Death Deal w-3

by Garry Disher

  But he didnt trust her. He trusted only himself, a fact that had kept him alive and on this side of the barred windows and the razor wire.

  Wyatt? She shook his arm. Hear me out?

  He looked at the ground. Someone had stepped in chewing gum, a streak of it stretching from the heart of the wad. He wasnt used to her and he wasnt used to this.

  Have lunch with me? Listen to what I have to say?

  He nodded. It was the warmest he could get.

  She took him into the mall, turning right toward the river. A hundred metres down, in the centre of the mall, was an open-air bistro. Anna led him to an umbrella-shaded table set flush against the waist-high enclosure that separated the tables from the tourists and the shoppers. The cover was good for the things they had to say to each other. A Madonna clip blasted out from an adjacent Just Jeans outlet and a kid with a squeezebox was busking for coins on the opposite side of the mall. There was also a catwalk nearby, a man in a tuxedo squawking into a microphone as young women paraded in bathing suits. Wyatt watched the people watching the parade. Japanese tour parties, a couple of backpackers with peeling noses, students, shoppers. Almost everyone wore shorts and sneakers, so he forgot about watching for the kind of body language that said someone was packing a gun and meant him harm.

  They ordered club sandwiches and a jug of water. Anna Reid also ordered wine in a small carafe. Wyatt didnt touch the wine. He said, What are you doing here?

  She knew what he meant. I grew up here, remember?

  Yes.

  So after the fuck-up in Melbourne I packed it in down there and came back here to live.

  The fuck-up didnt ring true. Shed forced it, as if she hoped it might establish a common ground between them, something hard and streetwise. She saw the shutter close over Wyatts face, and went on quickly: I walked straight into a good job.

  She paused and searched his face for some encouragement. Wyatt didnt help her. There was no expression in his eyes, no softening, only a kind of hard summary.

  You know, she said, that time in Melbourne… I didnt mean

  She stopped, but Wyatt was still focused on her, a force complete and silent.

  She said rapidly, I slept with you because I wanted to, not because it would make the job go smoother.

  He continued to watch her.

  I didnt know in advance what would happen with you. Surely you can see that?

  Wyatt maintained his hard silence. He didnt eat, didnt touch his glass.

  Sometimes I think of you, Anna said. I didnt mean for things to go wrong.

  Wyatt leaned toward her and his directness was unnerving. You set up a scam that was intended to make you a lot of money. You put the money ahead of me. Know that about yourself.

  She flushed. That pretty well makes us alike, wouldnt you say?

  He didnt answer and he didnt let his face show anything. The truth was, she would have killed him then if he hadnt stopped her; hed had the chance to kill her and he hadnt taken it. That fact lay there between them and he hated it. He said, The past is a waste of time. Its only good for reminding you that it repeats itself. What do you want?

  She was still angry and showed it. Not to kill you, if thats whats bothering you, and certainly not you for yourself. As I said, theres a job youd be good at. The moneys big, up to a couple of million, all large denominations so itll be easy to bundle.

  What happens if I say no?

  She looked tired suddenly. Youre free to go. The five thousand is yours, no strings attached.

  People hurried by a few metres away. Just down from the bistro the fashion parade MC was inviting the gawkers to give his girls a great big hand. Wyatt tried a smile. Once it started, it was genuine. Tell me about it.

  Anna nodded and some of her anger drained away. I work in the head office of an insurance company, run of the mill legal work. Several weeks ago a memo came across my desk from TrustBank, asking for a ruling on liability in a one-off matter affecting one of their branches. She leaned forward, dropping her voice. Between here and the Gold Coast theres a sprawling development called Logan City: new low-cost housing, down-market shopping centres, blue collar and lower white collar workers, young families, mortgages, high unemployment. TrustBank has a main branch there and two smaller branches. On Friday week the two minor branches will be closed for a security upgrade. The work will be carried out over one weekend and all their funds will be transferred to the main branch. As I said, up to two million, all in one place.

  She sat back. I want you to hit that bank. I think its possible.

  On Friday week?

  She smiled apologetically. For a while there I didnt think Stolle would find you in time.

