by Garry Disher
It was now almost nine-twenty-five. Wyatt said, Stand by, into the phone and placed it in his pocket.
They waited. The sound was soft, a buzz followed by the gentle clunk of well-tooled metal parts moving. Wyatt nudged Nurse. Open it.
Nurse needed both hands to start the massive door, then it swung easily, finely balanced and as thick as a mans head. The inside walls glittered, polished steel. There were shelves of documents and a large safe fitted with two combination locks.
Now the safe. No bullshit.
Outside there were distant sirens. The incendiaries. Nurse stopped what he was doing, an expectant look on his face. Theyre going to a fire, Wyatt said. He thumbed back the hammer on his. 38. I said no bullshit.
Nurse seemed to lose heart a little, his shoulders drooping, showing the strain. He leaned forward and spun the top dial clockwise and anticlockwise, repeating it with the bottom one. Then he stepped back, hauling the door open, and Wyatt smacked him with the. 38. Nurse dropped like a stone.
Wyatt spoke into the phone, Were in, and dropped it back into his pocket.
The money was in eight metal strongboxes, verifying Anna Reids information. There was also a large police revolver and cash stacked on a shelf in paper bands, the banks own holdings. Wyatt filled his pockets with the loose cash then hauled out the first strongbox and ran with it toward the corridor. He passed Nurses office. He said nothing. Riding said nothing.
At the back door he stopped, put down the strongbox, wedged open the door, ran out to the Volvo. He lifted the boot and ran back for the strongbox. About one minute had passed. He calculated that they could be out of there in another five.
He tossed the strongbox into the Volvo and was back in the corridor when he heard the boots on the asphalt outside.
Thirty-two
They had been waiting for him on Sunday night. Intercom system, security locks, first floor apartment with alarms and barred windows and balcony, and they were in his lounge room waiting for him. Lovell hadnt seen the black limo parked outside so it must have been around the back somewhere. Mr Bone, he said.
Bone was grey, long-faced, with the balding look of a sly monk or scholar. Lovell had never seen him without his charcoal grey suit and black tie and the only time hed seen the man alone was twelve months ago, when Bone had hailed his taxi and heard his story and made him an offer he couldnt refuse. At all other times Bone was with his driver, a big-jawed man who liked to bounce on his toes and keep his hands curled at his sides.
Lovell had kept a wary eye on the driver, dumped his bag in the corner and gone to the drinks cabinet. Get you something?
No thanks. But you go ahead, Bone said.
The situation had called for something with a bit of bite, like Jack Daniels. Lovell kept the neck of the bottle away from the rim of the glass, not that his hands were betraying him much.
Yet.
Hed sat opposite Bone. The driver had edged around and after a while Lovell heard the guy breathing behind him, long regular intakes and exhalations. The whisper was, it was the driver who knocked people that Bone wanted knocked. There were two that Lovell knew of, dealers whod become addicts, a big no-no as far as the organisation was concerned. I can explain, he said.
Bone picked a speck of lint off his knee and smoothed the expensive cloth. That would be a start. My partners and I, we ran a few possibilities past each other. One, your courier was arrested. Two, your courier robbed you. Three, your courier was robbed. Four, you robbed us. He looked up. Not necessarily in order of importance.
Lovell had known then that Bone had been speaking to Rice, the Drug Squad detective. It was a courier problem, he said.
And youve taken care of it?
I have.
Good. That still leaves us with a shortfall, though, doesnt it?
Ill make it up.
Of course you will. Youre obliged to, for a start, and we dont doubt your ability. The problem is, we may have lost valued customers as a result of last weekend.
Mr Bone, theyre a dime a dozen down there.
Im glad to hear it. Bone got up. Because weve started losing business to some Lebanese outfit. He showed some emotion. Quite mad. Kill their own mothers if there was a dollar in it.
Its not my fault what happens at street level.
It is if you cant fill orders and we lose buyers as a consequence.
Ill get you your cash.
Bone and the driver were at the door now. Bone said, Thats not the point. What this organisation depends on is regular cash from regular clients. He paused. And your New Guinea trips? Everything clockwork there?
