holder on the table. He drew two vertical lines separating the ticket into three columns. ‘For an exercise like this I’d normally perform a SWOT analysis.’
Gary hated this technical stuff. His thoughts drifted back to Grade 11 economics taught by the lovely Ms Lloyd. She loved to bamboozle her students with just this sort of mumbo-jumbo. When she did, he took solace in staring at her shapely legs. Today, he had to look at Foss instead.
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘It stands for strengths, weaknesses, opportunities and threats. Since you’ve got no strengths in this situation, we have to conduct a WOT analysis – as in WOT the fuck are we going to do?’
Gary shook his head. ‘Geek humour sucks. But at least you’re making an effort.’
‘Let’s work backwards, because the threat is looming large. Jocko’s struck the fear of God into you and if you don’t carry out his demands Maddie gets it. Whatever ‘it’ is we can’t be sure, but it won’t be a day at SeaWorld watching the dolphin show. So,’ said Foss licking the nub of lead poking out of the pencil stump. ‘In column A we write Jocko Mackenzie and also Bradley Jones, his agent of destruction.’
Gary cradled his head in his hands. Agent of destruction? The dickhead’s been watching too many superhero movies. He groaned into his nearly empty beer glass, which drew an eerie reverberation.
‘Mate, can you be serious for a change?’ said Gary.
‘I’m dead serious. If you don’t want me to help save your worthless arse, just say so.’
Foss dropped the pencil stub back in the Keno holder and rebalanced on his barstool. He folded his arms and shot Gary a look that said: your move.
‘It isn’t just me, you idiot. There’s Maddie to consider,’ said Gary.
‘Like you’re considering her right now?’
‘That’s not fair. I told you she was with her mother. Best place for her. I mean look at me, I’m a mess. What good would I be to her?’
Foss nodded. ‘You’re right. Let’s go with this: You’re no good for her any time, not just now. You’re a drunk and a gambler who always loses. The only good thing about you is your loyalty, and even that’s questionable when you’re pissed. Which is often. You’re a worthless excuse for a man. Now, shall we get back to my WOT analysis, or what?’
‘Don’t you think I know all that shit?’ Gary fumbled in his pockets. ‘Get on with your stupid chart.’ With a shaking hand, he pulled out his smokes. Three spilled out onto the table. He shoved two back in the packet and tucked one behind his ear.
‘And try and be quick about it, I need another smoke and a lager.’
‘Patience. Okay, we’ve established you have two threats. Any more you can think of?’
‘Isn’t that enough? I guess I could have the tax department breathing down my neck. Or a court summons for unpaid fines, or terminal fucking cancer. Mmm... Let me think; nah, just a recently released violent thug who wants to rape my wife.’
‘What did I just say about sarcasm?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Forgiven.’ Foss resumed his serious finance broker pose, the one Gary imagined he adopted with clients when talking wealth strategies to make the rich bastards even richer. ‘Let’s jump to weaknesses – I can see a few coming up. We’ll leave the opportunities till last so you’ve got something to hang your hopes on. Then again,’ he said and retrieved the pencil from its holder, eyebrow raised half joking, half serious, ‘I’m not confident there’ll be too many of those.’
Foss scribbled on the Keno ticket for a minute, and scanned what he’d written. ‘Righto, mate.’ Foss pronounced. ‘Here’s a summary of your main weaknesses. Ready? One: alcohol dependency, clouding judgement and leading to poor choices. Two: gambling addiction, which along with ‘one’ reduces financial resources available to purchase and/or hire solutions. Three: no strong allies. Four: physically and mentally incapable of dealing with stressful and traumatic situations. And five: Maddie vulnerable to violent reprisals should you not do as instructed by Jocko.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ said Gary, his voice gritty. ‘You’d better come up with some good opportunities. That last one alone is enough to make me want to slit my wrists, let the blood drip into this glass – which is empty by the way – and force it down Jocko’s throat.’
‘Great fight-back attitude. But let’s be honest; there’s no way you can take these criminals on by yourself. And that’s what they are. Criminals. The sooner you realise that simple fact, the easier it’s going to be for you to agree to my solution.’
Gary rubbed sweaty palms down the front of his trousers, sneaking a quick rake of fingernails under his ball sac.
‘So, Einstein, hit me up with these opportunities.’
‘You’re worried about involving the police. But in reality Jocko’s plan might make the next step easier. I’d opt for the Feds over the Queensland police. Remember what happened to the Bali Nine.’
‘He’s got me by the ’nads and you bring up those poor fuckers.’ Gary shuddered.
‘Exactly,’ Foss countered. ‘They got stitched up by the Australian Feds because of a tipoff. The AFP let the couriers fly to Bali when they could have simply nabbed the kids at the airport before they left the country. There was an agreement with the Indos so an example could be made. Our jails are full of junkies and dealers but they won’t be executed for their crimes. Not like in Indonesia. Loud message that is – loud and clear.’
Behind the surf club, a drove of parakeets descended on the Norfolk pines behind the surf club, their raucous sound drowned the drumming breakers. Gary shouted to Foss to sit tight while he got the next round.
Foss smiled reassuringly at his returning mate, whose gait grew wonkier with each drink. Gary plonked a pair of pints on the table and slumped into his seat, one arse cheek hung over the edge while the other battled to keep him vertical.
‘Let’s give the Feds a tipoff before anyone goes anywhere,’ said Foss. ‘I can’t guarantee it, but I reckon this isn’t the first time Jocko’s frightened somebody into being a drug mule. For all we know, he could have had some involvement with the Bali Nine.’
‘Fuck,’ Gary slurred. ‘You could be right.’
‘If so he’d be a prize scalp for the AFP, don’t you reckon?’
‘Fuggen oath. Let’s give ‘em a call first thing tomorrow. And I want them to get Jones too. He put his fucken filthy hands on my beautiful wife. The sick cunt’s gonna have to pay for that.’
Bravado oozed out of Gary like John McClane, alias Die Hard.
‘We show the cops that MMS you got from Jones and they’ll be jumping over each other to get him. Bastard’s just out of prison and already up to his old tricks. I’ll call the AFP, outline the gist of the problem and tell them there’s some big fish to be caught.’
‘Fair ‘nuff. Can you take me home after this beer please? I’ll grab the Ford in the
