Sold to the Devil

by Blair Denholm

  ‘I’m a reasonable man. I want what’s best for me, of course. But I’m not indifferent to your position. You’re suffering false regret. Only natural. Seen it before. But the cops start asking questions, it won’t be your word against mine. It’s your word against mine AND Fern’s AND Selina’s.’ Ed paused, ran his hand down his thigh. ‘So, you can forget about running to the police like a little girl’s blouse.’

  Faint squeals of laughter erupted from the other end of the house.

  The Arsehole was right. Gary had nowhere to turn. But he could think of no response. He continued to stare at his drink. Maybe wisdom would flow into his brain from the aged spirit.

  ‘Perhaps this will help move things along.’ Ed placed Gary’s long lost sports bag on the table, unzipped it and sat back in his seat. ‘Go on, take a peak.’

  ‘I’m well aware of the contents. Don’t need to see it.’ An unseen force made Gary lean over and look into the mouth of the bag. The notes were still there, crisp and bundled.

  ‘Haven’t spent a dollar.’ Ed waved a hand over the cash. ‘Fern found it. You should be grateful to her. I wanted to spend the lot, share it around. But she insisted we keep it safe until we could give it back to its rightful owner.’

  ‘Give it back then, and stop playing fucken games.’

  ‘I said rightful owner. Got any way to prove you came by it legitimately? Invoices? Receipts? Anything like that?’

  ‘You know damn well I haven’t.’

  ‘In that case, you’re going to have to earn it back. Or try and take it from me. Which would you prefer?’

  Ed had him over an old barrel, sharp splinters digging in hard.

  ‘What’s your offer?’

  ‘I want you to kill Bruce Buckpitt.’

  ‘What? Who?’ Gary’s eyebrows took an elevator ride halfway up his forehead.

  ‘Nugget. He has to die.’

  Gary leaned forward, cradled his head in shaking hands, his guts in spin cycle mode. He thought for an instant he’d spew and shit himself at the same time. Somehow, he held everything in. What sort of fucked up life was he leading? Kill Nugget to recover some dirty money? Impossible. Never. No fucken way.

  ‘Okay. I’ll do it.’

  ‘There’s a good boy. I knew you’d see reason.’

  Gary screwed up his lips. Lit another cigarette and puffed furiously. ‘May I know the reason for such drastic action?’

  ‘If he continues to live, you don’t get the money.’

  ‘Ha ha. You’re a comic fucken genius. I mean, why do you need him dead?’

  ‘I understand your curiosity. After all, I’m not asking you to drive to the shop for a carton of milk. This is a huge thing. But there’s a big payoff for you. I’m a pretty good judge of character, and I reckon I’ve got you sussed, mate. Desperate, fed up living like pond scum.’ Ed spread his arms like he was giving a TED talk. ‘Simply put, Nugget has to meet his maker. The reason, I’m afraid, is strictly confidential. It’s bad enough this has to happen at all. I can assure you, it’s a last resort. Unfortunately, there’s no other option.’

  ‘So, I’ve agreed. What next?’

  ‘I’ll arrange everything. Follow my instructions to the letter, no one will get caught and everybody gets to live happily ever after.’

  ‘Everybody?’

  ‘Except for Nugget, that is.’

  ‘When do I get these instructions?’

  ‘Soon. I have to tidy up a few loose ends first. And now I have your agreement. I’ll contact you when it’s time. Meantime, head down the corridor. Last door on the left. There’s a surprise for you. A reward.’

  Chapter 20

  The reward was worth accepting the job. This was more like a pre-reward reward. Technically speaking, the real prize was the cash. Having a tumble in a king-size bed with Fern and Selina was more an incentive. As far as incentives go, it beat the hell out of Woolworths loyalty cards. A turn in the spa beforehand would have been nice, but the girls had already got out by the time he’d finished talking with Ed.

  The door was wide open. Gary stood at the threshold for an instant, weighing up the morality of joining the girls. His feet led him towards them; his brain had stopped thinking. He flicked his shoes off, yanked off socks, shirt and trousers and leapt onto the king-size four-poster bed. Two gorgeous females lay sprawled out either side of him, birthday suits on and ready to party. An old-school lava lamp glowed red on a bedside table. It gave the women’s skin a bright pink glow that made his heart pound with excitement.