Lovell swallowed. Of course.
Bone had smiled. Fine, Ian. Well speak again. You have forty-eight hours.
They had left Lovell with a headache like a steel band around his skull.
He slept badly. Then, at two oclock on Monday morning hed woken up thinking: Why not a second loan?
Banking hours were ten till four, but Lovell got to the TrustBank in Logan City at nine-twenty-six. Catch Nurse while the guy was still half asleep and easily persuaded. If Nurse needed extra persuasion, Lovell had it, his. 22 target pistol, the shape cold and sculptured like some sort of ray gun.
He rapped his knuckles on the glass.
A minute later, when nothing happened, he rapped again. A minute after that he wondered if maybe it was a public holiday. In his line of work, public holidays didnt mean much. No, all the shops were open. The post office was open. Bank staff worked nine to five; they had to be in mere, thirty minutes to opening time, having coffee, putting cash in the tills. So why were the blinds still closed? How come the place looked so shut up?
Lovell had gone around to the rear of the building. There was Nurses silver Volvo. The boot lid was up. The back door was propped open.
So the bastards were there. They just werent answering the front door. All right, in through the back.
And now the doorway was darkening and a man wearing a suit was coming through it, moving fast. A box thudded into the boot of the Volvo; the car shook with the weight of it.
The thing was, the bloke had a balaclava over his head. Lovell blinked. If this was a snatch, that was his cash they were taking.
Thirty-three
Wyatt ducked, turned, bringing up his gun in one movement.
A man hed never seen before was framed in the doorway, body low, swinging a pistol on him. It was some kind of fancy target pistol and Wyatt heard it snap sharply a couple of times. The shots went wide. He returned the fire, then ducked back into the bank.
Riding was there, dancing lightly, shifting his aim, looking for trouble. Wyatt pushed him back into Nurses office. Stay with them.
Already there were raised voices on the footpath outside. Wyatt slipped farther into the bank, using desks and filing cabinets as cover. He waited. He couldnt show himself at the corridor. He and Riding could try for the front door but that would mean showing themselves on the street. If the gunman let them get that far.
Who was he? Was Anna Reid pulling some kind of cross?
Wyatt edged around to the main counter and crouched there, two metres from the corridor entrance. The gunman moved first. He came through fast and low, firing rapidly. Wyatt tried to track him with the. 38.
Riding was the first to die. He stepped out into the gunmans path, readied the shotgun, and caught a slug high in the cheekbone. Wyatt saw him spin back against the wall and glass split and fell in shards around him as he slid to the floor.
By now the gunman was past Wyatt. Wyatt rolled free of the counter, looking for a clear field of fire, and saw the gunman die.
It was Nurse, dazed and bloodied and filled with something like hate. He seemed to shake the banks revolver like a deadly forefinger at the gunman and fire it at the same time. The gunman pitched over backwards.
Nurse saw Wyatt. He ducked into the strongroom.
Wyatt moved. He wasnt going to play cat and mouse with Nurse. He ran for the Volvo, leaving seven strongboxes behind
.
The big car snaked a little until the rear tyres caught. He heard the boot slam. Out on the street people stared and scattered. When he was clear of the shopping centre he slowed the car, pulled off the balaclava. A dense cloud of smoke was building in the east.
At the service station he parked next to the Camira. Everything was slow and measured now. He transferred the strongbox to the Camira, got in and started the engine. He backed out, drove away slowly. No-one noticed him. The drama was somewhere else, the sky acrid and roiling, sirens on the freeway above.
He looked at his watch. Nine-forty. Phelps would be leaving Nurses house about now.
At ten oclock he reached forward and turned on the radio. Thirty-two degrees, winds moderating. Wyatt kept the needle on 99 kph and looked at the city skyline in the distance. Already it was limned in a haze of dust and smog in the lifting sunshine. Heading the news bulletin was an unconfirmed report of a robbery and shootout at a Logan City bank.
