Pay Dirt w-2

by Garry Disher

  Wyatt was going to finish him off and search for a key when the voice came out of the darkness behind him. It called him old son and told him that was enough. What convinced Wyatt was the rifle barrel behind his ear.

  ****

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  ‘Hap?’ Trigg said. ‘You okay?’

  The man known as Happy spat blood on the ground and wiped his sleeve across his eyes. He seemed to clear his mind quickly. He reached into a pocket of his overalls and pulled out Wyatt’s.38. Wyatt watched him, expecting a pay-back, but Happy simply stood there as if waiting for orders. When Trigg said, ‘Unlock the shed,’ Happy did it as if none of his motivations were his own. He came back and stood next to Trigg and when Trigg told him to take Wyatt into the shed and tie him up, the big hands were firm and efficient, no more than that.

  They used nylon rope and propped Wyatt on a scarred wooden chair next to a steel-topped bench that ran against the wall at the back of the shed. Most of the space was taken up by the bogus Brava truck with the Steelgard van still on its tray. The cement floor was spotted with oil and grease. Crash-repair tools were stacked against the walls and a new hydraulic hoist had been bolted to a fresh slab of cement. Pictures of bodybuilders had been clipped from magazines and taped to a chipboard panel above the bench. An outdated Michelin calendar curled from a nail at one end of it.

  Trigg propped the rifle against the bench. He put his hands on his hips and looked at Wyatt. The little man resembled a furious sparrow. His hair seemed to puff with frustration. ‘Who the fuck are you? No, let me guess-fucking Wyatt.’

  Wyatt hadn’t intended to speak. He wanted to provoke Trigg. But he also wanted information. ‘Where’s Tobin?’

  This seemed to encourage Trigg’s frustration. He pointed irritably at the hydraulic hoist bolted to the cement slab. ‘Under there with the guard. If I’d’ve known you were going to show up I’d’ve waited before we filled it in.’ He shook his head. ‘Jesus Christ. Where the fuck am I going to stash you, eh? Answer me that.’

  Wyatt studied him bleakly. Thugs like Trigg made it hard for the professionals. They were vicious and stupid and left a trail of unnecessary bodies behind. He counted: Venables, Tobin, the guard-and soon he’d be the fourth.

  He looked at the floor where the pit had been. If the bodies were never found he knew what the police line would be: the guard did it and disappeared with the money. He turned back to Trigg. ‘You hijacked my job. That money’s mine.’

  Coming from anyone else they would have sounded like playground words. But Wyatt always meant what he said. He also operated under the belief that stealing another man’s job was dangerous. It led to unnecessary resentment and speculation. It meant you couldn’t trust anyone the next time you wanted help, advice or equipment. He wasn’t expecting Trigg to give him back the money-he was simply stating a fact.

  Trigg seemed to be distracted by the claim. He said, frowning, ‘I owed some money to the mob,’ and took Happy by the arm. ‘You can have him to play with in a minute, my son, after we check around outside.’

  They went out. They would be back when they found the car and nothing else to worry about. That’s when the beating would start.

  Wyatt stood and hopped two steps to the bench. He rejected the oily invoices and the horse-racing liftout from the Adelaide News. The box of matches would be better for what he had in mind. For a moment he considered burning the rope, but rejected it as painful and time-consuming. Instead he turned his back, lifted his hands and grabbed the matchbox. By bending over slightly he was able to keep his hands raised while he tipped the matches on to the floor and tore the matchbox into small strips. Then he turned around again, kicked the matches under the bench and bent his mouth to the bench top. With his tongue he drew the strips of cardboard into his mouth. He chewed them a little until they were moist and malleable, then manoeuvred separate pieces under his top and bottom lips and inside each cheek. He knew that Happy would go for the head first. The cardboard wads would save his teeth for a while, minimise the damage to the inside of his mouth.

  Wyatt hopped back to the chair and sat down in it. Trigg and the big man came back a few minutes later. Trigg started with questions. ‘Where are the others? How much do they know?’