  ‘Dylan. I never took you for a shy boy. Why do you still have your boxer shorts on?’ Fern reached over to tug them off. ‘You know I’m a nature lover, and clothes are such an encumbrance.’

  ‘Yep. Mmm. Cumbrance. Sure.’

  Selina’s hot, wet tongue probed Gary’s ear. The woman clearly had no issue with its deformed shape. Quite the opposite, if the level of enthusiasm was anything to go by. Someone’s hand started rubbing him where he liked to be rubbed more than anywhere else.

  ‘And this T-shirt. It has to go, too.’ Fingers clawed at his chest. The T-shirt was off and on the floor in seconds. Fern shoved him flat on his back. Like a gymnast mounting a vault, she leapt onto him and started riding. She moaned softly and rocked back and forth. Selina leaned across and kissed him, deep and hard.

  Gary let his mind go blank as the two gal pals pleasured him, and each other. For an hour and twenty-five minutes he experienced the entire list of positions in the Karma Sutra. The women came at him from more angles than porn stars playing Twister. Not an inch of his body was spared from their caresses and kisses, fleshy wet body parts. If heaven existed, this was it. He came two times and they did too – or so it seemed. More likely from their attention to each other than from anything he did in the way of creative lovemaking. But did it matter? Fuck no. This was fair payment from Ed for his abominable crime.

  02:00 hours. The women were fast asleep. Nestled in each other’s arms, legs plaited together. The soft breath of deep sleep slipped from their lips. Lips that had served with distinction in the line of duty. Why were they involved with Ed? Such a waste of beautiful humanity. Liberation will come soon, enough, my lovelies. Don’t worry, Gary will see to it. Might take a year, but he’d bring Ed and his empire of shit crashing to earth with a thud.

  He picked his clothes off the floor. A five minute shower in the ensuite washed away all traces of his escapade. He hoped. He turned sideways in the mirror-walled shower, sucked in his gut. A little paunch had formed. The beginnings of man boobs. You need exercise, Braswell. Starting to look like a lump of lard. Next to Ed, he was a pathetic specimen. Gary’s charisma more than made up for it, though.

  He bent to dry feet and legs. Out of the corner of his eye spied scratch marks. Four angry red lines crept across a shoulder blade. A badge of honour for a single man, this was a disaster for Gary. He always slept nude with Tracey, no matter how cold it was. Wearing a T-shirt to bed would be as suspicious as lipstick on his collar. That on top of his promise to waste Nugget put a dampener on the evening. He’d feign illness. No. Bed bugs. He scratched up his arms, down the legs too. Created a roadmap of red lines. They weren’t as vivid as the ones on his back – he winced when he scratched too hard. Copping it in the throes of passion had gone unnoticed, in a calm state he couldn’t replicate the marks.

  The cab he’d called was waiting in the driveway, plumes of exhaust pumping into the freezing night air. About a $150 cab ride back to Wattle Hill, but he didn’t care. The blackjack win, the second bright note of the evening, would more than cover that.

  Two thoughts nagged at him on the ride home. How the hell was he going to not kill Nugget and still get his money back? And how was he going to convince Tracey the scratches on his back were innocent? He wasn’t sure which of the two problems would be more challenging to solve.

  Chapter 21

  With luck, Tracey had crashed hours ago. He checked the time on his phone. Shit – 05:21am. He planned to creep i
nto bed unnoticed, fall asleep as fast as possible. But the more he tried to tiptoe and keep quiet, the more noise he made. Knocked over an empty glass on the kitchen table. Clunk. Stubbed a toe on a chair, eliciting a stifled “Motherfucker!” Bladder fit to burst, he tried to piss gently against the side of the bowl, hit the middle of the water. Trrrrr went the stream, sounding like bullets strafing a pond. He eased the bedroom door open but couldn’t disguise the squeaky hinge. Eek. He’d need to oil that bastard.

  He caught Tracey quarter-opening one eye, a faint slit of predawn light shining through chintz curtains. Stealth fail.

  ‘Went better than I thought,’ he announced boldly. ‘He only wants me to kill a man.’

  ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘I said, he wants me to kill a man. Then we get the money back.’ Saying “we” instead of “I” might elicit more support.

