DirtBag Busters! (Sample of the new novel)

Mrs Delaney was a very attractive lady. Well dressed and probably unaware that the Patek Philippe watch on her left wrist cost more than my Mercedes. (A new C class.) I am moderately successful at what I do.

“I want to leave my husband.”

Mrs D. had contacted me for a good reason. Most people can leave a husband and if they are good enough they’ll even be able to take 70% of the joint assets. It was not a matter of money. The husband was as rich as Croesus and to his ‘Kitty’ he never said no so long as she could give a good, solid explanation as to why she might want a new Maserati. Apparently the explanations went on for some days, and involved certain physical, sexual and often painful activities. But Mr D. always came through. And Mrs D was OK with the deal considering the fact that the red Maserati outside my weatherboard three roomed home had been driven with little regard to the 80km of dirt road. It would need a repaint quite soon.

“Is there some reason you need me to facilitate such an action?” I’m English. I speak like that.

“He’ll hunt me down and kill me.”

Like the school teacher I used to be, I looked over the top of my plain glass specs and down my nose. It tends to make people feel somewhat inferior.

“That would be a bit of a shame.” I said. “I hate to see beautiful things destroyed. It really hurt my heart to see what the Taliban did to those amazing old statues. What a sad and regrettable waste.”

She was a Strawberry blonde with flawless skin and even in a long sleeved body covering tight red dress there was obviously nothing wrong with her own front end. Real or false, the look was distracting.

“I’d like you to…” She hesitated, thinking carefully before committing to speech. “ensure that I am able to do so without having to spend the rest of my life worrying about him.”

“So you want to disappear? I can do that for you. It’s just a matter of completing some paperwork.”

Mrs D. fumbled in her hand-tooled leather handbag and extracted a lipstick. One of those with a little paintbrush. With perfect dexterity she tidied up her lush mouth, pouted and made a little popping sound before speaking again.

“No, I don’t want to leave my home. I want to leave my husband.”

“Ah!”

“I’ve read about you. Seen you on TV. They say you are the only person who can negotiate with them safely and come to an agreement.”

“That’s not quite right.” I began to explain about the cops and the Melbourne Mafia, but she was not very interested and cut me off sharply.”

“I have a quarter million going begging if I can live my life in my own home with my own bank account and no bruises I don’t ask for.”

A quarter mil. This girl was desperate.

“What you need is somewhat more expensive.” I tried. She did not bat even one of those long, lush extended eyelashes. “How much? I’m not made of money you know.”

Actually I did know. Darryl Delaney was a George Clooney hunk who controlled several hundred million dollars in real estate alone, and God only knew how much in other enterprises. Competition there was none. At least never for very long, and Darryl did his own wet work. He was also quite a good mate and had helped me out on one or two small cases. Frame-ups and compromising situations. Just little stuff, but well paid considering who was doing the paying.

“Half a million for what you are implying.” I tossed out the number just to go fishing, and then thought better of it. “deposit”. It was not a job I really wanted so why not price it out of the ballpark.

That batted an eyelash. It looked remarkably like a wince and I stood ready to show the lady out.

She surprised me. “Alright, one million. Half up front.” There is a look that comes over a woman’s face sometimes when they say. “Will that be enough.” Is the word coquettish?

The zip was at the back and went from neck to buttocks. When I started she did not stop me, and it was quite a bonus to be banging the wife of the man I was going to have to kill. It added a certain piquancy.

“It’s going to take a little time.” I said, breathlessly. “This? Or the other?” She was thrusting hard against my pelvis  and obviously spent a lot of time at the gym.

I don’t smoke or anything like that but I was born with a rare affliction. Only one lung had developed in the womb. I always thought of it as having a car without a spare tire. The breathlessness had nothing to do with my one fantastic oversized lung. It was the incredible body moving on top of me that simply took my breath away. Mrs D and a million bucks just to knock off a husband. Granted, a very dangerous husband, but you can’t be faint hearted in my profession. I’m hired to hurt, ruin, or kill. Often all three at once.

You want morality? Go read Bertrand Russell because I was born one lung short and without morals. Mostly. Though I did rescue a litter of kittens from a water barrel once. I have to admit that it felt quite good. And I do like dogs. I have a German Shepherd called Gemma. She is a sweetheart.

It was dusk before the stone-chipped Maserati roared into life and took off down the newly graded and gravelled road at a speed that would have made Lewis Hamilton bite his bottom lip.