“Mr Watson was in the habit of saying, “are a steal.” Further wise thoughts would follow: a foreclosure was manna from heaven, a sweetheart deal, a buyer’s dream. He did not, however, run through the litany for this particular client, the young mother whose pubescent daughter had refused to get out of the car, the young single mother it would appear, hubba, hubba maybe he’d try his luck – God, if people knew how much quick hot fucking took place in empty rooms behind For Sale signs! – but no, on... second thought, he smelled trouble right off the bat. A bit off, he reckoned; a bit out of it, the way academic types always were. A bit pinko, for sure, the stink of Sydney (Balmain, even Newtown maybe) coming off her like Four-X pong off a pub, a real wolverine in sheep’s clothing, weird clothing, they were all Commies down there, dykes, women’s libbers, worse. Put your thing in the wrong place with her kind, chop chop and goodbye. One way or another, she was bound to get herself into strife in Brisbane, and serve her right.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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