call life! Well, if you are thinking that, then you are wrong. Oh, yes, you are quite wrong!

  Late one evening, having survived another routine boring shift, Matt had his eye on the clock. He had about another ten to fifteen minutes or so to go before handing over to the on-coming night attendant. He was looking forward to hurrying back to his tiny little one-bedroom unit and another session of cheap American situation-comedies, his usual late night diet of cable TV culture. Trade was falling off as it usually does at that time, which was probably why it was chosen as an ideal time for a change of shifts. But at that moment he did have a man and a woman left standing before him at the counter.

  'Yes, Madam – pump number four? Twenty dollars, anything else?'

  At that point, things got just a little bit tricky as a young man in jeans, T-shirt, and runners tried to push in.

  'Sorry, Sir,’ Matt said. 'This lady's first.'

  The man, with a very determined if not anxious look on his face, pushed forward again. 'Sorry. This lady really is first, Sir!'

  Then, as the man frustratingly stood to one side: 'Thank you, Madam. Fifty dollars, less twenty dollars - thirty dollars change.' The lady took her change and turned to leave. She paused momentarily, just long enough to give the pushy young man a certain look; one that only ladies of a mature age can muster and one that if there were any justice in this world should have struck him dead, then and there on the spot!

  'Now, Sir,' said Matt, putting on his best imitation of a smile in the hope it might help to defuse the somewhat tense situation. Quiet but observant, Matt had already noticed the absence of any vehicle at the petrol pumps. 'What's your pleasure? If you're hungry, I could heat you up some nice hot chips, perhaps?’

  The man stepped forward, with an even grimmer look on his face and producing a handgun, demanded 'The money, mate! That's my pleasure.'

  If he expected to see fear or despair in the composure of the young man before him, then this armed bandit would have been sorely disappointed. The deadpan reply he received from Matt was nothing short of surprising: 'Certainly, Sir. How much do you want?'

  'What? What do you mean: "How much do I want"? All of it! Now gimme the damn money!'

  'Ah, sorry, Sir. No can do I'm afraid, it's not quite as easy as that.'

  'Here, don't you give me none of that bull,' the man said, his anger rising. 'I want the money, all of it. And I want it: Now!'

  'Well...'

  'Do you want your flipping head blown off, mate! Eh? 'Cause you're going the right way about it,' the man said, waving the gun about in a most threatening manner, while anxiously watching the door and the still empty forecourt.

  'Sorry, Sir. Absolutely no offence intended. But...'

  'No "Buts", mate. I want the money! Do you hear?'

  'Yes, Sir. But unfortunately, all the money is not readily available as I've already indicated.'

  'What's this garbage? What are you talking about?'

  'It's like this; see these two buttons next to the cash register, one red and one green?'

  'What? Where? Oh yeah, so?'

  'We have this interesting and rather smart security system to secure the cash. Throughout the day, as the money builds up, or at any other times really, if we press the little green button, like this…’

  'Hey! What happened there? What have you done?'

  ‘Well, when the little green button is pressed, the money, that is the big notes, the fifties and hundreds we keep at the back of the till, they disappear down a chute into a strong box with a time-lock, set in the concrete floor and...'

  'I don't believe this. You're making it up.'

  'No. No, Sir. Scout's honour and all that. Not that I was ever a Scout. Still you don't have to be a Scout or an ex-Scout to have honour. Isn't that so, Sir?'

  'Stuff your honour! All the money's not gone, surely? There must be some money left in the till?'

  'Oh, yes, of course, Sir. Maybe a couple o' twenties an’ tens an' fives. Oh, and the coins, of course. There's always coins, Sir.'

  'Well, let's be having it, all of it and no more mucking about. Or else...' the man waved his gun menacingly in front of Matt's face. 'You hear me?'

  'Absolutely, Sir. I mean, it's not a lot, but then, it's not exactly mine, is it? I don't want to die fighting for it. That would be daft, wouldn't it? Of course, I must object. It's my job you understand? Everyone would expect that. It's what I'm paid for. But...'

  'But what?'

  'I, er, I have to cover myself you know. Otherwise, well, the Boss, the Police, they might think that I took the money,' Matt sighed. ‘Or I was an accomplice? Heaven forbid! I mean, it's no good me just saying I was robbed at the point of a gun is it? You must understand that.'

  'So?'

  'So, I need proof!'

