Chapter 5
Frank
Title: Diamonds don’t rot.
I always said the city sends its worst out to Koolaroo.
This one was a pilot. Don’t remember his name.
Dave. Or Dan. Don’t matter. Man was already halfway dead when I saw him.
Cut over his right eye, smelled like he’d flown through a bar instead of a cloud.
Should’ve walked the other way. But I didn’t. Couldn’t. Not when Pamela was involved.
That woman. Christ. I only knew her for a month, but she got under my skin like a splinter you can’t get out. Fancy American, fancy clothes, shiny hair, red nails.
I’d never met a woman like her. She was stayin at the homestead with that flash husband of hers.
That prick who was meant to pour money into Koolaroo and keep me from going under in the drought.
He bailed last minute, probably reckonin somethin didn’t add up.
Bastard was right, and I hated that, too.
Pamela was furious about him pullin out. Like she was the one losing out. Made me think she had her fingers in that pie too, and not for the sake of Koolaroo.
So, she cooked up her own plan. She just didn’t count on her getaway plane crashin.
I was out near Opal Ridge checkin fences when I saw the little charter plane up above sputter like a dying calf, then drop behind the tree line with a thump that shook the bloody ground. I knew straight away someone was either dead or wishin they were.
By the time I got there, smoke curled up from the wreck, and bits of metal was scattered across the ground.
And standin there in the dirt, shakin, blood drippin down her face, dress ripped, was Pamela.
The woman who’d opened her legs for me the night before.
She looked at me like she’d been waitin for me.
The pilot wasn’t dead, though. Not yet anyway. Poor bastard had a gash in his forehead that was spillin blood into his eyes, his breath rattlin deep in his chest. He begged me to take him to a hospital. Said he had a wife. Kids. All sorts of shit Pamela didn’t want me hearin.
I aint scared of dyin. Never have been. And now that the Grim Reapers knockin at my door, I’ll tell you this much—he’ll come on my terms. I say when. I say how. And it sure as shit won’t be in a piss-stained hospital bed hooked up to tubes.
That’s punishment, not death.
Anyway, back to that day. Pamela pressed her hand to my chest, voice soft and drippin poison, beggin me not to take him anywhere. Said if everythin came out, she was screwed. Said I was screwed. Said all sorts of things meant to confuse me, and maybe some of them did.
Then she shoved a velvet pouch into my hands.
Said it was full of priceless jewelry. I didn’t believe her.
But fuck me. She was right. Gold chains.
Emeralds. Sapphires. Diamonds as big as dog teeth.
Looked like sweets for rich folk. Worth more than my entire top paddock that her rich prick husband had pulled out of buyin.
I asked where the hell it came from. She told me I didn’t want to know. I damn well did. But that’s when things got weird. She told me that if I helped her, I could keep the jewels.
I aint stupid. I knew she was lyin through those pearly teeth. But she had real fear in her eyes. Real enough, she kissed me, shoved the pouch deeper in my hand, and whispered, “Frank…please.”
So I did what she wanted.
We watched the pilot’s breathing slow down until he didn’t breathe no more. Then I took her back to the ranch to clean herself up. After that, I went back to the wreck. I found a suitcase in the back she musta forgotten about. Probably still there. I never thought about it til now.
Anyway, I dumped Dan or Dave, or whatever the hell his name was, in one of them caves up on Golden Ridge. Propped him against the wall with the jewel pouch. Figured I’d come back when things cooled down.
But they never cooled.
Pamela was gone by the time I returned. Flew outta Australia the next damn day with Mister Moneybags in tow. I knew right then I’d been played.
Cops came sniffin around later askin about stolen jewels. Bob Ackerman had my back though. He knew I wasn’t dumb enough to nick diamonds from some fancy American. Heard later, Pamela claimed the loss on her insurance. So, she got her money anyway.
I didn’t.
I tried to go back to that cave once, but the flood of ’92 took out the path. Truth is, I didn’t want the jewels anyway. Too many strings attached. Too much of her stink on ’em.
Didn’t think about them jewels til I started writin my life story for you lot.
If I’ve got one regret, it’s not the blood on my hands. It sure as shit aint Pamela.
It’s not havin anyone to tell my stories to. Someone who understood me.
It feels damn good to finally tell someone all this stuff. All my fuckin wives told me to keep this shit to myself, said it’d corrupt you.
Like you lot were pure or somethin. Bullshit.
Funny thing about diamonds is they don’t rot. If you find ’em and got the balls to sell ’em, they’re yours. Might be the only inheritance you get from me.
Anyway. Thats it.
Frank Branson