  Wyatt stared at him dully.

  ‘Okay, Hap,’ Trigg said.

  Wyatt looked up. There was no moral light in the big man’s gloomy eyes. Happy stepped forward and smashed his fist into Wyatt’s face. He did it again. The battering was skilful and hard. To help withstand the pain Wyatt made himself neutral, separate from the fists and the damage. He made eye contact with Trigg and didn’t let go of it. He said nothing and tried to avoid involuntary sounds. He let his body go loose and yielding, knowing the pain would be worse if he were stiff and tense. Unnoticed by Happy he was breathing deeply and evenly. This helped him turn inwards, turn off from the fists and pain. He was also helped by what was happening to Happy. The big man no longer seemed uninvolved. The pressure and rhythm of his blows grew uneven, telling Wyatt that he was beginning to unhinge. It was becoming a personal thing to Happy. If he’d been punching regularly and systematically, Wyatt would have found the punishment more damaging.

  The beating went on even after he toppled onto the floor. After a while Happy stood back, breathing heavily. Wyatt felt himself slipping in and out of consciousness. He coughed bloodied cardboard out of his mouth and heard the roar of the sea in his head. He could feel grit and grease where his cheek touched the floor. He knew that Trigg was saying something, but the voice was far away.

  When he woke up he knew he’d been out for a few hours. They’d taken the ropes off and he was lying on a foam rubber mattress. The air was stuffy. He tried to sit up but the pain tore through him and he blacked out. When he woke again the pain was still there, like a bird diving its beak into his body. In films the hero always gets up. Wyatt knew about real pain, how it stays with you. Taking it very slowly, he sat up.

  The absolute lack of light puzzled him until he realised he’d been locked in the shipping container. He reached out a hand and touched the nearest wall. It had been insulated on the inside-from the heat, he supposed, but he also knew it meant he could make all the noise he wanted and no one would hear him. He didn’t risk standing yet. He slid along the perimeter of the container. At the back he found a stack of plastic boxes the size of Gideon Bibles. Videos. There was also a refrigerator with a lock on it.

  Some time later they came to check on him. Blinding sunlight came through the door and Happy was there, holding a torch, the.38 and a glass of water. He turned on the torch and closed the door behind him. ‘Drink,’ he said, placing the glass on the floor.

  Wyatt took small sips of the water. His mouth was dry and he had a raging thirst but he knew he’d vomit if he gulped the water. Happy, he noticed, was staring at him curiously, as if last night’s fight and beating had bonded them in some way.

  Wyatt tried to speak, coughed, tried again. ‘Is it Saturday?’

  Happy nodded.

  ‘Why don’t you just kill me?’

  Happy considered the question carefully. ‘Too many people. Sunday.’

  Wyatt deciphered this. They were waiting for when it was quiet, no customers, no one shopping in the main street. It could also mean they intended to move him. ‘Happy?’ Wyatt said. ‘Where’s the money?’

  The voice rumbled like sludge sliding off a shovel. ‘I’ve got my share.’

  ‘I know. Where did the boss take the rest of it?’

  ‘Mesic,’ the big man said.

  Wyatt knew that name. It was a name in the Melbourne papers and it meant rackets and killings. The cops had given up on the street crimes to concentrate on tax evasion. They weren’t getting far there, either. Not that Wyatt cared about any of that. Now that he knew who to go after and what to expect, he was starting to work out how to get his money back.

  It didn’t strike him as unrealistic to be thinking like this. The Mesics had his money and he wanted it
back, that’s all he cared about. It didn’t occur to him to think that he wouldn’t succeed, that he wouldn’t be alive to do it.

  ‘Hap?’ he said. ‘Trigg’ got a lot of money from that van, but you did most of the dirty work. I bet he paid you peanuts.’

  ‘I know what you’re trying to do,’ Happy said. ‘It won’t work.’

