by Garry Disher
* * * *
Death Deal
[Wyatt 03]
By Garry Disher
Scanned & Proofed By MadMaxAU
* * * *
One
There were two of them and they came in hard and fast. They knew where the bed was and flanked it as Wyatt rolled onto his shoulder and grabbed at the backpack on the dusty carpet. He had his hand on the .38 in the side pocket and was swinging it up, finger tightening, when the cosh smacked across the back of his wrist. It was lead bound in cowhide and his arm went slack and useless. Then he felt it across his skull and he forgot about his hand and who the men were and how theyd known where to find him and everything else about it.
He came to on the floor, dust in his nose. A weak light was spilling into the room from the fluorescent strip above the grimy corner sink. He kept his eyes hooded. Apart from a minute flexing to test his bruised hand, he didnt move. The men had his pack on the chipped chest of drawers and something about it amused and irritated them.
Jesus Christ, a radio scanner, one man said, unloading the pack item by item. Portable phone, revolver, couple of changes of clothing. Just your typical hitchhiker, right?
The money?
Cant see any.
Whitney, the guy snatched a payroll.
Well, you take a look, then, the man called Whitney said.
The other man felt the pockets, lining and straps of the pack. He was methodical and very soon he would find the twenty thousand dollars that Wyatt had distributed in his personal gear, five thousand dollars here and there, rolled up in his socks, folded into an aspirin packet, tucked under a shirt collar. There should have been three hundred thousand but someone else had got to it first and the twenty thousand was all that Wyatt had in the world.
He moved then, pushing up from the carpet, drawing in his legs ready to spring. The man called Whitney saw him first.
Moss, look out.
Wyatt lunged. He had nothing particular in mind beyond hoping he could knock one man off his feet and slow down the other. He saw them step apart as he came at them, low and darting. He veered, drove his shoulder behind the knees of the man who still had his back to him, then swung around to grapple with the other. There were no shouts or cries, just the sounds of effort and desperation: grunts and pained sobs, bony flesh smacks, ragged breathing, and then a scrabble at the flimsy motel door and the slick squeal of running shoes on the shiny concrete at the side of the building.
Wyatt found that he had the cosh in his hand. One of his assailants was under him, curled against the blows, an arm wrapped around his face and head.
I give up. I give up, the man said.
The tension went out of Wyatts arm. He saw that the door was open, his backpack gone. A starter motor ground somewhere behind the motel, an engine fired, there was a spin of grit from accelerating tyres. He got to his feet. Your mates deserted you.
Dont hit me.
Wyatt went to the door and looked out. It was two oclock in the morning and if this had been a decent neighbourhood there would have been signs of irritation or query from the other residents by now. But this wasnt a decent neighbourhood. Wyatt was on the run, staying in on-site caravans and rundown motels in forgotten towns. So far hed made it to a place on the Melbourne side of Mt Gambier. He hadnt taken a direct route, assuming there would be roadblocks and train and bus searches. Going from outback South Australia to Melbourne via Mt Gambier was the long way around, but it avoided the police. So who were these hoons and how had they known about the payroll?
He closed the door and turned back. The man was whimpering on the floor.
Get up.
Dont hit me.
Im not going to hit you. Get up.
Wyatt watched the painful articulation of joints and muscles as the man climbed to his feet and swayed on the carpet. Sit, he said, pushing the man onto the bed.
Wyatt stood above him, very close, the light behind his head where he wanted it. When the man looked up, all hed see would be solidity, an implacable shape. Wyatt put some flat menace behind his voice.
Whats your name?
Mostyn.
Mostyn and Whitney, Wyatt said. Nice.
The man was silent. Wyatt said, But its not your names Im interested in. I want to know who you are and why youre here.
We were hired, Mostyn said. He mumbled it, looking at the floor. He wore a black tracksuit and scuffed gym boots. There was red hair on his knuckles, red hair cropped skinhead style on his scalp. He couldnt have been more than twenty-five.
Who hired you?
I mean, Mostyn said, someone hired the boss to find you, and he put me and Whitney on it
What boss are we talking about?
The man looked up. He had freckles and anxious, uneven teeth in a thin, dry-skinned face. Mack Stolle.
Never heard of him.
Stolle Investigations? the man said, the question mark at the end of it saying surely Wyatt had heard of Stolle Investigations.
You and Whitney, the mate who ran out on you, youre private detectives? Jesus Christ.
Mostyn wet his lips. Licensed. I swear it.
A pair of cowboys. You were hired to rob me?
Mostyn looked away. No.
Who hired your boss to find me? The security firm running the payroll?
Mostyn raised and lowered his hands. Not them, no. The boss said it was a private job, some woman in Queensland. Thats all I know. I swear.
