Sold to the Devil

by Blair Denholm

  Like an addict, he couldn’t check the phone without a peek at RandyRooters.com or Randies as he and its members called it. A little heart-shaped icon appeared – a reply. His heart thumped. Responses to his approaches were worse than the Tasmanian Premier’s popularity rating. He sent 90 percent of his messages to women, but occasionally he spotted a couple looking for a guy to join them and flicked them a line. Either way, most answers – if they came at all – were of the “no thanks” variety. It was a tough gig for average men. Surely another rejection loomed.

  Hi Magnum69. If you’re interested in meeting us please reply. Lots of fun times ahead, if we like you.

  He gave a mini fist pump. Strike while the iron’s hot.

  Hi guys. Thanks for replying. Happy to meet up for a drink and see if we click. I’m open to most things. Please text me on …

  Hang on a minute. Bad idea. Better to limit contact to the website’s messaging facility. Keep phone numbers out of it altogether. He was a cop after all, and Hobart was a small town. Way too easy for something to go arse-up. Ask them to meet him at a specific place. If they fronted, great. If they stood him up, no big loss. But with the weather threatening to worsen, it might be ages before they could make a date. Dammit.

  He was as toey as a Roman sandal and didn’t want the opportunity to slip. He couldn’t sound desperate either; that would scare them off for good.

  He deleted the bit about them texting him. Be cool, play it smart. Let me know where and when you’d like to meet up and I’ll try to make a spot in my schedule . Always add the smiley face. It’s mandatory these days, apparently.

  Fifteen minutes later he nosed the Pajero into the station’s parking lot, killed the engine and grabbed his phone. Unlikely the couple had responded already, it was only 8.30am after all. But yes, there it was. They must be early birds like him.

  Sure thing Magnum. We’ll book a room at the Grand Chancellor and meet you for a drink in the bar. This Saturday night, 8:00pm. The weather’s supposed to improve by then. Let’s hope so. You’ll recognise us from our profile description. See you then!

  The uplifting refrain of Pharrell Williams’s infectiously annoying Happy filled the car. He rubbed his hands together. Stuff this rotten weather, life’s fine and sunny with the prospect of an erotic encounter. Now, what emergencies need sorting out?

  Chapter 9

  Dylan Oscar Wagner’s online savings account drew disappointment like flat beer at a buck’s night. Shit – $283. The money he’d withdrawn at the ferry terminal in Melbourne was gone. He kept hoping for a miracle. Like the “stolen” stolen loot would be dropped at the front door with a bunch of flowers and a note of apology for the inconvenience. Sadly, two weeks after the incident, that wish remained unfulfilled.

  Credit card accounts needed topping up, too. Direct debits continued to roll for their phone accounts and health insurance, the latter taken out at Tracey’s insistence in case Gary had any post-op complications. She’d never had health insurance before and reckoned she deserved additional protection. Being involved with Gary was a health hazard in itself. Now, after a half dozen trudging trips through snow drifts to get smokes, whiskey, beer and two-minute noodles, the modest cash reserve in his wallet was gone. Financially, it had to be admitted, he and Tracey were fucked.

  He stared at the bedroom walls with a fiery hatred. After residing with the god-awful Triffett family for longer than a normal human should ever have to, he itched to tear the walls down. Which wouldn’t be hard considering the house’s flimsy construction. He held his head in his hands as the loathsome toddler set off a high-pitched wail, emanating from the direction of the kitchen. Then mum and dad started yelling at the obnoxious kid, whose cries grew louder. Crockery smashed and something solid went thump. Next door’s dog decided to join the rumpus, baying like a wolf in heat. He gritted his teeth so hard he heard a crunch inside his head. Jesus, why don’t they all SHUT THE FUCK UP?

  Getting out of this shit heap was priority number one. He’d call the need urgent, only it was a word that failed miserably to convey the urgency of the situation. Unfortunately, options weren’t exactly sticking their hands up for attention. The Kiwi thugs who’d brought them to this living hell were right about a housing crisis. There were zero houses to rent for a young couple with no references and no official rental history. Calls to real estate agents, online rental services and even advertisers on Craig’s List led only to disappointment. At his desperate insistence, Tracey called the Fixers in Sydney, begging for help with better digs, a short-term bridging loan, anything.

