a tradition; nothing constructive ever came out of it. Today he hated it more than ever because today he wished he was dead.
The weekend was, on balance, a fucking disaster. On Saturday morning Maddie gave him a painful lecture over his breakfast of coffee and a cigarette – painful to hear because of his splitting headache and because she spoke the truth about his disgraceful behaviour. He wanted to change and promised he would, just as soon as all this shit came to an end.
Saturday and Sunday afternoon he spent at the pub in the company of an old bloke called Spider, spending money from his and Maddie’s holiday account. He’d pay it all back soon. Much to his surprise, he won $325 on the trots late Saturday afternoon, half of which he spent the next day on beer and more bets. On Sunday afternoon he staggered home with $10 left in his wallet. Maddie hadn’t spoken to him since Saturday lunchtime.
Now he had to deal with this damn meeting.
‘Hassan, I’m pleased to see your sales have increased in the last few weeks.’ Max pronounced with some gravity, ‘If you keep this up, Gary’s fastest-to-fifty record will be under threat.’
Hassan was all business; immaculate white shirt ironed to within an inch of its life, azure tie with a gold chevron pattern, neat gelled hair and a trimmed moustache. The man’s uncomfortable grin was disingenuous. Gary knew Hassan was a motivated salesman and Gary’s own mantle as top dog in the yard was in peril.
Max acknowledged that Tony, the third salesman, was trying hard and earth-shattering results would come for him too if he continued to ‘believe in the system’. Yeah, and also if he put some more effort into it.
The boss then glossed over Gary’s output. In a word – shite.
After the meeting, Gary leaned against a cyclone fence near the entrance to the yard and sucked hard on a cigarette. He grabbed his silver hip flask from his back pocket, glanced around and took a deep draught of Bundy. The sun’s unrelenting heat had driven birdlife to the coolness of the surrounding mountains.
He wondered why the self-combusting ibis of last Friday hadn’t received the memo to fly the fuck out of town. Even the mangy blue heeler that usually lazed on the grass across the street at the smash repair shop must have sought refuge in the garage.
Gary checked his mobile – four unread messages he’d received over the weekend but couldn’t be arsed to read: three from Jocko, one from Foss.
Saturday–5.47pm:
make sure u have me monie monday. brad will be around lunch time to get it. no stunts.
Saturday–8.34pm:
I’ve gotta stop drinking with you lol. You can fix me up for the cab fare next week. Hope it works out with that Jocko bastard.
Saturday–10.45pm:
sweet dreams gaz :) Forgot to tell ya u will reconize brad by his big mussles ha ha.
Sunday–6.00pm:
im in a good mood coz qld beat vic in the 1 day cricket. Luv it wen outsiders win. Good 4 biznis. ur problem is u neva no wen to bak the faverit ya dumm cunt.
Gary strode back to his office, slammed the door and took swig from his hip flask. He checked his watch; getting close to eleven. Who’ll get here first, he wondered, Ivan or Brad? Will Ivan get here at all? Every tick of the clock was a mallet hammering a spike into his heart.
The Russian visited last Tuesday and left little doubt he’d be back on Monday. Gary started to worry the man wasn’t serious after all. Foss reckoned the offer was a fairy story. Perhaps Foss was right; who in their right mind would believe someone would just walk into the yard and lay down money to buy not one, but four cars?
Gary jumped at a text alert. Number withheld:
Hi Gary. I will be at car yard at 3 this afternoon. Please have ready keys to black BMW 3281 and Mercedes-Benz CL 600 for me and wife, you deliver Porsche Boxster and PDK987 for daughters by close of business, ok?
Thank Christ!
His mind went into overdrive. That would be a gross sale amount of about $205,000. He snatched the phone and punched in Max’s extension. He had to score the money for Jocko first, sell the cars second.
‘Max, great news!’ He recited the text message to his boss. ‘Only problem is, the debt collector will get here first. You’ve gotta let me have the cash to pay him. He might not make a scene here, but he’s gonna do something to Maddie if I don’t hand it over today.’
The slight pause seemed like an hour to Gary.
‘Okay,’ said Max. ‘It’s only four grand I’m risking. But if the Russian doesn’t show, you need to start looking for a new job as of this afternoon. Clear?’
‘Thanks, boss. It’s going to be a win-win. You get to sell some expensive cars, I get to clear my debt and everyone’s happy,’ Gary gushed, taking a celebratory sip of rum.
‘To be honest, I’m not happy. I’d rather sit on those cars for the rest of the year if it means you keep your nose clean. I know it’s for your mother-in-law and all, but you could have come to me in the first place instead of approaching a loan shark.’
‘I know and I’m sorry. I’ve learned a valuable lesson, that’s for sure. I’ll never forget this.’ Gary hung up the phone and rubbed his sweaty palms together. Four grand in the hole for now (there’d be some commission to pocket later) but he’d received a stay of execution. He busied himself filing paperwork, preparing mentally for his encounter with Bradley Jones.
He couldn’t concentrate. Tick-tock, tick-tock.
It wasn’t the clock – his heart, pulse and brain thumped a loud and distracting beat in his head. He looked at his phone and wished Ivan would ring or text to say he’d be early. Finally his patience gave out. He pressed the green call button, but there was no answer. Okay, he’ll be here. Stop panicking.
At precisely one o’clock, Gary saw Godzilla stride through the black iron gates into the yard. The creature’s colossal frame tested the seams of a dark blue suit that looked half a size too small. The enforcer’s box-shaped head was bookended by a pair of pink cauliflower ears, the result of packing his melon into more than a thousand rugby scrums.
Gary’s extension buzzed. ‘Gaz, a Mr Jones to see you.’
‘Come on Irina, the taxi will be here in half an hour,’ said Ivan Romashkin. ‘Please be ready on time.’
Ivan looked at his and Irina’s brand new Trust Bank of Australia online account. The money from Murmansk came through overnight. A monster of a transaction – $2 million USD, or $2.5 million Aussie with change – $200,000 for the cars and the rest to play with. He’d been browsing realestate.com.au over the last few days and decided ‘play with’ meant buying a fancy house in one of the Gold Coast’s fashionable suburbs. On a canal would be ideal. Maybe there’d be enough money left over for a boat.
He couldn’t believe that he, Ivan Olegovich Romashkin, unassuming and, by his own standards, unambitious fish factory
