Beverley waved her hand in front of her face. ‘Spare me that stuff. I don’t understand it anyway.’
‘Fair enough. I got a mate to ask around the pubs in Sorell. Seems this Dylan and his missus keep to themselves pretty much. He hangs around with a workmate, bloke called Jordie, who’s a bit of a dill. She does her shifts behind the bar, goes home. Seems well behaved, flirts a bit with the punters but doesn’t take it too far. It’s like they’re trying to be inconspicuous. Locals get the feeling they’re hiding from something or someone. If they have contacts with criminal elements, the cops or anyone else who might cause trouble for us, no one knows about it. Except for the one we do know about – Nugget. By all accounts, they moved to Tassie from Melbourne to start a new life. What the old life was, well, they’re not keen to talk about it.’
‘That’s all encouraging news.’ Beverley applied the finishing touches to her eyebrows. ‘And financially, how are they doing?’
‘Poor as shithouse rats.’
‘He sounds like the type of person suited to our needs. If we dangle a quarter of a million in front of him, do you think he’ll do it?’
‘I reckon he’d do it for $1,000. But let’s offer him $150,000 to guarantee the deal. That amount of money creates pressure to get the job done.’
‘I agree. That sounds a reasonable amount. If he pulls it off, you’ll be richly rewarded, my dear.’
Ed couldn’t believe the result: Beverley would give him $150,000 to give to Dylan and he’d get to keep Dylan’s original stash. And she would ‘richly reward’ him into the bargain.
‘Being with you is reward enough.’
Beverley tittered like a schoolgirl. ‘What a gorgeous thing to say.’ Her tone suddenly changed. ‘But I didn’t get to where I am today without being able to detect hogwash.’
Ed felt his face flushing. Possibly side effects from the 100ml of Taspep mixed with orange juice he swallowed while Beverley was in the shower, but most likely from being called out.
She reached a hand up and stroked his bristly cheek.
‘Don’t worry, honey. I forgive you.’
Maybe it’d pay to rein in the flattery and be more straight up with Beverley. He’d never met anyone more astute. It explained why the woman was so rich.
Beverley tied the cord of her dressing gown and fixed Ed with a laser stare. ‘Help me get Bruce Buckpitt out of the picture. Once I get the analysis results back from California, there’ll be no need to tolerate him and his controlling interference anymore.’
‘Leave it with me.’ If Dylan Wagner played ball, this would turn out to be the greatest thing that ever happened in the history of the world.
Chapter 19
The main entrance to Hobart’s iconic Wrest Point Casino is a revolving door. At the top of the building is a revolving restaurant. How symbolic of Gary’s revolving life. Back to square one. The same position he was in back on the Gold Coast. Sort of. Not up to his neck in debt this time, but flat broke and again depending on the whims of an arsehole big shot – a thieving sexual assaulter to boot – to get ahead. Like a good boy, Gary did everything right, and still, here he was. Life kicking him in the nuts.
Didn’t matter, though. He’d play Ed’s game, wait patiently. Then bring the fucker down, hard.
He shivered, brushed snowflakes from the collar of his leather jacket. A handful of tobacco addicts, exhaling clouds of smoke and condensed breath, huddled by a taxi rank. He stood beside them in silence, consumed a durry in three minutes. A clunky mini-plough swept past. It beeped a warning and threw a fountain of slush onto the footpath. The tooting horn shook Gary; he turned and stumbled into the warm foyer.
The Hobart landmark, Australia’s first legal casino, seemed to have lost its glitz and glamour since Gary and Maddie stayed at Wrest Point on their honeymoon. It was the first time the newlyweds had seen snow, a light dusting on the top of Mount Wellington. Now he was sick of the sight of it.
It was mid-August, the coldest part of winter according to Jordie. The couple of months spent in Tasmania seemed like a lifetime. The anomalous weather pattern had held firm since late summer, but hadn’t worsened. International aid enabled the city to function more or less as normal. Even cars without chains could handle most roads now. That’s why Gary didn’t ask Nugget for a tractor, like Ed suggested, but drove here in his own car. He used the chains until conditions improved enough to remove them. There were some slippery patches, but occasional swigs of Jim Beam and Coke steadied the nerves for negotiating tricky turns.
Ding.