  Rob it all by myself, Wyatt said.

  I know people. I used to run with some hard cases when I was young, people my father used to defend before he was disbarred. I can put you in touch with the right kind, steady, no junkies or morons.

  The point is, will they work with me? Do they know who I am?

  Im not spreading your name around, if thats what you mean.

  He stared at the table.

  Ive seen you in action, she said. You can make it work if anyone can.

  He stared at her for a while. An inside job, he said at last. Just like the last one.

  Its not like the last one at all. Its an inside tip-off, thats all. Why should they trace it to me?

  Who else knows this moneys going to be there?

  A few people at TrustBank, a few in my firm, the security van people.

  Wyatt nodded. A lot of people, in other words. There was good and bad in that. The good was that the finger wouldnt stop at Anna. The bad was that others might have got ambitious. He wondered if that was the only catch.

  Sixteen

  On Friday Daniel Nurse told his wife: Why dont you listen? Its staff only. No family.

  His crocodile-skin suitcase was spread open on the bed and he was folding a change of underwear into it. Joyce watched him sourly. He took a couple of white shirts down from their hangers in the wardrobe and tried to figure out how to fold them. Joyce might have helped but she was going to be stuck here at home with their fourteen-year-old daughter all weekend while he went off gallivanting, so he had to do his own bloody packing.

  I wouldnt be in the way, she said. I could read, walk on the beach.

  Nurse turned away so that she wouldnt see his fear and strain. He also felt close to the edge of smacking her sulky mouth for her, and hed never done that before. He caught his reflection in the window and didnt like it. Short, round, pink and more or less hairless. The view beyond the glass was better. Their house was a 1920s Queenslander on stilts set into a slope of East Brisbane opposite the Norman Creek. There was a private school below the house, tiled rooftops among big old trees. Mignon Nurse would be going there in the next year or so, when hed scraped the money together for her fees. Better than the high school sprawled out on the opposite bank. The trees on that side were home to a colony of flying foxes. They stank, they were noisy, they reminded Nurse of vampires. Here, in East Brisbane, life was cleaner, more orderly.

  He turned away from the window. Its a training session, for Christs sake. Im expected to share a room, some assistant manager from the Mackay branch. Ill be at lectures tonight, all day tomorrow, and tomorrow night. Were more or less shut away the whole time. Full on.

  Joyce persisted. Theres no reason why we cant get a room together. You go off to your lectures, Ill lay around on the beach. If you got the urge to gamble, Id be there for a change to stop you losing the lot.

  Jesus Christ, he didnt want her anywhere near the place. He should have said TrustBank was holding the workshop in Mt Isa this year. Mention the Gold Coast and it was like a red rag to a bull. Look, sweetheart, the head office boys will be there. It wouldnt look good. Theyre trying to build up a team spirit and Id be on the outer if you were there.

  Joyce folded her arms. A lot of men and no wives? God, you must think Im naive.

  Well be f
lat-out the whole time. Too buggered to muck around even if we wanted to. Plus which, they dont like it if we booze at these things.

  At least, thats how it had been at the one and only TrustBank training retreat hed attended, two years ago. He tucked a pair of carpet slippers into the case. That was the right touch, for the sour look left his wifes face. Lets have a weekend down there soon, she said. Just the two of us.

  Its a deal, Nurse said.

  When she was gone he took his dinner suit from a forgotten corner of the wardrobe, folded it, closed the suitcase lid. He had a shitty couple of days coming upno reason why it had to be a total write-off.

  He looked at his watch. Seven-thirty am, time to move. On the way out the door he kissed Joyce and Mignon, told them hed be back Sunday afternoon, and tossed the suitcase into the Volvo. The next part he loathed. Eight years ago hed been assistant manager at the East Brisbane branch of TrustBank. Ten minutes walk, there and back. Twelve months ago theyd appointed him manager of the main Logan City branch. A nice salary hike, nice car, but Logan City was thirty minutes away and it was the arse-end of the world. No way did he and Joyce want to live there, so he was trying to learn to put up with the long drive, and the barren place, with its jobless kids and mothers pushing prams around the shopping centres.

