by Garry Disher
She grinned. ‘Or we cut our way in somewhere else.’
‘Where?’
‘The hideout.’
‘The hideout. How do we get to the hideout if we can’t even get into the van and they’ve got some sort of complete shutdown in force?’
Leah poured more wine for them both, dragging it out, enjoying this. ‘We cart it there,’ she said.
There was a pause. He began to smile. ‘A breakdown truck or a low-loader,’ he said. ‘And someone to operate it.’
She smiled back at him. ‘I’ll just make a phone call.’
She left the room and went into her kitchen. Wyatt sipped his wine. She wanted to protect her sources, so he didn’t intrude. All the same, he felt vulnerable. Not about the fact that Leah had a say in things now, or about the quality of her opinion, but because he felt cut off from the people he normally worked with. He’d have to watch his back. He didn’t know Leah’s sources or if they could be trusted. He tried to tell himself this job was no different from all his others, when he had to rely on people like Eddie Loman for men and equipment, but it didn’t help. Eddie Loman was as capable of selling him out as one of Leah’s anonymous sources, but at least he knew Loman, knew where and how to find him. And Loman knew Wyatt-knew that if he crossed Wyatt he could expect a bullet that had no second thoughts attached to it.
Leah was dialling. An extension telephone sat on a coffee table in the corner of her dining room and it tinkled fussily as she dialled. Wyatt counted-nine digits, long distance. He heard her say, ‘It’s me, Leah,’ and then her voice went muffled. He didn’t try to listen in on the extension. The best he could do for the next two weeks was keep his back covered.
He started to think about the truck. It was a good idea. It had the kind of neatness he admired. The problem was, how would they transport the van on the back of a truck without being noticed? The answer came to him and it was as neat and simple as Leah’s initial idea. Brava Construction. Brava Construction’s distinctive vehicles, pale blue with a snorting black bull on each door, had been churning up the mid-north roads for so long now they were part of the landscape.
Leah came back into the dining room. She was wearing black tonight and looked good in it. Black ‘fifties skirt, black tights, embroidered Cambodian waistcoat over a black T-shirt. Her expression was light and cocky. She knew she was in now- she knew she would be there on the day. He realised that he liked her. He wanted her. This was his last drinking session until after the job, so it was partly the alcohol, but only a small part. ‘Well?’
‘It’s all arranged. I was given a name. We go to see him tomorrow. He’ll be expecting us.’
‘Tell me about him.’
‘According to my contact the guy we’re going to see knows heavy vehicles. He’s also pulled semitrailer hijacks in the past, he’s a good mechanic and he’s reliable.’
Wyatt pushed his chair away from the table and began to stand. ‘Don’t,’ Leah said. The voice was low, almost a growl. Wyatt sat again.
She came around the table and stood looking down at him. She knocked her knee against his. Then she straddled him and when he put his hands under her skirt she arched her back. Five years ago she’d liked to do that. She’d been in the game then. He knew about it. It hadn’t bothered him. It hadn’t been an issue. He wasn’t curious about who she was when she was with her clients, or why she did it, or what those other men were like. It was business, that’s all. Somehow she’d known he wasn’t the type to get bothered about what she did. And she was too smart and careful to catch anything.
‘Wyatt?’ she said.
‘I’m here.’
‘Do you still go away every year?’
‘If it’s been a good year. Just lately, the pickings have been poor.’
‘But not with this job. You could be in Tahiti this time next month.’
She was asking to go away with him. He didn’t know about that. He stroked her with his fingers and her back arched.
****
THIRTEEN
The next morning when the commuter traffic had eased they took the winding freeway through the hills and down into the city. Leah’s driving was smooth and fast, no messy braking or swerving. Once they were out of the hills, Wyatt watched the traffic, the everyday commerce of the suburban streets. He did it automatically. It was as though these banks, payroll deliveries, office safes and jewellers existed only for him.
At Victoria Park racecourse he was reminded of a job he had on hold, to snatch the gate receipts at a big sporting event someday, some place where the security had been allowed to get slack. Leah skirted the vast parklands of the city. Boys were jogging around the playing fields of Prince Alfred College. Schools like this were never called by their full names. They were always Prince’s, King’s, SCEGGS, PLC, and it was always assumed that you understood the reference.
