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always four weeks too long. He had his pointy shoes up on the desk, and the phone wedged underneath his chin. He had smoke curling round his hair, and clinging to his face. He stank of it.
    ‘Listen, Barry, no: I went in there personally and asked them for it. They haven’t got the record in stock. It’s not even on their damn computer.’ He paused. ‘I know.’ He paused again and nodded to Mort to sit down. He lived his life surrounded by radiator hoses and shock absorbers but he acted like he was in show business. It was pathetic. He wore suits , probably the only spare parts manager in Australia to do it. The suits all came mail order – with extra long jackets and padded shoulders.
    ‘We were number eight. That was two days ago. If you can’t keep the record in the shops, we’re dead meat.’
    He took his feet off the desk but only to flick ash off his trousers.
    ‘I’m sympathetic, of course I am.’ He was a slime. He was dark-haired and pale-skinned and he closed his heavy-lidded eyes when he spoke to you. That made you think he was shy, but he was a slime. Before he came into their lives, Cathy never fought with anyone.
    When Howie put the phone down, Mort said: ‘They tell me the Tax Department is upstairs with Mum.’ He was pleased with how he said it – calm, not shaky.
    ‘It’s an audit,’ Howie said. He had the desk covered with papers. Mort saw the record company logo – nothing to do with Catchprice Motors.
    ‘So what’s that mean?’ Mort asked. ‘An audit?’
    Howie opened his drawer and pulled out a pink and black pamphlet. He stood up and brought it over to the counter. Mort took it from him. It was titled Desk Audits & You . ‘They tell me Benny’s gone blond.’
    ‘What’s it mean?’ Mort tapped the brochure on the counter.
    ‘It means ooh-la-la,’ Howie said.
    ‘What’s it mean?’ Mort could feel himself blushing. ‘Are we in the shit or aren’t we?’
    ‘Mort, you’re blushing,’ Howie said.
    He could not walk out. He had to stay there, enduring whatever it was that Howie knew, or thought he knew, about his son.

9
    You did not need to like a car to sell it. A car was a pipe, a pump for sucking money from the ‘Prospect’ before you maximized it. You did not need to feel nothing, but Benny loved that fucking Audi. It looked so polite. It had its suit on, its hair cut, but it could take you to hell with your dick hard, and it would be no big deal to sell it. It could sell itself to anyone who liked to drive.
    Of course seventy-five grand was a lot of money. So what? There were plenty of different ways to skin the cat, cut that cake, parcel it, package it, make it affordable for the ‘Prospect’ and profitable to the business, and he – dumb Benny – knew these ways.
    He had, right now, the missing spare key in his pocket and the first ‘prospect’ who came his way, he was going to demo it, licence or no licence. This would surprise the Catchprice family, who were so worried about scratching it they would not even let him wash it. What would they do when he handed them the paper work – the sale made, the finance pre-approved by ESANDA? What would they say? No please, don’t sell the Audi, Benny? No please, you’re only sixteen and we’d rather pay four hundred bucks a week? They had dropped their bundle. Lost it. They had a jet black Audi Quattro sitting in the star position in the yard and instead of thanking God for giving them such a beautiful opportunity, they blamed each other for having it and worried that the floor plan payments were going to send them broke.
    He could see Bozzer Mazoni across the road checking for change in the public phone box which held up the boot-maker’s collapsed veranda. Bozzer had orange, red and yellow hair, a huge star ear-ring, maroon boots with black straps and a fence chain wrapped around his ankle. He looked across and saw Benny standing there. Benny raised his hand in a formal wave. Bozzer squinted and ducked his