The lift doors parted. Surprise! Ed was flanked by Selina and Fern. Gary expected just the Arsehole. All wore gleaming smiles plastered across their faces which seemed to get even broader when Gary shuffled towards them like a nervous debutante. Ed was dressed in the style of a Russian Mafioso – a look Gary was not unfamiliar with. Sleek and black. A suit that probably cost more than six months’ worth of Gary’s paltry wages, a gunmetal grey shirt with silver-tipped collars, blood-red silk designer tie. Hair slicked back and stubble trimmed to the perfect length. The bastard wasn’t impressing anyone with that shit, though. Gary’s clothes weren’t exactly from a Vinnie’s bin: mostly Gucci, and what wasn’t was some other rich-arse brand. Gary made sure to equip himself for any contingency in the wardrobe department, and had the foresight not to sell any flash gear no matter how desperate things got. Even when there wasn’t a drop of booze in the house, no smokes, and he had to wait a few days till he or Tracey got paid. A will of iron you’ve got, Braswell, don’t let anyone say otherwise.
The women either side of Ed twinkled like stars on a moonless night. Brilliant heavenly bodies separating an evil black hole. How he wanted to punch that man, spread his perfect nose all over his handsome face.
‘Come and join us, Dylan. Glad you could make it.’ The Arsehole was politeness personified.
The seating arrangement was weird: three on one side of the table and Gary on the other. His hosts faced inwards, backs to the window, giving Gary the view of the city lights as the platform floor revolved slowly. How generous.
‘Nice to see you again. I feel we didn’t get to know each other properly the last time,’ said Selina. ‘Although you and Fern, ahem, certainly hit it off.’
The women exchanged a knowing look. Fern ran a heavily ringed finger through her dreadies which now only covered two-thirds of her head. One side was cropped close and dyed lime green. She still looked damned hot.
So, the fact he’d been intimate with Fern was no secret. And why would it be? The cosy troika of freaks shared everything. Gary blushed. They must know about Ed’s act of violation, too. If only he could pick up a chair and bash the Arsehole’s brains in. What the hell were these kooks up to? Surely not looking to blackmail him, threaten to tell Tracey about his indiscretions. No profit in it for them. He wouldn’t pre-empt matters by asking about the proposed “job”. Let Ed bring up the subject at his leisure.
‘Come, now, Selina. Let’s not embarrass our guest.’ With a flourish, Ed placed a cloth napkin in his lap. ‘We’re here to treat Dylan as a token of thanks for the safe delivery of a precious cargo. Small, but highly valuable.’
Gary cleared his throat before sipping a glass of water. ‘No need to exaggerate. All I did was drive into town and hand over a package. Any idiot could have done it.’
‘But any idiot didn’t do it. You did it.’ Ed smiled benevolence. ‘Great responsibility was attached to that mission, and you didn’t let us down. I want to thank you properly by shouting you whatever you want. Then we can play some roulette, have a few drinks and head back to my place to continue the fun. Sound good?’
Normally, it would sound better than good. But not tonight, because sitting opposite was a man Gary hated more than anyone he’d ever hated in his life. But if Gary was going to get even, he needed to get in sweet with this pig, find out what makes him tick, then strike when least expected.
‘Sounds fucken awesome. Where’s the menu?’
‘Thanks. Now, may I propose a toast to new friends?’ Gary recited a long-winded diatribe he’d picked up from hanging out with the Russian syndicate. Totally irrelevant, but judging by the way the trio opposite smiled and nodded, the words were having the right impact. Gary Braswell was back in town.
If you were being nice, Gary thought, compared to the shiny, noisy gambling pit at Gold Coast’s Jupiters, you could describe Wrest Point’s as funereal. Sombre Asian gentlemen dominated the tables, muttering under their breath when chips were taken away, cracking barely perceptible smiles when they won. Other gamblers fussed and fidgeted; strong oaths accompanied heavy losses. For the most part, silence reigned, apart from the clack of the white ball and the croupier’s sonorous instructions between spins. Gary glanced at his watch: 10:48. He told Tracey he’d try to be home by midnight. A vain hope now. Lucky to be back before sunrise. He snuck a look at his phone. No messages. She must understand the need to see this thing through. Smart girl.
‘Up for a game, Dylan?’ Ed nodded towards the roulette wheel.
‘I’ll watch you, if that’s okay.’ Why admit your wallet’s empty? He spent the $200 Nugget paid him on fuel and the rest on a couple of rounds of drinks. ‘I don’t much go on roulette. Too hard to win a decent amount. It’s all luck and no skill.’ Not like that ever stopped him from having a flutter.
