for his honeymoon. This pathological lying would be the death of him. His chest heaved. Being caught out on lies didn’t always shut him up; he usually came back with a counter lie. It was one thing to paint pictures of optimism and joy for customers and the boss, but Jocko’s bullshit-o-meter rarely failed.
He decided to wait for Jocko to make the next move – proactive behaviour would likely mean another cuff across the ear, or worse. Survive today, work out what to do later. But the bastard’s got me by the balls. Itching like motherfuckers.
He scanned Jocko’s faux plush home office; details might come in handy if he ever got desperate or stupid enough to contact the cops for help. He’d been here before but was pissed as a newt.
Mental notes. Furnishings immaculate. Must have cleaners. Too much of a pig to do it himself. Ken Done prints, maybe a safe behind one of them. Black curtains, beige three-seater couch. A couple of matching armchairs, white coffee table. Fuck it, nothing unusual, just a typical home office.
As he pondered his next move, Jocko re-entered the room. The fat bastard wore a benevolent smile that told Gary the roughing up for the afternoon was over.
‘You should take a leaf out of that punter’s book. Just sold his flat screen television to repay me the princely sum of fifty dollars. It might sound like chicken feed to you but if all of my customers were as forthcoming I’d have no need for Bradley. Human nature being what it is, however, that’s never gonna happen. Take a seat. You’ve been on your feet too long.’
Gary sat on the couch and started shaking. Meanwhile Jones perused Jocko’s pocket notebook containing the names and addresses of the most recalcitrant and piteous of clients. The monster’s eyes glowed. He was probably getting a hard on fantasizing about how many people he could hurt.
‘Gary,’ said Jocko, watching Jones goggle and almost salivate at the long list of bad debts, ‘annoying prick that he is, doesn’t deserve a beating as much as the arsewipes on that list.’
‘Why not send one of them to Bali?’ Gary asked, not unreasonably he thought.
‘Because they are junkies and bogans, oxygen thieves the lot of ‘em. If one of ‘em got caught at the border they’d turn to jelly, not enough brains to talk their way out of it. But you,’ Jocko stroked Gary’s hair in a creepy-old-man kind of way, ‘are made of something different. You, Braswell, are about the best lying motherfucker it has ever been my pleasure to know.’
Jocko informed Gary that all the arrangements would be taken care of: flights, hotel transfers, accommodation, even a couple of grand spending money. The fucking irony of it. He’d been playing Gary for a sap; pretended paying back the four grand was so important, when all along he was just stringing Gary along to arrive at this point – to turn him into an expendable drug mule.
Jocko said the chances of getting caught, either at Coolangatta airport or in Bali, were fifty-fifty. As a man who understood the concept of probability, Gary didn’t like those numbers. Fifty-fifty meant he would be arrested. Murphy’s Law – if something can go wrong it fucken will.
‘If you get caught, I’m confident it won’t be your fault. You’ve got the skill set to get the job done. If anything fucks up, it’ll be all down to chance.’
‘Sorry if I don’t share your confidence.’
Jocko sighed. ‘You can be a little thick at times, Braswell. You will succeed because you have motivation. If you don’t at least try, Maddie will wish she never laid her eyes on your sorry arse.’
He lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke in Gary’s face. ‘Pardon me; where are my manners? I forgot to offer you a ciggie.’
Gary took the proffered cigarette.
‘If you’re thinking about dobbing me in to the cops, think again.’
‘Don’t worry. I won’t be going to the police.’ He wouldn’t be flying to Bali either, that was certain. He just wasn’t sure how to get out of it.
Gary took the long way to work Wednesday morning, via the beach road. He drove fast, his mind anywhere but on the road. Frequent lycra-clad cyclists slowed him down. Dickheads.
He pulled into the kerb at his favourite beachside park and stepped out to have one last smoke before work. Far out in the aqua surf some dudes with bleached dreadies stood on long boards, paddling one side then the other, with poles like tooth picks. He hoped some of them were going to have a shit day. He glanced at his watch. Time to head back to the car yard and give Max the news.
The car screeched into the driveway. Gary jumped out, slammed the door and hurried to his office. He pulled Dawn MacMillan’s business card from his wallet and stared at it before dialling.
‘Hi. It’s Gary Braswell. I’ll make it quick. Can you get me a job interview at your agency?’
‘Of course. I’ve already mentioned you to my boss. I’m sure he’d be delighted to talk to you. How’s Monday morning?’
‘No worries. I’ll be there.’
At five o’clock that afternoon Gary handed Max Buckley a plain envelope containing his resignation.
Later that evening he sat opposite Maddie at the kitchen table, reached over and took her hand.
‘You did what? You love that job! I can’t believe you just dropped this on me. What the hell are we going to do now? I’m only part time at the coffee shop. Jesus, Gary–’
‘It’s all right, sweetheart. I’ve got something else lined up. A real estate career. There’s opportunities for huge earnings and advancement. Game changer.’
His wife’s raised eyebrows and tilted head told Gary she didn’t share his optimism.
‘You’d better be right, cos I’m not making enough to pay for your bloody smokes, gambling and beer. I swear, after that last bender you’re on borrowed time.’
Maddie’s words were a punch in the solar plexus.
‘I’m going to stop all of that, babe. I promise.’
‘Sure you are. How many times have I heard that before?’
Gary approached a set of traffic lights, vehicles bumper-to-bumper in a late-afternoon snarl. A pair of curvaceous meter maids in shiny golden bikinis waited at the pedestrian crossing. They smiled at him, and for a moment he forgot what the hell he was doing. A quick mental head slap and he refocused on the GPS which told him to turn left at the next intersection.
Beachscape Realty sat in Park Avenue, around the corner from the Burleigh Heads Bowls Club and a short stroll from the foreshore lined with iconic, heritage-listed Norfolk pines. A billboard soared above the redbrick façade; the avuncular visage of Jerry Luscomb smiled down upon the burghers of Burleigh.
The receptionist peeked around her computer screen, wide as the Kirra surf break. She had on one of those headsets that meerkats in call centre cubicles wear to keep their hands free for other jobs, like scratching crotches and sucking biros. She was on a call clearly more important than Gary’s arrival.