  It was the longest speech Wyatt had heard the big man make. He closed his eyes, shutting him out. A few minutes later Trigg came in. Wyatt looked up. Muscles were working around Trigg’s mouth and eyes. His colour was high. ‘Bloody tyre-kickers, that’s all I get these days. Come on, Hap, we’ve got work to do.’ He grinned at Wyatt. ‘Plenty of fuck-tapes here, my son, a fridge full of pills. Pity they’re no good to you.’

  ‘Stay away from holes in the ground, Hap,’ Wyatt said. ‘Don’t turn your back on the little turd.’

  ‘Shut up, moron,’ Trigg said.

  When they were gone Wyatt checked the door. As he expected, it was a waste of time. He lay back and wondered if psychology would get him out of this.

  ****

  THIRTY-NINE

  He lay there for thirty-six hours. Happy checked on him from time to time, giving him water and food. They had their shorthand conversations but Happy wouldn’t be drawn. Wyatt gave up trying to turn the big man against Trigg and lay in the darkness, adjusting to the silence.

  His sleep was fitful. He felt cold during the night and the thin mattress was uncomfortable. On Sunday morning when Happy came to check on him he complained about it. ‘Some cushions or a chair, Hap.’

  What Happy did with his face was close to a grin. ‘Not worth it,’ he said.

  Wyatt shrugged. ‘Tell me, Hap-how will you do it? Dig another pit?’

  Happy shook his massive head. ‘Accident. Hallam Gorge.’

  Hallam Gorge was an ugly buckling of the earth’s plates a few kilometres north of Goyder. Wyatt had driven around it one day when he was working with Brava Construction’s surveyor. At one point the road narrowed and all that lay between it and a sheer drop of half a kilometre was a white guard rail. He knew what Trigg and Happy had in mind now and he could see the appeal of it. There would be no one around when they left later that night. On Monday morning someone would see the hole in the guard rail and call the cops. The cops would find the wreckage of the truck and the van at the bottom, Wyatt’s body at the wheel. They’d be able to close this part of the investigation. They’d assume Wyatt had been holed up in the area and was pulling out again when he misjudged a curve and ran off the road. They’d assume that left only the guard, and he would have the money. They’d go through the usual channels, checking flight lists, putting the guard’s photo on the wire. They’d trace Wyatt back to Brava-that’s if he had any skin left on his face after plunging half a kilometre down a cliff face.

  ‘Where’s Trigg?’ he asked.

  ‘Home.’

  ‘Nice place? Does all right for himself does he, while you live in a shithole?’

  Happy’s features grew a few degrees warmer. ‘I got simple tastes,’ he said as he went out.

  Trigg turned up late on Sunday afternoon, checked on Wyatt, left him in darkness again. Wyatt could sense the decent people of the little city settling into sleep in front of their TV screens. Work tomorrow. Early to bed.

  At 2 am, when the night was at its blackest, Trigg and Happy came to get him. Trigg held the.38 on him while Happy clasped his arms. Parked outside the doors of the shipping container was a roomy, late model family sedan with a sloping rear window. The boot was open.

  ‘Get in,’ Trigg said.

  ‘I get claustrophobic’

  ‘Get in.’

  Happy pushed Wyatt’s head down and shoved him hard. His thighs hit the lip of the boot. He fell forward, feeling Happy lift his legs and tumble him into the boot. Then the lid slammed behind him and he was in darkness again.

  He lay there listening. The two men walked away from the car. He heard a steel door opening and a minute later he heard the uneven note of a diesel motor. It made a series of short snarls: Happy was backing it out of the panel-beating shed. Then the steel door crashed shut and footsteps approached the car. The car rocked a little as someone got in and shut the door. The engine started and they were moving.