  ‘We’ve done more than enough for youse bludgers,’ Abdul Wadood bellowed down the line. ‘If you can’t sort out your own mess after all what we’ve done, tough shit.’ A raspy laugh. ‘Nothing to stop us turning you in for that juicy reward, so count yourself lucky we haven’t. Call again with your moaning, and we will call the cops. Or send Kyle and Jerome round to teach youse some manners.’ Tracey went to protest, but Abdul hung up on her mid-sentence. Gary shook his head. Useless pricks.

  Airbnb and other couch-surfing companies were another dead end of frustration. These days, it seemed, visitors swamped the island state at all times of the year. There were no off-shoulder, off-peak or off-season periods anymore. Just go, go, go. By air and by sea, the hordes descended. Prices for holiday accommodation were through the roof. If anything, rooms were even harder to get right now as curious tourists flocked to catch a glimpse of the snow-covered state before the magic melted away.

  Outside a big red and blue snow plough churned up the road and a smaller one cleared the footpath. He monitored the disaster online daily to see when things were going to improve. Yesterday, the local paper reported the state was finally getting back on its feet after the Canadian and Norwegian governments airlifted a load of snow-clearing machines aboard a fleet of Russian AN-225 Mriya aircraft the size of battleships. Apparently, the Chinese government – the prime investor in Hobart’s new underground rail infrastructure – coughed up the mega-bikkies for the rescue mission. He didn’t give a shit about the politics or the motivation, only the resumption of normal service. The unending sight of snow had depressed him more than the Titans picking up the NRL wooden spoon last year. At least now he could walk to the shops in the bitter cold without sinking knee-deep in slush.

  A lack of adequate heating in the house added to the misery. The couple had insufficient money for the wood burner, and the decades-old electrical appliances ran off a pay-as-you-go system. Gary and Tracey took minute-long showers every three days. The cloud of stench enveloping the hosts and their kid indicated abstinence from washing. Four days ago, Gary felt a chill in the kidney area. A niggling cough appeared from nowhere; he guessed it was a product of the damp, cold air and diet of alcohol and smokes. Tracey’s face grew haggard. Black circles under the eyes, poxy complexion, lank mousey hair becoming visible now they couldn’t spend money on dye, gel and the other product she liked.

  ‘Okay, Trace.’ Gary sighed and flicked a bit of flaking paint off the bedroom door. It floated like a feather into a brimming ashtray where a smouldering cigarette ignited it; noxious fumes puffed into the air. ‘It’s time to bite the bullet.’

  ‘What?’ She rolled over on the bed, her crocheted jumper rode up to reveal a rib cage you could scrub clothes on. The skin on her stomach had turned a blotchy shade of grey. ‘You’re going to start working at that oyster farm and earning some coin, huh?’

  ‘Yep. There’s fuck all hope of that Russian loot coming back. We’ve got no other source of income. If we’re gonna get out of here, we need to scrape a bond together. And a reference letter from an employer.’ He took a deep breath, triggering a barking cough. ‘Sorry ‘bout that.’ Cough, hack, splutter. ‘Geez, I’m getting crook. Anyway, I’ve been looking for cheap places to rent. Not a cracker in town, but some cottages further out. Near a township called Sorell. But they’re closer to where I’ll be working.’

  ‘That makes sense, doesn’t it? Why live
a million miles from work?’

  ‘True. I like the way you think, Trace.’ Cough, cough. ‘Here’s my plan in a nutshell: I buy a cheap car on the credit card, work my arse off to get the bond money together, and then we say goodbye to these inbreeds forever.’

  ‘About time. We have to get the hell out of here. I’ve got bloody cabin fever. I love you and all, but having only you and these foul ferals for company is driving me crazy.’

  ‘There’s nothing stopping you from looking for a job, you know.’ The instant he uttered the words, he regretted it. A ceramic bowl lined with dried crusty noodles sailed past his head, missing by millimetres. It smashed into tiny pieces against the mould-flecked wall.

  ‘Are you fucking serious? This entire situation is down to you. You should be grateful to me for keeping you alive.’