  At eight-fifteen he slotted the Volvo into his own space, the only one in the tiny paved courtyard at the rear of the bank, and selected the key to the back door of the bank. The all-night security man was dozing in a vinyl armchair in the waiting room outside Nurses office. The man yawned, looked at his watch, walked away to the tearoom.

  Other staff members began to arrive. Unlike Nurse, they had to wait while the security guard opened the double doors at the front of the building. Nurse greeted them, smiled at Angie, the teller with the boobs, and went into his office. It was going to be a hellish morningthe in-tray was full and he had an 11 am appointment with a man he didnt want to see.

  To distract himself, Nurse phoned through for coffee and biscuits and drafted a number of letters and memos. One matter took some thought. At the end of next week, from Friday afternoon until the following Monday morning, his bank was going to be holding deposits on behalf of the two smaller Logan City branches. They were having state of the art safes, cameras and alarms installed and Head Office thought it would save time and trouble to move their holdings to his vaults rather than to haul them up to town. Close to two million dollars, mostly fifty- and one-hundred dollar bills. Extra effort for Nurse and his staff, of course, a fact that his letter to the other managers made clear.

  He wrote: I shall expect delivery to this branch at 4 pm precisely, so kindly ensure that the notes are correctly stacked, bound and secured in strongboxes of the appropriate dimensions, ready for collection by Mayne Nickless. I would count it as a favour if you would impress upon the workmen in your respective branches that they have been contracted to complete the refit before Monday lunchtime. I need not remind you that every hour the money is on the road or at this branch is an insecure hour. He underlined insecure.

  At ten-thirty Nurse had a second round of biscuits and coffee. That was a mistake: fifteen minutes later, he went to the mens, his stomach churning. At ten-fifty-nine Angie showed the man who had inspired it into his office.

  Danny boy.

  Nurse stood shakily. The mans name was Ian Lovell and he had a long, raw-boned look, his hair fine and sun-bleached, his body hard and sinewy. His vigour and humour were plain, characteristics that earned him covetous looks from Angie. Lovell folded himself into an armchair, stretched out his legs, and directed a grin lurking with menace at Nurse. There was a briefcase next to his R M Williams boots. Nurse sat down and tried not to think about the briefcase.

  So, Danny, what story did you give the missus?

  It was a bushmans voice, rapid and almost unintelligible, but the man was a pilot, not a bushman. Nurse wondered how the air traffic controllers ever understood him. A weekend training session for bank staff, he said.

  Did she buy it?

  Nurse nodded.

  Fucking women. Take my advice, ditch the family, become a free man. Lovell nudged the briefcase across the carpet. You know what you have to do?

  Im in room 212. Between ten and four tomorrow Ill have three visitors. They each give me twenty-five thousand dollars

  Count it, Lovell said. Dont let the bastards pull one on you. and I give them the stuff.

  Say it, Lovell grinned. Heroin.

  Heroin.

  Then the genial crinkles disappeared from around Lovells eyes and he sat forward in his chair. No fuck-ups, understand? Make sure you count the money first.

  You told me that.

  Im telling you again.

  I dont like it, Nurse said. How do I know these people wont just knock me on the head and take the stuff, the heroin?

  Lovell leaned back again and laced his hands behind his head. He had a long trunk full of tightly bunched muscles, and Nurse feared it. Two reasons. One, they know its good stuff and theres plenty more where it comes from. Two, they know I know where they live. He showed his teeth. Same as I know where you live.

  Nurse played with a paper clip. He needed to go to the mens again. What if I get arrested? Id get ten years for trafficking.

  You wont get arrested. The palms down there are well oiled. Weve been dealing out of the Tradewinds for years.

  I told Bone Id have the money I owe him by next month. I dont see why I have to do this.

  Lovell didnt reply immediately. He stared at Nurse. After some time he pulled on each finger. The knuckles cracked and Nurse experienced it like a series of shots from a small handgun or the smack of an iron bar across his ankles, knees, elbows. Then Lovell spoke. This time he was soft and all the garbled diction was missing. Because you owe Mr Bone sixteen thousand dollars and he is tired of waiting for it, tired of listening to promises. Lets face it, you are an unlucky punter. You shouldnt gamble. You dont know when to cut your losses.