  ‘Who does he want you to kill? Hope you told him to piss off.’ She sat up straighter than a streetlamp. Gary sat on the bed and put an arm around her waist.

  ‘I told him I’d do it.’

  ‘Jesus Christ. You are without doubt the dumbest man I’ve ever met. Surely you aren’t capable of premeditated murder?’

  ‘Of course I’m not.’

  ‘Then why’d you agree to it?’ Tracey got up and sat in a chair by the window, a dressing gown clung to her thin shoulders. She puffed on a cigarette, spat out the smoke faster than she could inhale it.

  ‘To stall for time.’

  ‘You sure did that. Left here about, what, 7:30pm? Back home just before dawn? That’s some pretty impressive stalling. Partying, more like it, you dirty stop out.’ She crushed her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and immediately sparked up another. ‘You didn’t answer my question. Who?’

  ‘Nugget, can you believe it?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Ed said he’d give me the details later. Maybe I should get in first. Kill Ed instead of Nugget, take the money and calmly walk away like some cold-blooded hitman.’

  ‘Why would he want you to kill Nugget?’

  ‘Said it was confidential. But I reckon it’s something to do with that wonder drug.’

  ‘What wonder drug?’

  Gary rolled a cigarette and helped Tracey foul the atmosphere enough to derail the Paris Agreement. ‘Something Nugget’s invented, as far as I can tell. Cross between steroids and Viagra. Me and Jordie dropped a bottle of it off for him. To Ed and some old sheila up in the city.’

  ‘How did you get involved in that?’ Tracy scratched her elbow. ‘No. Don’t tell, me. I can guess. That time at the pub when you three had that little pow-wow, right?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘You said he offered you a job on his veggie farm. Now it turns out you’re running drugs for him? I’ve changed my mind. You’re not the dumbest man in the world. You’re the world’s worst pathological liar.’

  ‘Or best. Depends how you look at it. Anyway, it wasn’t running drugs, as you put it so dramatically. One solitary drop off.’ His smile was met with an icy glare.

  ‘Don’t quibble over details. Why did you do it?’

  ‘Because I need the money. We need the money. Speaking of which…’ Gary grabbed his jeans and shook out his overstuffed wallet onto the bed. He pulled the blackjack winnings out and waved the cash under her nose. ‘Courtesy of Wrest Point Casino. Minus a hundred and fifty for the cab fare back. $1850 all up.’

  She stared for a moment at the fanned fifties. ‘I’ll take some of that, thanks.’ She snatched half the notes and shoved them in a dressing gown pocket. ‘Get us some decent food for a change. Maybe a nice bottle of wine. So, where’s the car?’

  ‘Casino car park. I was pretty pissed. Plus another bucket load of snow fell around midnight. There’s no time limit on parking there, so I’ll grab it later. Thought I’d be better off trusting my life with a sober cabbie. Imagine if I got arrested for DUI? Cover blown. Jail time for Gaz.’

  ‘How you’ve dodged the law for so long is beyond me. Bloody miracle.’

  ‘You forget the Braswell cunning and charm.’

  Tracey groaned. ‘Sheer bloody good luck, more like it. Anyway, we both need sleep, talk the whole thing over in the morning. I’m pleased you’ve come home with extra money. Not sure I like the way you went about getting it. Gambling’s what fucked up your life in the first place. The only positive – it brought you to me. But I’m starting to question why I bother with you.’

  ‘Because you love me?’

  ‘Mmm. Must be.’ She yawned, stretched her arms towards the ceiling. ‘I cling to this stupid hope someday you’ll turn it all around and we’ll be happy and secure. Still waiting for that game changer you keep talking about.’

  ‘I–.’

  ‘Can it. I’m done with you for now.’

  They both crawled into bed as a gust of wind flung wet snow against the window pane. It stuck for an instant, then slowly slid down. As if some imp outside had tossed a snowball at the house.

  Relief washed over Gary as he closed his eyes; she wasn’t feeling frisky. Complete disinterest was a blessing. He had nothing left to give in that department, anyway. Still, dread cramped his stomach when she reached across the bed to cuddle him. First time ever, T-shirt and jocks were still on. She said nothing but grabbed his T-shirt in one hand, twisted it tight and promptly let go. Within seconds she was snoring. Thank Christ, she hadn’t seen the scratches. But the sinking feeling in his gut told him she sensed something had happened all right. It was the shirt tug.