  'Proof? Proof? What do you mean, proof? Like what?'

  'Well, what sort of gun is it? You know, in case I'm asked?'

  'Smith and Wesson, I think?'

  'Really? Are you sure? I mean, "Smith and Wesson" sounds more like a couple of stage comics, don't you think?'

  'There's nothing funny about this thing, mate. It could blow your head off!'

  'Oh...?' Matt drew back for a moment, then gingerly, he came forward again leant over the counter for a closer look. 'What calibre is it?'

  'Calibre? You mean how big are the bullets? About that big, I think,' the man said, demonstrating with finger and thumb.

  'Expensive?'

  'I dunno. They came with the gun.'

  'Did you get a warranty? You’d need a serial number for that'

  'Serial number? You know, you ask the damnedest questions. I really don't know. I've never had a gun before,' he said, looking at his handgun in bewilderment. 'Where would it be: this serial number?'

  'I don't know either,' said Matt. 'On the handle perhaps - hmmm? Give it here and let me have a look. I’ve got a magnifying glass here somewhere.’

  'I bought it second-hand in a pub. You know how it is.' He said as he handed the gun to Matt and watched in amazement as Matt somehow managed to release the catch, withdraw the magazine and drop it on the lower counter shelf. 'Hey! Don't you go dropping and losing those bullets! They're all I've got!’

  'It's alright. I thought that maybe the serial
number was hidden, up inside the handle. Not that I really know anything about guns.'

  'Well stop mucking about with it then and let's be having it back!'

  'Ah! I know,' said Matt. 'I'll just hold it up in front of this security camera and that will be proof enough that I was robbed, don't you reckon?'

  'What camera, where?' the man said, in a puzzled tone.

  'Up there, see?' said Matt, pointing. 'It's hidden inside a false oil can, up on the top shelf. Clever, don't you reckon?'

  'Too bloody clever,' the man replied. 'I don't think I would have tried it, you know, if I'd known I'd be on camera.'

  'But that ain't all,' said Matt, proudly. 'See this red button?' The man nodded. 'Well I pressed that when you first brought out the gun and then the camera, as well recording on a continuous tape, sends the pictures straight through to our security centre, where it rings the alarm and they call the Police! What do you think of that? Is that clever, or isn't it, eh?’

  'Oh My God! I feel weak in the knees. I think I better sit down. Do you mind?'

  'Ah well, I’m sorry, Sir. It's a bit too late for sitting. The Police have just arrived, see?' As Matt said that, two Policemen entered with guns drawn. 'It's alright Officers, I've got his gun, here. He gave it up, voluntarily, mind!'

  'Thanks a bunch for that,' called the man as he was quickly bundled out the door to the Police car. 'See you in court,' were his final words.

  The other Policeman, pausing for a moment, said 'Another one, Matt, what is it now: five or six?'

  'Seven, actually. It was six last year.'

  'You want to watch you don't get hurt one of these days,' said the Copper.

  'Oh, no worries,' said Matt. ‘Everything’s cool.’

  'Cool? You're more than cool. I reckon you're something of a cold fish, mate. What do you think you're going to get out of this string of captures, some kind of medal, or what?'

  'No,' said Matt. 'A fair day's pay for a fair day's work, that's all.'

  'Yeah and what else? There's got to be something, something more to it?'

  'Well, the truth is…'

  'Ah, I thought so. Go on.'

  'Well, I bought some shares in our security company when they put their new system in here. I've got faith in it, you see. I use it to the maximum, you might say. Every time I catch a crook it all gets reported in the papers and on the TV and my shares in the company just seem to skyrocket in value!'

  'Right! So you reckon you’re on a good thing then?' the Policeman asked, as his colleague gave an impatient blast on the car horn.

  'Yeah good enough. My Boss gives me a bonus after every capture and I buy more shares in our security company.'

  'At this rate,' said the Constable, I reckon 'Matt Paint’ will soon have more scalps than the famous Matt Dillon!'

  'At this rate,' said Matt, 'I'll soon own over fifty percent of our security company and then,' he continued: 'I'll be able to give up this job.'

  'Oh,’ said the Constable, hurrying towards the exit, '... and live off other people's troubles. Gawd, who said, "Crime Doesn't Pay", eh?'

  As he passed through the door he yelled back 'Good luck to yah, mate!' As the door closed, under his breath he added: 'You miserable, po-faced, money-grubbing bastard!'