Wyatt’s self-possession and control, his height and grace, had fooled people in the past. They mistook it for arrogance and good breeding. He’d once been asked, ‘Were you at Scotch?’ These schools, the people who sent their kids to them, spelt money, and Wyatt had set out to get some of it. It wasn’t anything personal with him. He had no time for hatred or envy. Emotions like that used up energy and warped judgement. With Wyatt it was simply this: they had money, he wanted it, so what was the best way of getting it?
Leah turned onto Main North Road in Enfield and the city turned ugly. Sunlight blazed from windscreens and chrome in the used-car lots, and massive plastic chickens, hamburgers, tennis racquets and spectacles were bolted above the shopfront verandahs. Leah braked hard, swearing as a kid in a panel van swerved in front of her. The bumper sticker read ‘Don’t Laugh-Your Daughter Could Be In Here’. That’s an old one, Wyatt thought. In fact, the whole city seemed to be about five years behind the rest of the world. Leah braked again, for a bus this time. Diesel exhaust hung in the air behind it and soon the oily fumes were fouling the air in the car.
‘I always forget how shitty it is down here,’ Leah said. ‘I’m spoilt living in the hills.’
‘Bushfires,’ Wyatt said. ‘Developers. Feral cats. Herbicide on the blackberries.’
‘Ha, ha.’
A few blocks before Gepps Cross she turned left into an industrial park. 50% lease! screamed the signs along the fenceline. Grass grew to chest height around the empty buildings. Wyatt counted four stripped cars on the forecourt. Airconditioning ducts, packing cases and empty pallets were stacked along a steel-mesh fence.
‘Here?’ he said.
‘It’s the address I was given.’
Leah followed the main drive past the large front buildings and around behind them to a block of six smaller sheds and wholesale outlets. Three were vacant. The others were a hose and tap supplier, a cane furniture manufacturer and a small transport business. The transport business was at the end of the row and there were two vans parked outside it. A prissy script on the door of each van read ‘KT Transport, Express Service to Country Areas’.
‘Keith Tobin, esquire,’ Leah said. ‘No job too small.’
She parked the car and they got out. A man was on his back under one of the vans. He wore desert boots. He was tapping metal on metal and the soles of the desert boots twisted and turned in sympathy.
‘Mr Tobin?’ Leah said.
The boots were still. A muffled voice replied, ‘Who wants him?’
‘You got a phone call from a mutual acquaintance. You were told to expect us.’
Tobin was not sharp. The boots appeared to be taking in what Leah had said. After a while, the man slid out from beneath the van and stood up. ‘Got you now,’ he said.
Wyatt watched all this, hoping it didn’t mean that Tobin was bad at his job. He saw a vigorous man aged about thirty, dressed in overalls. There were small blue tattoos on his forearms. His hair was cropped short, and a bushy moustache sprouted under his pitted nose. He was loud and cheerful, had vacant eyes in a lively face, and looked, Wyatt thought, exactly like a test cricketer. A
s he watched, Tobin stripped off the overalls, revealing brief green shorts, a blue singlet and long stretches of healthy-looking skin. Then Tobin put on sunglasses with mirrored orange lenses and said in a rapid mumble, ‘Come in the office.’
Wyatt looked around once before following Tobin and Leah. If there was anyone who didn’t look right hanging around, he’d pull out immediately. He saw no one. He went in.
The office was a mess. Ring-folders and crumpled invoices and receipts littered the desk and floor. There were beer cans on the window ledge. Wyatt didn’t want to waste time. He didn’t wait for Leah but said, ‘Have you got form?’
Tobin took off the sunglasses. ‘Sorry?’
Wyatt waited. It was the only thing to do. The seconds ticked by while Tobin got the question worked out in his head.
‘Not me, mate,’ Tobin said finally. A sullen expression replaced the open, empty look he’d started out with. ‘What’s it to you, anyroad?’
‘You can drive heavy vehicles?’
Now Wyatt was speaking Tobin’s language. ‘No worries.’