  Gary quickly lit two smokes and handed one to Tracey. A peace offering. She took it and smiled wanly.

  ‘Jesus, I know. Sorry,’ he said. ‘Still, having jobs would be good for both of us. For our sanity’s sake, if nothing else.’ He paused, thinking how best to frame the next bit. ‘You wouldn’t consider going back to, you know…’

  ‘No way.’ A shake of the head and a staccato laugh. ‘I want to forget I ever did that.’

  ‘But when I first met you in that pub in Kings Cross, you said you didn’t mind doing it. Something about being able to pick and choose who you get to root.’

  ‘Yeah, well. A girl’s entitled to change her mind. Besides, for whatever stupid reason, you’re the one I choose to root right now. No one else. Not for any money.’

  Gary bit his fat lip. The squalor they’d been living in wasn’t exactly conducive to amorous activities. There hadn’t been any rooting for a while. Bloody hell. He suddenly realised the last sexual encounter he’d had was with Ed.

  He lay down on the bed and tucked his arm under Tracey’s neck. Her pillow stank like wet dog and was stained yellow and brown with … he didn’t want to think about what it might be. His pillow smelled even worse, but, ever the gentleman, she got the “better” one. He suddenly felt a need to connect physically with Tracey, to soothe the pain of their pitiful existence with simple human contact. To hold her in his arms and whisper everything was going to be okay. In other words, he was horny.

  ‘It’s okay, Trace. Sorry for even suggesting it. I guess I’ve been used to having all this cash. The idea of actually having to work for a living doesn’t exactly appeal.’

  She turned her head slightly and gazed into his eyes. ‘I know, Gaz. I’m sorry for overreacting. I will look for a job. And soon. If you’re going to be away working, I can’t spend all day here with these freaks. I’ve done some bar work in Sydney. It was a long time ago, but I reckon I’d pick it up again. Then I’ll finish my degree and get a better job.’ She stroked his cheek, ran a forefinger across his fleshy bottom lip. ‘You know, that permanent pout makes you look a bit like a young Elvis. Kinda cute.’

  ‘Thank you verra much.’

  ‘Pathetic. Anyway, look at the oyster farm as a stepping stone. Remember how good you were at real estate on the Gold Coast? And selling cars before that? They’re highly transferable skills. Be patient. You’ll climb the ladder again one day. Sooner than you think.’

  She knew how to say the right things at the right time. He was indeed a man with unequalled talents when it came to selling. He’d bide his time, settle in, and then unleash himself on the unsuspecting Tasmanian people. As Dylan Wagner, a man to be reckoned with.

  Thanks to Tracey’s motivational words, his confidence was up again. Enough to chance a probing feel down the front of her trackie pants. Her hips rose to meet his fingers and she gave a little moan.

  ‘Now, show me some of those other skills you’ve got. Love me tender, please, Mr Presley.’

  ‘Yes ma’am.’

  Chapter 10

  Gary punched in the final digit. Here goes nothing.

  ‘Good afternoon. Echidna Bay Oysters.’

  ‘Would the line manager be available?’

  ‘Speaking.’ A gruff baritone. ‘What can I do for ya?’

  ‘I’ve got a letter here says there’s a job for me at your oyster farm.’

  ‘S’cuse me?’ Bewilderment echoed in the man’s voice. ‘There’s no vacancies at the moment. We’ve got a waiting list of applicants for casual positions as long as your arm, and no permanent jobs. We don’t provide offer letters. Only in-person interviews.’

  Gary’s brow moistened with sweat despite the cold of the room. He flashed Tracey what he hoped was a reassuring smile; the conversation was on loud speaker.

  ‘Are you sure? Some friends of mine in Sydney gave me the letter. Said it was a guaranteed job. Bloke’s name is Abdul Wadood. Please check it out.’

  ‘Mmm. Don’t mean nothin’ to me. Lemme speak with the director when she returns from lunch and I’ll get back to ya.’

  ‘Okay, thanks.’

  Click.

  ‘Shit, Trace. These Fixers are stuffing up at every turn. All they’ve done is take my money and given me a fucked-up facelift. Wouldn’t be surprised if this turns out to be the next instalment of bullshit.’

  ‘Bloody hell. I’m sorry. Can’t believe I trusted them.’