Wyatt didnt know anyone in Queensland. He didnt know many women, and none that he thought would remember or want him. He didnt know where to run with this line of questions so he said, How did you find me?
Some dignity came into Mostyns voice. We specialise in missing persons. Weve been tracking you since you hoisted that payroll.
Wyatt bent his face close to Mostyns. Let me tell you something. I didnt touch that payroll. Someone got to it before I did.
Mostyn muttered, as though to himself, That explains the hitchhiking and caravan parks. We thought with three hundred grand youdve bought your way out of the country.
And you two clowns thought youd see if you could roll me and buy yourselves three hundred grands worth of happiness. What were you going to do, tell the boss you couldnt find me?
The man called Mostyn flushed and looked away. Wyatt tapped him with the cosh. He put no force in it but the fortified leather connected audibly with Mostyns cheek. Empty your pockets.
Sullenly Mostyn tossed a wallet, a handkerchief, a set of locksmiths picks and a small vinyl case onto the bed.
Whats in the case?
Mostyn pulled the zip around three sides and peeled open the top. A syringe and a vial of colourless fluid.
A junkie, Wyatt said. He hated them. They had changed the face of crime. They were invariably desperate, vicious and unpredictable. Hed never work with one.
But Mostyn was shaking his head vigorously. No way. Its a knockout drug. Sometimes the people weve been hired to find dont want to come home.
A slow, cold smile appeared on Wyatts thin face. Mostyn saw it and knew what it meant. Hey, come on.
Wyatt smacked the cosh across the bridge of the mans nose. It came just short of cracking the bone. What do you prefer, a painless sleep or the bashed-over-the-head kind?
Wordlessly Mostyn stuck out his arm.
Do it yourself, Wyatt said.
For several seconds, Mostyn didnt move. Then, his movements small and spiderlike, he removed the syringe, and upended the vial over the needle. Holding it up to the light, he drew liquid into the barrel. Finally he test-squirted the plunger, pulled up his sleeve, and tapped the vein in the crook of his elbow. Both men watched the needle depress the skin, slice gently into the vein. Mostyn pushed the plunge
r with his thumb. The vein swelled a little. Mostyn slid the needle out, put a finger on the puncture, bent his hand to his chin.
Not long now.
They waited. The first signs were unfocused eyes, an unsteadiness in Mostyns trunk. Then his head dropped, his shoulders and arms slumped. Wyatt pushed at him experimentally. He fell sideways onto the bed.
Wyatt opened the mans wallet. He found credit cards, drivers licence, a card saying that Mostyn was licensed as a private inquiry agent in the state of Victoria, and two hundred dollars in cash. From three hundred thousand dollars to twenty thousand to two hundred, Wyatt thought, pocketing the money.
It was time to move on. Hed paid in advance for the motel room, so no-one was going to call the cops if he wasnt around in the morning. He also didnt think the man called Whitney would be back. But when the cleaners found Mostyn in the morning, the police would be alerted. This was a lonely corner of the country. There werent many roads out of it. Theyd stop Wyatt on one of them soon enough, once they knew he was here.
His only chance was to get rid of Mostyn. There was a 24-hour Caltex station and roadhouse next door to the motel. Heavy long-distance rigs had been snarling in and out of there all night. Wyatt went out the back way, Mostyn slung over his shoulder. It was easier than hed expected. A car transporter bound for Adelaide in a shadowy corner. Five Honda Legends on the tray. A comfortable back seat ride for Mostyn through the night.
Wyatt walked back into the town. The sky was very black, cloud over the moon, wind gusts agitating the solitary traffic light suspended above the intersection. It was Saturday but everyone was in bed. He found the shire council depot next to a Mechanics Institute and opposite the war memorial, a Great War soldier in leggings, bayonet extended, pigeon shit streaked down his back. The shires vans, utilities and road maintenance trucks were locked in a yard behind the office. Wyatt hot-wired a Falcon ute. It wouldnt be missed before Monday morning, if then.
* * * *
Two
Wyatt drove east, the road unrolling through pine forests then farmland. Sometimes the clouds broke up in unheard winds and he caught sight of the sea under moonlight. In the small fishing towns, spiny jetties poked darkly into the silver water. The night and the road were long and empty, encouraging in him a detached sensation, as though he didnt inhabit his skin and bones but rode along with them.
A few hours ago hed been portable, mobile, sustained and protected by technologythe gun, the radio scanner, the cellular phone. Hed had money enough to hide for a few months or to bankroll a hit against the Mesics, the people who now had the money from the payroll heist that had gone so wrong in the red dirt country of South Australia. Now? Now he had two hundred dollars, a set of lock picks and the clothes hed been sleeping in.
He passed through Portland, Warrnambool, towns with banks, building societies, Medicare branches. Some other time. Hed find something in Melbourne, a place where he had contacts, if not friends. Only a mug would try to hit a bank at night, alone, unprepared.