  The boot had been vacuumed recently. There was a faint pine perfume in the coarse fibres of the carpet under Wyatt. He began to search with his hands, running them into the corners. Nothing. No tools, jack or wheel brace. He knew the spare tyre was in a recessed space under him but he took up most of the floor so he couldn’t prise up the flap. He didn’t think he’d find anything anyway. He tried the lock next. All he got out of that was grease on his fingers. And then the air around him began to shake and pound, lush and insistent. Jennifer Rush, ‘The Power of Love.’ That figured; that was the sort of cassette tape Trigg would own.

  Wyatt reached up. The speakers were set in the wide shelf between the back seat and the big, sloping rear window. The shelf was made of some cheap, manufactured material. He could feel the vibrations in his fingers.

  Wyatt approached the problem laterally. He couldn’t get out of the car but he could go further in. He pushed upwards experimentally. He felt the shelf bend slightly. He waited through a pause between songs and explored the underside of the shelf until he found the holding screws. In time with the thudding bass he kicked at the area around the screws, stopping occasionally to test his progress.

  The shelf was tearing away from the screws.

  When the shelf was moving freely he got into position. Stealth had got him this far. Now it was force all the way. The leads would tear away from the rear speakers but the front door speakers would continue to work. He waited while a song ended and another began. The opening bars were heavy and pounding. Wyatt heaved upwards, flipping the rear shelf down over the seat back, and dived through to the space behind Trigg.

  The little man turned partway around in shock, then tried to dig into his pocket with his free hand. ‘Forget it,’ Wyatt said, clamping his forearm around Trigg’s neck. He reached down and retrieved the.38. The car swerved violently into the oncoming lane and back again. Wyatt increased the pressure on Trigg’s larynx, released him, squeezed him again. ‘Stop the car.’

  Trigg steered off the road and pulled on the handbrake. Wyatt tickled the little man’s ear with the.38. ‘Turn that crap off.’

  With the music gone the only sounds were the wind over the car and Trigg’s frightened breathing. Trigg spoke first. ‘We can work something out.’

  Wyatt ducked his head and peered through the windscreen. There were red tail-lights in the darkness ahead of them. They went in and out of sight as the road dipped and turned between the black crops on either side.

  Wyatt didn’t want Happy to see that the headlights behind him were no longer moving. ‘Turn the lights off.’

  ‘Look, I can cut you in on some great action.’

  ‘Turn the lights off.’

  Trigg swung uselessly around at Wyatt. ‘Do it,’ Wyatt said.

  When the lights were off he said, ‘Get out.’

  Trigg had his door open a couple of seconds before Wyatt and he was twenty metres down the road, going hard, when Wyatt shot him. The bullet was like a punch in the back and Trigg sprawled face down on the road.

  Wyatt picked up the body and put it in the front passenger seat. By now a minute had gone by and Happy would be wondering why instead of intermittent lights behind him there were none. Wyatt started the car and put his foot down.

  He caught up with the truck a minute later and settled in close behind it. They travelled like that for ten minutes until he saw the truck’s brake lights go on. Happy was turning into a lay-by. Wyatt followed in the car. A couple of road signs flared briefly in the headlights. Sharp curves ahead, they warned. Falling rocks.

  Wyatt put the headlights on high beam and angled the car at the flank of the truck. He sat Trigg’s body upright behind the steering wheel then stepped to the back of the car
. He watched Happy get down from the truck cabin. The headlights were blinding the big man. He ducked his head as he approached the car and put his arm across his eyes. He was blinking, trying to get a response out of the little man who’d been his boss, when Wyatt shot him in the back of the head.

  This was the final stage of a heist gone wrong but that didn’t change the way that Wyatt went about it. He handled the steps one at a time, covering himself. He wiped his prints off the gun and tossed it away. He robbed the bodies and dragged them to the blind side of the truck and turned on the parking lights so no one would get too nosy. On his way back through Goyder he stopped to wipe his prints off Letterman’s Valiant. Much later he passed within a few kilometres of Leah’s house but he didn’t think about her. He might later, when he’d got his money back from the Mesics and there were no more hired guns on his back.

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