  Nurse tried to rally. If Im only getting two thousand for this trip, that makes seven more trips before Ive cleared the debt. The wife will never buy it.

  Fuck the wife. Ill see you Sunday arvo in the Irish Club, four oclock.

  When Lovell was gone, Nurse went to the mens again. He was in there a long time. Then he worked through the afternoon and at five oclock he declined an invitation to go to the pub with the others, even though Angie would be there. He carried Lovells briefcase out to the Volvo. By five-fifteen he was well clear of Logan City. Traffic was smooth and fast on the freeway to the Gold Coast, but Nurse hadnt the concentration to stay with the flow. He found himself crawling along at fifty ks sometimes, angry drivers blasting their horns as they passed him. He didnt see the massive theme parks carved out of die scrubby trees at the side of the road, not even the looming billboards that invited him to look. He felt too weak, too fearful, too bleak.

  The Tradewinds faced the water. Room 212 had a view of buildings just like it, glass towers stretching to the horizon. The casinos were nearby, smaller, drenched in bright neon. Nurse collapsed on his bed. He slept fitfully, trying to forget Lovell and the people Lovell did this for. But at seven oclock he showered and the shower changed everything for him. He put on his dinner suit and hit the Monte Carlo.

  Seventeen

  Nurse had come along at the right time for Lovell. A contact in the Drug Squad had tipped him the wink that the regular courier for the Tradewinds drop was going to be deported to New Zealand on a murder charge. Lovell had asked Bone to come up with someone else, and Bone had given him Nurse, ripe for manipulation. Lovell left Nurses office, well pleased, and drove to the airport.

  Three hours and one connecting flight later, Lovell was looking down on Cooktown. It gave him a sense of bitter satisfaction to take a commercial flight. Hed been a second officer with Ansett at the time of the pilots strike in 1989. The company had refused to reinstate him, and he lost his house and marriage, and finished up relief driving for a Q-Cabs owner.
Then one night hed got talking with a man called Bone, a radio job to Spring Hill. A week later he was flying again and making three times his old Ansett salary.

  A smooth touchdown. Outside on the tarmac conditions were clear, some humidity, a slight north-easterly blowing. He walked to the terminal, made a phone call, and rented a Budget Commodore. He drove to an airstrip north of Cooktown. It dated from the Japanese scare of the Second World War and there were airstrips like it all through the north. They had their uses.

  The plane was a Beechcraft Baron with twin 260hp Continental engines. There was room for four people but Lovell rarely carried any passengers. Extra fuel tanks had been fitted and two of the seats removed. Now the Baron had the capacity to carry almost four hundred kilos of cargo a distance of 2500 kilometres, cruising at 10 000 metres at a long-range cruising speed of 370 kilometres per hour. Sometimes, depending on where in Papua New Guinea he was working the trade, he had to refuel enroute. Bones people had arranged fuel dumps at two airfields close to the tip of Cape York Peninsula and a further one on Saibai Island in Torres Strait.

  Felix was waiting for Lovell outside the hangar. Hed rolled a joint and was smoking it, a solid, slow-moving, lazy-lidded Melanesian whose forefathers had been dragged to Queensland by blackbirders. Felix got paid in cash and some of the New Guinea Gold that Lovell flew in.

  Put it out, Felix.

  First one of the day. Im one cool kanaka.

  Put the fucking thing out. I want to die in my bed, not blow up on the ground or run out of fuel halfway across the Strait.

  Felix shrugged. Youre the boss. He nipped the burning end and put the joint in his shirt pocket.

  Lovell looked out across the pocked and empty field to the scrubland beyond. He hated it. Lets roll.

  They filled from a 10 000-litre underground fuel tank fitted with an electric pump and a 100-metre retractable hose. The Baron always needed a boost when starting from cold. Felix kept a battery cart at his house, the batteries permanently on a trickle charge. Both men lifted the cart down from the tray of Felixs rusty Hilux and dragged it across to the plane.