He turned down the volume. Two million dollars, eight strongboxes. Assuming the money had been divided evenly among the strongboxes, hed got away with just a quarter of a million dollars. Riding was out of the picture, so that left eighty-three and a third thousand dollars each. Make it eighty thousand for himself and Phelps, ninety thousand for Anna Reid to cover her costs.
Or nothing for Anna Reid if shed sent in that gunman. Wyatt left the freeway and followed the river around to St Lucia. Would she have been so stupid? He could think of better ways she could have pulled a cross on him.
And shed have thought of better places than the bank for springing a hijack. Wyatt drove behind Womens College and paused a while. There was the Commodore, Phelps waiting in the drivers seat. Wyatt rolled forward again, steering slowly off the road until he was parallel with Phelps. The big man seemed to be engrossed by a pair of myna birds under the casuarina trees. He didnt glance around at Wyatt, didnt get out of the car. That was wrong and Wyatt cranked the gear lever into reverse. He didnt get further than that before a black Range Rover blocked him and two men came at him with guns drawn.
Thirty-four
When Wyatt and Riding had left with the manager, Phelps slopped milk into his Nescafe and sat opposite the Nurse woman. As he reached across the table for the sugar the woman cleared her throat and he saw mucous flip onto his wrist. It was yellow-white and he shook his hand with a great, recoiling shudder.
The woman grinned so he went around and wiped it off on her chest. She jerked in her rope bindings.
Nothing was said. Phelps didnt chance the sugar pot on the table again but found a packet on a shelf above the refrigerator. He stirred, sipped, pulled his chair back from the table.
Big man, the woman said. Thinks hes tough.
Phelps guessed that size was the reason Wyatt had chosen him for this part of the job. He was built like a fighter across the shoulders. His neck was barely discernible. Hard work and hard living made him seem big, red, abraded. But all that had no effect on the woman.
Phelps checked the girl. Wings of damp hair hung about her cheeks. She was sniffing. He couldnt see her eyes, so he didnt know if she was crying or had a runny nose.
The phone rang. Watching the woman carefully, he picked it up. Wyatt, reporting in. For the next hour that phone sat there, concentrating their attention. Phelps spoke to Wyatt. The woman spoke to her husband. The daughter spoke to her father.
Phelps drained his coffee and scratched his face with both hands. Cheeks, forehead, ears, chinwherever the balaclava touched his skin there was a reaction, an intense itchiness.
Take it off, why dont you? the girl said. She was getting some spirit back.
God, sweetheart, do you really want to see what he looks like?
Sniggers.
None of this fazed Phelps, and to show he didnt care he walked to the sink, unzipped and urinated loud and long over a couple of teaspoons.
The girl pitched about in her chair. Her hair flew about her cheeks. Thats disgusting! Oh, yuck.
The woman said, We should feel sorry for him. He wasnt very bright at school and he comes from the kind of background that doesnt know any better.
But the smell.
I know, dear.
What about when we have to go?
The woman spat her words. Thats quite enough. Pull yourself together. Hes not important. You mustnt let him see you like this.
Phelps hadnt had a better time in years. You tell her, missus. Think shed like to see my old boy?
I would. The woman turned around, making sucking noises. Bring it over. Wipe it first.
Phelps reddened under the balaclava. He turned away and fumbled himself back into his pants. She had a tongue on her like a Fortitude Valley tart. It was stupid, engaging in a conversation with her. She was the sort of woman who came at everything sideways, so you didnt know where you stood. He could knock the grin off her face but all it would prove was that shed got to him.
So he ran through the job in his mind. Wait for Wyatt to report that the time locks were open, then wait fifteen minutes. Smash the phone on the way out, drive the stolen Commodore to the university. Transfer the two millioncop that, two millionto the Commodore and head in a big loop out through Toowoomba and Kingaroy to Noosa on the Sunshine Coast, then down to the Gold Coast, where Wyatt had reserved a Budget motel in Surfers. Dont dump the Commodore where it could be found but get it off the street by booking it in for a valve grind, telling them there was no rush. Divvy the two million and split. Wyatt was staying put for a while. Phelps guessed he had something going with the woman. Riding said he was headed for Europe. Phelps hadnt figured where he was headed yet. Hed told them he was going to Manila, invest in a bar, but that was just to get them off his back. Wyatt insisted on knowing everything. He was the sort to get shitty about loose ends.