‘A low-loader, car transporter, something like that?’
‘Yep.’
‘Are you booked up this week?’
‘Why? What’s this all about? I was told you had a job on.’
‘What about next week? Got any work on that can wait till later?’
Tobin looked sulkier. ‘I’m not exactly swamped.’
‘What about family, friends?’ Leah asked. ‘Anyone who’s going to wonder where you are if you’re away for a few days?’
‘Nup. You better start fucking telling me what the job is pretty soon or you can fuck off, okay?’
Leah seemed to know what she was doing. Wyatt let her handle it. ‘What are you doing this Thursday?’ she asked. ‘Any chance you can make a run up north?’
‘Suppose. What’s it to you?’
‘We want to show you something. Do you deliver to Burra?’
‘Every week. There’s a bloke there owes me for a case of Scotch, five hundred smokes, videos…’
Leah nodded. ‘We’ll meet you there. Thursday, ten o’clock.’
‘Listen, I’m getting pissed off with this. Time’s money. If you want a pro you got to pay for it, and I want something up front.’
‘Nothing up front,’ Wyatt said. ‘All your expenses will be paid and you get a cut on the take if you come in on this. Same terms for everybody.’
‘How much?’
‘Between fifty and a hundred grand.’
‘Each?’
Wyatt nodded.
Tobin whistled. Then he jerked his head, indicating Leah. ‘Is she in this?’
‘Have you got a problem with that?’
‘Well, I mean, you know.’
Wyatt turned and walked to the door. ‘Okay, that’s it, we find someone else.’
‘No, hang on, mate, hang on,’ Tobin said. ‘No offence. Never worked with a bird before, that’s all.’
‘One thing,’ Leah said. ‘I’m not a bird.’
‘Gi’s your name, then.’
We’re pushing him too much, Wyatt thought. He feels that he’s giving but getting nothing in return. ‘Take it easy,’ he said calmly. He gave Tobin their names and described the job. ‘Okay?’ he said. ‘Are you in so far?’
‘Security van?’ Tobin said, making a click of awe with his tongue. Then he made a show of frowning hesitation, as if he was a pro and the job had holes in it. ‘The paint job’ll have to look right.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, look no further,’ said Tobin expansively. He pointed through the window. ‘See them vans? Painted them myself. Duco, lettering.’
Wyatt inclined his head admiringly. ‘Classy.’
Tobin thrust out his hand. ‘Count me in,’ he said.
Wyatt shook it, thinking there was muscle here and not much else. But the job demanded muscle too, and if he could run the operation so it was tight, the weaknesses wouldn’t matter.
****
FOURTEEN
Letterman watched as Pedersen came out of his house and got into a Range Rover. The Range Rover looked new. He started the Fairmont, ready to follow Pedersen. He was reminded of the job a security firm had offered him when he was dismissed from the force. They wanted his detective skills, they said. They’d pull strings and get him licensed as a private investigator, and he’d start on $700 a week. The money was okay, but the work wasn’t. Letterman knew about private investigators. They went into the game thinking they were Spensers or Cliff Hardys but soon went sour from boredom. Being a PI meant living in a car and working half a dozen cases at once-tailing wives and husbands, checking credit and employment records, drinking thermos coffee while workers’ compensation claimants ran around on tennis courts, maybe getting out of the car sometimes to guard an exhibition of furs in David Jones. Stuff that for a joke.
The Range Rover’s rear lights came on, the right one brighter and whiter than the left. Letterman had been tailing Pedersen for two days now. On the first day, when Pedersen stopped at a TAB to place a bet, he’d broken the brake light lens with a stone. He hadn’t known then if Pedersen would go out at night or not, but if he did, the broken light would make him easier to tail.
Pedersen pulled away from the kerb. Letterman waited half a minute then pulled out after him. On Nicholson Street, where the traffic was heavier, he settled in two car lengths behind the Range Rover, keeping the bright tail-light in view.