  He so wanted to cry. Wake her up and tell her everything. How he had sex with two women only a few hours ago. What a bastard he was. Instead, exhaustion knocked him out with a bitch-slap to the brain. He slept, long and deep until noon the next day.

  Chapter 22

  Mid-August loomed like a homicidal monster from a Stephen King novel. An angel of death and destruction, sentient and cruel. It would take many lives: the poor, the elderly, the homeless and the sick. The incautious, the reckless, the ill-prepared and the downright unlucky.

  The radio announcer seemed to take perverse delight that the 13th of August would be the coldest day on record in Tasmania. In Hobart, a blast of Antarctic air will plunge the mercury to -5℃. but the wind chill it will feel like -20℃. Gusts to 65 knots in the Central Highlands will cause widespread damage, with 35-40 knots elsewhere. Temperatures will increase — and I can’t believe I’m saying this — to zero over the next two weeks. Please, don’t venture out unless absolutely necessary. Emergency services have enough to do without rescuing idiots.

  Thankfully, the snow would cease over the next two weeks. With cautious optimism, the Bureau of Meteorology declared there would be a slow but positive change after mid-September. Once, a daytime temperature of 12 to 14℃ would have seemed like hell to a Queensland-bred boy like Gary. Now, it promised a blissful reprieve with the promise of spring to come.

  Life.

  Rejuvenation.

  Hope.

  In other good news, there’d be no work at the oyster farm for a while. Not until the promised better weather came. But Tracey couldn’t see any positives in that as they sat down to a meal of nearly nothing.

  ‘We both need to be working, otherwise we’re stuffed,’ she said as she scraped a minuscule amount of butter on a quarter piece of toast.

  ‘Look, even if the company was somehow operating, I couldn’t drive to work,’ said Gary. He pointed out the window at the bleak grey and white landscape. ‘The Focus is going to be stuck at the casino for a while. Which means I can’t take you to work, either. We have to ride it out as best we can.’

  ‘Thing’s are desperate. Look in the cupboard. It’s Old Mother Hubbard time. We have to do something or we’ll die!’

  Gary rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t exaggerate. It won’t come to that.’

  Tracey shrugged, thrust out a pointy chin. ‘There’s barely enough supplies for a week on starvation rations.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, calm the farm. Jordie prom
ised to bring us food if we run out. We’ll survive. There’s plenty of firewood to keep us warm. We can boil water on the stove if the power goes out.’

  ‘There’s a chance it might. Some towns have been—’

  Gary’s mobile rang, putting an end to Tracey’s demoralising description of looming Armageddon. It was the Arsehole. ‘Hello,’ said Gary.

  ‘Dylan, I’m afraid our little arrangement is cancelled.’

  Gary caught his breath. No need to kill anybody, fantastic. But no money either. Fuck. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘But only temporarily. The job won’t be happening until conditions improve. Then it’s all systems go.’

  ‘Just don’t lead me up the garden path.’

  ‘Now why would I do that?’

  ‘A hunch based on the fact you’re a slimy bastard. I trust you about as far as I can throw you.’

  ‘Don’t sweat, mate. I fully intend holding up my end of the bargain. It’s not in my interests to shaft you.’ The Arsehole’s word choice confirmed he was an abomination.

  A few more accusations and reassurances and Gary ended the call. He smiled, turned to Tracey. ‘I’ve got a secret stash of vodka under the sink. Like a nip?’

  She barked out a laugh, rubbed rheumy eyes. ‘Sure, babe. Pour away.’

  Prior to that decidedly unsatisfying phone call with Ed, something else happened.

  On the afternoon following the morning after the night before, conversation between Gary and Tracey vis-à-vis “what the fuck to do next” took a decidedly original turn.

  ‘If a man asks you to kill someone,’ said Tracey, calm as a Zen Buddhist monk on sedatives, ‘he obviously has no respect for human life, correct?’ Tracey tied the cord of her dressing gown into a floppy bow.

  Gary struggled to fault Tracey’s logic. ‘Uh, yeah. Guess so.’

  ‘So let’s strike first. You said it yourself last night.’

  ‘Yeah, but I was fucken joking.’