Time passed like that and then at close to nine-twenty-five he spoke to Wyatt again. Nurse spoke to the woman and her daughter. Phelps waited.
Were in, Wyatt said, and Phelps smashed the receiver against the edge of the table. The movement was sudden and vicious and both women jumped.
He grinned. Be gone soon. Bet youre sorry.
He left the managers house at nine-forty, glad to be out of there. He drove to the university, keeping to the speed limit, not letting the yellow lights tempt him.
A trend in womens sport that appealed to Phelps was that instead of shorts they now wore things that were more like knickers. He drove slowly, eyeballing women jogging on the river path, stretching their hamstrings on the hockey field. Maybe with his half million hed become a mature-age student.
Hed just parked the Commodore and racked the handbrake on when the car rocked and a voice said behind his ear: Always, always, check the back seat before you get in.
He didnt hear much after that, fingers pressing into his carotid artery, cutting the blood to his brain.
Thirty-five
Wyatt freed his. 38 from his belt. The men wore boilersuits and stocking masks and everything about them looked well-oiled and effortless. One man stepped up to the boot lid of the Camira and jemmied it open. The other stood outside the drivers door in a shooters stance, aiming a big. 45 through the glass at Wyatts head. The intention was plain: stay put.
Wyatt didnt want to risk a shot. If he fired through the door the slug would lose itself or be deflected by the lock and window mechanisms. To shoot through the glass hed have to raise his gun arm, but a movement like that would invite a bullet to the brain.
So he shifted into first and planted his foot. The Camira leapt forward and the front tyres hit the low concrete barrier separating the parking strip from the hockey field. One tyre climbed the barrier, slewing the Camira a few degrees to the right. There was a yelp as the flank of the car slammed into the man with the gun, knocking him to the ground. The rear tyres were spinning, looking for purchase in the gravel. Wyatt kept his foot planted. Slowly the other tyre mounted the barrier and the front of the Camira was over. Wyatt heard the bottom of the sump tear away
. He wouldnt get far with a seized engine.
Far enough was all he wanted.
He looked back as the back wheels climbed the barrier. The first man reached a hand into the boot, neatly plucking out the strongbox as the Camira finally surged free of the barrier. There was now a squat blue-metal automatic in the mans other hand. Wyatt half turned with his own gun. For a moment the two men locked eyes. A kind of signal passed from the man with the strongbox to Wyatt: I will shoot you from here in the time it takes you to swing around on me. Just go. Then he turned away from the car, straddled the man on the ground, and shot him in the head.
Wyatts jaws snapped as the rear tyres bit in and the Camira accelerated. The distance from the concrete barrier to the white, single rail fence around the hockey field was six metres. He felt a hesitation as the radiator grill tore free a section of the rail. The impact was enough to swing the car to the left. Before Wyatt could correct with the steering wheel, the Camira ploughed into a massive turf roller. The machine was stationary, gathering rust, but it was as big as a boat and heavy enough to flatten kinks in the earth. Wyatt jerked in his seatbelt, the back of his head flipping against the whiplash support.
The engine cut out. Wyatt wasnt going anywhere in the Camira now. He got out. Exactly two minutes had passed and it had been two minutes of screams and gunfire, yet the only witnesses were a groundsman on a tractor far away and a clump of cyclists on the ring road. The cyclists slowed, saw that Wyatt was all right, and sped away again.
But somebody would be calling the university security patrol soon. The groundsman would want to know why someone was churning up the field he was paid to keep close-cropped and flat. Wyatt figured that he had about one minute to get out.
He started to move. The black Range Rover was pulling away, leaving plenty of rubber behind. In the drivers seat of the Commodore, Phelps was waking up, rolling his head on his neck.
He was Wyatts ticket out. Wyatt began to run.