So far today had been a repeat of yesterday. Pedersen had slept until lunch-time, spent the afternoon going to TABs, a pub and a brothel, taken Red Rooster chicken home for dinner, and gone out again at eight o’clock. Last night Pedersen had driven to King Street in the city. Letterman had watched him park the Range Rover illegally, put on a black leather jacket ten years out of date, and try to get into one of the clubs. He’d been refused admission there and at another club a few doors along. Letterman saw him gesture angrily at the bouncers in each place. All the bouncers that Letterman had ever known were ex-crims with records for violence, so Pedersen had been lucky not to have his head kicked in. Not that Letterman blamed the bouncers. Pedersen didn’t look right. He had a prison pallor, a jumpy manner, bad taste in clothes. And he looked almost middle-aged, too old for the King Street clubs.
Tonight was different. Tonight Pedersen drove to a pub in Fitzroy. It had a blackboard on the footpath advertising mud wrestling. That sounds about right, Letterman thought, watching Pedersen park illegally again and go in.
Letterman didn’t follow straight away. He switched off the engine and turned the radio to a talk show on Radio National. With any luck he’d hear that some poofter had jabbed the New South Wales Police Commissioner with a syringe.
Later Letterman turned on the interior light and scribbled in his notebook. He had a complete record of all Pedersen’s movements over the past two days, and they added up to one thing, in his view- Pedersen was still living off the proceeds of the job he’d pulled with Wyatt six weeks ago, the job that had wrecked the Outfit’s Melbourne operations.
He also had telephoto shots of Pedersen going in and out of pubs, TABs and a brothel called Fanny Adams. He’d used up a whole roll of film and had it developed at a one-hour place, the sort of place that has a high turnover and no curiosity. Some of the photos would go to the Outfit. They demanded before and after shots of all contract hits. But the photos were also groundwork. Letterman liked to make a study of his targets before he hit them. He intended to hit Pedersen at home-he hadn’t decided how, yet-but if something went wrong and he couldn’t manage it, he’d go through the photos again and familiarise himself with Pedersen’s other haunts. He hoped it wouldn’t come to a hit in the open. The Outfit stipulated that in getting rid of loose ends like Pedersen he should attract as little attention as possible.
He turned off the interior light again, locked the Fairmont and crossed the road. He loosened his tie and untucked an edge of his shirt front before he entered the pub. He spotted Ped
ersen immediately, without appearing to look at him. The mud wrestling had just finished and the air carried a pungent layer of sexual hate and bitterness beneath the smoke, noise and splashed beer. Pedersen himself looked jittery and frustrated. Rather than front up to the bar, Letterman grabbed an abandoned glass with an inch of beer in it and slumped like a regular at a corner table. He didn’t look directly at Pedersen. He didn’t look directly at anything other than the floor. He kept Pedersen in his peripheral range. The Pedersens of this world, Letterman thought, can smell cop, even ex-cop, the instant they make eye contact.
Letterman stayed there for an hour. He ordered a glass of beer from a passing topless waitress at one point and endured another mud-wrestling match. A live band played between shows. Someone seemed to be selling speed and Buddha sticks.
Then Pedersen got ready to go. It looked like being an extended departure- he was clapping the shoulders of other drinkers who’d been ignoring him all evening-so Letterman left first. He crossed the road, got into his car, and settled a hat on his head. It probably wasn’t necessary, but he didn’t want Pedersen puzzling about where he’d seen the bald man in the Fairmont before.
As Letterman watched, Pedersen crossed the road unsteadily, U-turned in front of a tram, and sped north with a faint tyre squeal. Letterman waited for the traffic to ease, then followed him. Pedersen cut through to Nicholson Street and went north along it. He’d been drinking heavily and it showed in his driving. Just my luck, Letterman thought, if he gets pulled over for drunken driving. He lost Pedersen at Brunswick Road when Pedersen ran a red light, but it didn’t matter, Pedersen was going home.
Letterman got to Pedersen’s house in Brunswick in time to see the Range Rover’s rear lights go off. He pocketed a Polaroid camera, got out and ran silently across the road and behind the Range Rover. It was a narrow street, dark, and Pedersen didn’t hear him coming. When Pedersen let himself into his house, Letterman pushed in behind him. He pushed the door closed, hearing the lock click home, and took out his knife.