‘How about poker? They’ve got Texas Hold’em. Great fun.’
‘Nah. Can’t get my head around the rules.’ Gary knew the rules backwards. He also knew he was starting to slur his words.
‘What about blackjack, then? It’s easy.’
Time to fess up. ‘I don’t have any cash on me.’ He patted his pants pockets.
Ed winked. ‘No worries. I’ll spot you $500. Pay it back from the fee you’re going to get.’
So, Ed’s finally getting to the point of the evening. Why this charade, though? A simple meeting over a coffee, an offer on the table, would have been enough. Would have been a shitload easier too.
‘I haven’t agreed to do it yet.’
‘You will, Dylan.’
‘Don’t be so sure. I’ve done plenty of buttering people up in my time, so I know exactly what you’re trying to do.’ He immediately doubted the wisdom of his words. Give nothing away. Let the Arsehole think he has the upper hand.
‘Come on, mate. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.’
Gary shrugged.
‘That’s more like it.’ Ed laid a gentle hand on Gary’s shoulder.
‘Don’t touch me.’ It burst out automatically. A man touching him like that should mean nothing. A fraternal gesture. He had to be more careful. Think before he spoke. The river of pinot noir consumed at dinner wasn’t helping. Nor the beers. Dammit, Ed made sure a drink was always in Gary’s hand.
Ed’s hands went up in surrender. ‘Whatever you say, mate.’
Ed said the taxi ride back to his house would take about five minutes. How cool living so close to the city. Gary could have a ton of fun if he lived in town and wasn’t always down on funds. His only so-called entertainment was the handful of Hicksville hotels in his local area. Same dudes in flannelette and fluoro, boots and beards, day in, day out. Boring as bat shit.
Ed sat next to the taxi driver, bending the poor guy’s ear about upcoming elections. The man bobbed his head constantly as Ed raved on about inadequate infrastructure, underfunded hospitals, under-resourced schools. Why long-suffering Tasmanians needed better representation. Who’d have thought the Arsehole took a keen interest in such things? You can’t read some people. But Gary soon lost interest in that one-way conversation. Because he was snug in the back seat, wedged between Fern and Selina.
‘Wow! You guys cleaned up at blackjack, hey?’ said Fern. Gary handed her a crisp fifty. She rolled a tight, slim cylinder, syphoned a white line of powder off the side of her purse. Gary watched as she leaned back and closed her eyes, bliss engulfing her face.
‘We sure did.’ Ed blew a wad of money on a quick succession of hands; Gary turned Ed’s loan into $2000. A win like that was always a confidence booster. Game changer. He could easily double that amount by studying the horse racing form guide, placing strategic bets at the Shearer’s Arms next week. Upgrade his car, maybe buy one for Tracey. He’d go back to Wazza’s Used Cars and get another bargain off that clueless salesman. When they stood up from the card table, Gary immediately handed back Ed’s $500 and called them square. He wouldn’t be beholden to the Arsehole. Make him feel guilty for stealing Gary’s money while Gary was being the honest, principled one. Trouble was, Ed took the cash without blinking.
‘I wish we’d been there to see it. Sounds exciting,’ said Selina. ‘But the lure of the karaoke machine was too strong for us. Hit it, Fern.’
The hippy chick on Gary’s right, rejuvenated by the quick snort, launched into a windscreen shaking performance. The cabbie’s head sank into his neck under the power of the vocals. A chair-o-plane of dreadlocks flicked Gary’s cheek as Fern belted out the lyrics. It was Kelly Clarkson’s Since U Been Gone. Fern nailed it. Note perfect.
The taxi crawled into Ed’s driveway, a steep serpentine track lined with English box hedge. Three car doors clunked closed in the still of the night. The revellers dashed for the covered portico as the heavens dropped a bucket of icy rain mixed with snow.
Gary sighed as he absorbed the opulent interior of Ed’s home. Even with cathedral ceilings, a lounge room big as a concert hall and the absence of any heating devices, the place was nudging hot. ‘Your place is amazing,’ said Gary. He heard envy creep into his own voice.
‘Work hard and you too can have a house like this.’ Ed waved a hand and smiled like one of those motivational speakers Gary hated.
