37
Gino Massaro was a greengrocer from Lakemba. He had a large, hooked nose and little hands. He had soft, lined, yellowish-olive skin which was creased around his eyes and cheeks. In his own shop, he was a funny man. He spun like a bottom-heavy top with a black belt above his bulging stomach. He would shadow-box with the men (duck, weave, biff), have sweets for the children, flirt with the women (‘How you goin’ darling, when you going to marry me?’) in a way his exquisite ugliness made quite permissible. In his shop he showed confidence, competence – hell – success. He had two kids at university. He spoke Italian, Australian, a little Egyptian. He had his name painted on the side of a new Red Toyota Hi-Lux ute – G. Massaro, Lakemba, Tare 1 tonne.
No one knew the Toyota was financed on four years at $620 per month. He also had a serious overdraft, and a weakening trade situation caused mainly by competition from the Lebanese – not one shop, three, and all the bastards related to each other – who were staying open until nine at night and all day Sunday as well. He also had a ten-year-old white Commodore with flaky paint and black carbon deposits above the exhaust pipe. On the Tuesday afternoon when he parked this vehicle in front of Catchprice Motors he had just spent $375 on the transmission and there was a folded piece of yellow paper on the passenger seat – a $935 quote for redoing the big end. He also carried – not on paper, in his head – four separate valuations for the Commodore from yards between here and Lakemba, every one of which told him that the car was not worth what he owed on it.
He parked on the service road, behind a yellow Cherry-picker crane. He touched the St Christopher on his dashboard, closed his eyes, and turned off the engine. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t and today it didn’t – the engine knocked and farted violently before it became still. Two salesmen in the yard stood watching him. Behind them was a red Holden Barina. He did not like the red or the flashy mag wheels. He did not like it that his son would say it was a woman’s car, but it was the right price range.
He was not a fool. He knew he should prepare the Commodore, have it wax-polished, detailed, present it as well as if it were apples at five dollars a kilo. But who had time? Every second he was away from the shop he lost money. He picked the pieces of paper off the seat, and the ice-cream carton off the floor and thrust them into the side pocket.
Then he got out of the car, locked it, and walked into the car yard. With fruit he was a different man, not like this.
He was already on the gravel when he saw the face. He would have retraced his steps, but somehow he couldn’t. The blond salesman was smiling at him in a weird kind of way, and Gino was smiling back.
Gino knew that his angelic smiling face was a lie, that he secretly and silently mocked his big nose, his fat arse, his car blowing too much smoke. But now he had come this far and he was somehow caught and caressed by the smile which made him feel that he did not care if he was despised and he had no will or even desire to turn back. It was the feeling you had with a whore. You knew it was not true, but you pretended it was. He thought: this kid with the yellow umbrella would rob me if I let him. But he could not turn back and so he walked across the gravel towards him. Lines of plastic bunting hung across the yard. They made a noise like wings flapping in a cage.
38
‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ the one called Benny said. ‘First thing, I’m going to give you five grand for your old car, smoke or no smoke.’
They were all sitting in the red Barina with the engine on and the air-conditioner running. The one called Benny was in the front seat, with his hand resting on Gino’s headrest. The other one, Sam, was in the back. This one didn’t say too much.
Gino sat with his hands on the wheel feeling the cool quiet air blasting on his face. He liked it in there. He liked the smell, the dark green digits glowing out of the black leather dark. He had that feeling, of surrender and luxury, like when you were in an expensive barber’s shop. As long as they cut and snipped and combed he did not care what sort of haircut he was getting, only how it felt, like in that whore house in Surry Hills when he paid them to rub his toes afterwards – $100 an hour to have your toes rubbed. Those were the days – a crazy man.
‘Five grand for the old one, smoke or no smoke, I don’t care.’
Gino leaned down to undo the hood release – clunk – in order to hide his excitement.
‘What do you say to that, Mr Massaro – from square one, you’re out of trouble. Your credit rating is out of danger. You have an almost new car.’
It was true. He could pay out the loan on the Commodore. He stroked the hood release button, reading its embossed hieroglyphic symbol with the tip of his finger. ‘O.K.,’ he said. ‘So where’s the catch?’
‘We’ve got a big tax bill to pay.’
Gino Massaro looked at the kid and grinned. ‘Come on …’ he said. ‘I wasn’t born yesterday.’ He tried to get himself back into the sort of fellow he was in his shop. ‘Come on,’ he said, and boxed the kid’s arm. ‘Don’t shit me.’
‘Mr Massaro, if I tell you lies I’ll go to hell for it.’ He smiled. ‘They’ll torture me down there. They’ll pull my toenails out for fucking ever.’
The kid made you smile. He could say this, maybe even mocking – who could say – but make you smile.
‘Look over there,’ the kid said.
There was a line of giant camphor laurels, their trunks covered with parasites, their leaves dotted red from lichen. In front of them, by a faded sign reading PARTS/WORKSHOP, a white Mitsubishi Colt with Z plates was parked on a patch of weeds. Gino had been audited. He knew the feeling.
‘There’s the Tax Department car, O.K.? I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ he smiled. ‘I’ll put in a word for you with the Tax Inspector …’
‘Whoa, no get
‘But it’s a girl,’ Benny grinned. ‘She’s pretty too. She’s very nice. You’d like her.’
‘Let’s stick to the car, O.K.,’ he said. He got out of the car so he could think responsibly, but the air was muggy and unpleasantly heavy. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. He heard the two doors open and heard the salesmen walk across the gravel towards him. They lined up beside him and then the three of them stood in a line with their hands behind their back and stared at the Barina.
‘Now I’m going to “load” you up,’ Benny smiled pleasantly. ‘Load up your trade in an effort to get your business.’
Gino smiled too, even as he thought he was being mocked. ‘Loading up’ was car dealer slang for whatever it was they were doing to him.
‘I wasn’t born yesterday,’ he said. He punched Benny’s shoulder again. This time the boy didn’t like his suit touched. His brows came down hard against his eyes and he withdrew an inch, looking pointedly at Gino’s hand. Gino took it away.
‘We got to take enough shit from the Tax Department,’ the boy said. ‘We don’t have to take shit from you. Come on Sam …’ He turned to walk away.
‘Christ,’ Gino said. ‘Don’t be so sensitive.’
He looked up and saw the one called Sam shaking his head at him.
The one called Benny turned and said, ‘Look, I’m trying to be straight with you, but this is losing us money and it really gives me the shits, excuse me – it makes me “sensitive” – when I am not believed. This is a family business, we’re in a lot of trouble here and you’re the one who’ll benefit. That’s O.K. with me, but it really pisses me off to be called a liar as well.’
The other salesman looked Gino straight in the eye and slowly shook his head.
‘I didn’t mean to offend you,’ Gino said to the first boy, all the time puzzling about the other one shaking his head.
‘I know you didn’t,’ Benny said. ‘Forget it. It’s over.’
‘I’ve been audited myself. They’re bastards.’
‘You could drive it away,’ Benny Catchprice said. ‘We could do the paperwork in ten minutes and you could be on the road in fifteen. You don’t have to ever touch your old car again.’