  Fifteen minutes later the phone rang. The first incoming call on the new number made Gary’s heart jump. The bass intro to Queen’s Another One Bites the Dust blasted out at full volume. Gary couldn’t remember selecting that as a ring tone. Probably another Wadood sick joke.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hi. Coral Balmoral here from Echidna Bay Oyster Farm. Are you Dylan Wagner?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay. Good news. You’ve got a rare sponsored position. Get down here by 7:00am Wednesday to make sure I don’t change my mind.’

  ‘Uh, yeah. Thanks for the opportunity.’

  ‘Whatever. Don’t be late.’

  Click.

  A fit of hysterical laughter racked Gary’s diaphragm. Welcome to your new job, mate. He didn’t even want it, and the employer was already treating him like dirt. Didn’t matter. It would simply be a glitch on the bumpy road to success.

  ‘What’s so funny? That woman didn’t sound too friendly to me,’ said Tracey, eyebrows in a V-shape.

  ‘No idea. I have the feeling something good’s gonna come out of this bloody nightmare.’

  ‘Game changer?’

  ‘Ha ha. Not quite, but it’s virtually around the corner. Now, all I’ve gotta do is find myself a half-decent car for under $3,000, and a set of snow chains for emergencies. Not sure the ploughs’ll be clearing all the regional roads.’ Gary unscrewed the cap of a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label, took a big swig and handed the bottle to Tracey. ‘But first let’s celebrate me getting a job. How’s about we hop a bus into the city and have a few drinks with normal people. Maybe we can find Ed and his mini harem.’

  ‘Anything to get out of this hole for a while. Just a couple of drinks, though. Money’s low, remember.’ Gary knew her real concern wasn’t money, but his lack of control. He’d be good tonight. As long as Fern didn’t rock up. He’d been having dirty dreams about that babe, doing disgusting things with dreadies. If he saw her, the plan to behave might fly out the window into the chilly Hobart air. She could also lead them to the lost loot.

  With money matters front and centre of their attention, he opened his wallet wide to reveal the remaining cash. ‘Oh, I remember, all right. It’s one last fling before the working life starts.’ He folded the wallet and handed it over to Tracey. ‘See, I’m already acting responsibly. You can be in charge of the finances tonight. In fact, you can be in charge of our finances full stop.’ He neglected to mention the sly emergency $50 tucked into his back pocket. Laying a pineapple on the pokies might score them a needed windfall.

  ‘I think that’s a wise and mature move on your part, Mr Wagner. Once the notes are gone, no buying drinks with the credit card, okay? Promise me you won’t even ask.’

  ‘I won’t.’ An
other sip of scotch. ‘And there it is.’

  ‘There what is?’

  ‘The game changer.’

  ‘Oh, babe. I hope so.’

  True to his word, he didn’t spend more than the cash in the wallet. Oh, and the extra $50 a ravenous poker machine gobbled up while Tracey visited the ladies room. First spin won him $20, but he couldn’t stop pressing the buttons until the lot was gone for good.

  Other than that bit of bad luck, he and Tracey sipped their beers slowly all night and caught the last bus home to the Glenorchy rat hole before midnight. He couldn’t remember a more civil, controversy-free evening in ages. A couple of drinks, conversation and music. Unfortunately, no trace of Ed, Selina or Fern in any of the pubs in Salamanca. Most bars were sparse – not unusual for a Monday night. Questions to the bar staff came up empty. People could be suspicious, shielding Ed. Tassie’s a small place and Hobart even smaller. Someone had to know them. If only they could remember the name of his company. But for some reason it proved to be as elusive as the Tasmanian Tiger.

  Chapter 11

  On a freezing, frosty Tuesday morning, Gary shook the woolly-gloved hand of Bernie Bellamy, senior sales person at Wazza’s Used Cars in Argyle Street, and flashed him his universal, all-purpose smile.

  ‘I’m sure you’re gonna love this baby, she’s—’

  ‘Spare me the bullshit, mate. This car’s a pile of crap, dirty inside, heater barely works, springs gone in the driver’s seat. Probably an oil leak and fuck knows what else a thorough inspection by a mechanic would show up.’

  ‘But, hang on—’