‘I reckon the old lady’s house in Fazakerley Place is better.’ A pause to let the jibe sink in. ‘But this is still a quality residence.’ Better stop now. That last bit sounded like a real estate agent.
Ed grunted. ‘Okay guys, who’s for a nightcap?’ He headed towards a wooden liquor cabinet that looked like a prop from The Great Gatsby, pulled out a whiskey bottle. ‘Ten-year-old single malt. Laphroaig.’
‘Sure. Why not.’ Gary felt saliva pooling under his tongue. He was sobering up; the fine scotch should make the rest of this ordeal easier to bear.
Ed tilted the bottle towards the women, who were dropping keys and handbags on a table, shedding coats, gloves, scarves. ‘Not for us. We’ll leave you men to discuss your important business.’ Selina turned to Fern. ‘Wanna relax in the jacuzzi?’
‘Sure,’ said Fern. ‘Beats sitting on the couch while these two waffle on.’
The two women headed down a long corridor, holding hands. They giggled, danced and skipped. Gary’s heart skipped too. The girls were behaving like best mates, which didn’t match up with Fern’s words at the Happy Traveller. Said she was tired of Ed and Selina, they were up themselves and selfish. Nah, she was lying. The three of them are thick as thieves. Still, he’d rather party with the ladies than be stuck here with this oily bastard. The grin on Ed’s face needed wiping off. Unfortunately, the bloke was a gorilla who could snap Gary in half like a Kit-Kat. He’d dish out attitude instead.
Gary swirled whiskey and ice in a chunky glass. He glanced up to a long, narrow window at the end of the lounge room. Striations of snowflakes scooted past fir trees outside.
Ed fussed about with a tray, brought it over to the coffee table next to a low couch. Black leather, soft as a mouse’s ear. Gary flopped onto plush cushions, man-spread like a selfish commuter taking up three seats.
‘Like to partake before we discuss business?’
No reply. Gary simply leaned forward, nostril-blocked and sucked up the powder. He’d keep conversation to a minimum with the Arsehole. Ed didn’t touch the cocaine, seemed happy sipping scotch. Five seconds, ten seconds. Breathe. In, out. Relax, think…
‘So, Dylan. Enough beating around the bush
. Or “buttering up”, as you called it. I can see you’re no fool.’
‘Damned straight, dickhead.’ Amazing what a fat line of coke can do for a person’s confidence. ‘And I’m smart enough to know two things you can’t dispute. You took advantage of me when I was incapable of resisting. And you stole my money.’ Gary tugged a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, drew one out and stuck it between quivering lips.
‘Ah, no smoking in the house. No exceptions.’
‘Fuck you.’ A column of smoke was already rising to the ceiling. ‘I’ll do what I want. You…raped…me.’ The last three words came in a whisper. Gary tapped a centimetre of ash onto the polished concrete floor. He fixed his eyes on Ed, who wriggled in his seat. A squirm of guilt.
‘Sorry, but you’re wrong. The girls will back me up.’ The bravado faltered a fraction. ‘You asked for it, Dylan. Practically begged me.’
Gary leapt to his feet, stabbed an index finger on the coffee table. ‘Bullshit. You’re a fucken liar.’ His voice shook. ‘I’m going to ask a complete stranger to sodomise me, am I? You’re off your fucken tree. Prob’ly the steroids, ya puffed-up Neanderthal.’ Gary crushed his cigarette underfoot. Spat on the floor.
Ed’s nostrils flared, eyes bulged, fists clenched by his side. ‘I understand you’re upset. But I swear, you came onto me.’
‘I’m leaving.’ Gary stomped towards the crowded coat rack. ‘I’m calling the cops first thing in the morning. You can’t be allowed to get away with this.’ He grabbed the front door handle, turned and pulled. Nothing. Leaned his shoulder into it and shoved. The door didn’t budge. ‘Open the goddamn door.’
‘Calm the fuck down.’ Ed pointed at the seat Gary vacated. ‘Let me explain some facts of life to you. After that, you’re free to go.’
Gary’s heart pounded like a trip hammer. If the blow and booze wasn’t enough, now a new terror gripped him. This madman’s capable of anything. Trying to play the nice guy, but an aura of sinister calmness surrounded him. Gary trundled back to the couch. Stay cool no matter how scared you are, or Ed will sniff it out and rip you to shreds.
Sold to the Devil Page 12