The headlights drew him over the curve of the earth and an edge of anxiety settled in him. Solitude was his natural state. He got things done that way, especially the sorts of things that he did. Wrapped in silence, he could thrive, away from the noise and confusion that other people created around themselves. He never felt lonely loneliness was an illusion. He knew all these things about himself, but, still, in this tunneling shire council ute on this dark plain, he began to feel unconnected to the world. There had been other times when hed lost everything, been forced to move on, build up funds again, make a new home for himself, but this time the task seemed enormous. It occurred to Wyatt that he didnt necessarily want to do it alone, this time.
Then he was back in himself, feeling concentrated and alive. He was driving directly into the suns rays; he couldnt afford an accident now, not with a price on his head and his hands on another mans steering wheel. The introspective mood lifted and he put his mind to the next stageacquiring some more cash.
It was eight-thirty in the morning when Wyatt reached the outskirts of Geelong. The city had the shutdown air of Sunday morning and he felt confident that he could stop for petrol, breakfast and phone calls without drawing attention to himself. Two hundred dollars. He put fifteen dollars worth of fuel in the tank, consumed coffee, toast and eggs in a roadhouse for five dollars, and saw a motel on the other side of the highway: Rooms $35. Theyd be costlier in Melbourne, and Melbourne was an unknown for him now, things had gone wrong there recently.
Room eighteen was at the back of the building and he parked the ute in a corner, the shire council logo on the drivers door shielded by a brick wall. The ute wasnt a problem yet, but it would be tomorrow, Monday. By then hed have another set of wheels and be somewhere else.
Nine oclock. He called Rossiter first. Rossiter had been his main contact in the past, before hed lost everything. Rossiter passed information to him, put him in touch with people, warned him when cops or hardheads with a grudge were looking for him.
Eileen, Rossiters wife, answered. Yeah?
Its Lake, Wyatt said. Lake was a name he used from time to time. He used it in motels and whenever he thought there might be a tap on a phone line.
Eileen Rossiter wasnt concerned about a possible tap on her line. Wyatt? Youve got a bloody nerve.
Wyatt said nothing.
You hear me? My old man almost got strangled because of you.
Sugarfoot, Wyatt said, naming the last punk to have come looking for him.
Exactly. He came round wanting your address. Ross had no choice. Permanent rope burns on his neck.
Im sorry about that. Look, is Ross there? I need to talk to him.
You must be joking.
Wyatt was left with a dead connection and an angry crash sounding in his ear. He tried Loman next. Hed used Loman in the past whenever he needed vehicles, explosives, people to drive or crack a safe for him. He didnt know the voice that answered.
Get me Loman.
There was a pause and the voice went hard and suspicious. Who wants him?
A friend.
Hes not here.
When will he be back?
Tell me what this is about and maybe I can help you.
It was Wyatts turn to pause. He didnt like what was happening. I need him to put me in touch with someone.
Like who?
Forget it, Wyatt said. Ill try again later.
Who will I say called?
Wyatt thought about it. The STD beeps at the beginning of the call meant he could have been calling from anywhere in Australia. To see what it would precipitate, he gave his real name. Wyatt.
A hard knowledge came into the other mans voice. Waddya know. Arent you the popular one. Top of everyones hit parade.
I need to speak to Loman.
The man barked a laugh. Or whats left of him.
Wyatt was silent. He could hear the other man on the line, his adenoidal breathing.
Then his voice. Burnt to a crisp. Suspicious circumstances, all that. Somebody torched the poor bastard. I guess we can scratch you off our list of suspects.
Wyatt went cold and cut the connection. Forget Melbourneno friends there. There would be something in Geelong for him. He made a final call, to a chemical factory in Corio. A man called Mike Harbutt worked there. He was a fireman but now and then he supplemented his income working for men like Wyatt. Harbutt was a still, silent, apparently nerveless man. He owed no allegiances to anybody and that made him valuable to Wyatt right now.
The switchboard put him on hold. Thirty seconds later a voice growled, Harbutt.
Its Wyatt. Have you got a minute?
Havent had a fire here in five years. Ill be redundant at this rate. Whats on your mind?
I need to know what the word is.
Where are you calling from?
Local, Wyatt said.
Good. Keep it that way. Anywhere else is too hot for you at the moment.
Meaning?
Meaning the cops have
got your prints now, off your place on the Peninsula, theyve got a name for you, theyve been giving everyone a hard time while they look for you. Someones going to turn you in if you show up in Melbourne. Either that or theyll shop you to that Sydney crowd thats put a price on your head.
The Outfit.
Thats them.
Where do you stand in all this?
Me? Im growing old gracefully, keeping all my friends.
They were silent and then Harbutt said, About that payroll . . .
