Death Deal w-3

by Garry Disher

  Anna touched his sleeve. Dont worry. They dont know who you are, and the pictures of you are blurred. You interest the cops, though. They know Phelps and Riding couldnt have put this together.

  Wyatt stared at her hand. He remembered her bare skin, its colour and pliancy. Then he looked up. She wore an oversized T-shirt that concealed and flattened her body. It was torn here and there, a washed-out shade of black. Loose, worn, faded tracksuit pants hid the rest of her. Shed done something to her hairor had it done to her. A brush cut on top, shaved close to the scalp on either side, woven tendrils reaching down between her shoulder blades. It was a tough jailhouse outfit and she looked coldly sexual in it.

  What did you tell them?

  Frown lines appeared between her eyes and she pulled away. Nothing. I resent it that youd think I would tell them anything. Thats why you came back, isnt it? Not for me. You wanted to know how much they knew about you. You thought I might be a liability, might swing a deal with them or something.

  Wyatt didnt answer. He said, I want to get you out. Are you okay for the time being?

  Ive got friends.

  His stare was flat so she elaborated. Im not prison pussy, if thats what youre thinking. All this she plucked at her T-shirt and touched her hairmakes sense in here, thats all. And I kind of like it.

  Wyatt said nothing. He changed the subject. What did the cops tell you about the character who tried to jump us at the bank?

  They asked, did I do coke? Did I smoke the dreaded weed? His name was Ian Lovell and he was a dealer.

  Stolle wouldnt have sent him into the bank, not when he intended to grab everything at the university.

  Some kind of wild card?

  Wyatt played back the fiasco at the bank. He remembered the pointed way in which Nurse had emptied the banks revolver into Lovell, as if something very, very personal was going on. I guess so. It doesnt matter.

  Wyatt, Im sorry.

  Wyatt gave a short head jerk of irritation. You didnt apologise for stuff-ups you hadnt caused. And the stuff-ups you did cause should always have good reasons behind them. He said, We have to get you out.

  Again that frown, looking for his motives. I hope this isnt just so you can silence me for good.

  You want to stay in here?

  Dejection showed in her face. He realised that she was losing her natural colour, gaining a prison greyness. Her voice soul-sick and low, she said, Ill wither up and die in here. Its privately-run, but that doesnt mean much. Ive got friends but I cant watch my back all the time. She looked fully at him. I cant bear it, Wyatt.

  Careful. Father Kennedy.

  They both glanced around the room. No-one was paying them any attention. It brought back her humour. Some priest.

  Wyatt looked too weather-beaten and rough around the edges to be a scholarly priest or an ambitious one or an ingrate in a wealthy diocese. The effect he had aimed at was prison visitor, a long-faced, stoop-shouldered man who probably grew vegetables and devoted his time to the kind of heartache cases that no-one else would touch. There had been priests like that around in his childhood.

  Just then Wyatt became aware of a shift in the rooms atmosphere. He looked across at a table by the door. A woman was talking to the people there, an inmate and her mother, and it was clear that they resented her but could not tell her to shove off. It was a curious tableau, almost like a pimp touching base with whores.

  Anna confirmed it. Oh God, not her.

  Who is she?

  She works here. She put the hard word on me the moment I came inside. Shes convinced I know where the money is and will want to channel some of it her way. You know, in case I want extra cigarettes, a Walkman, silk knickers, an office job instead of peeling vegies, uppers, downers, some marijuana to sprinkle in my roll-your-own tobacco.

  Wyatt watched the woman. She wore a mauve suit, the jacket gathered tight at the waist, the skirt slit at the back. A filmy scarf frothed at her throat and she wore big tinted glasses with fussy, angular, gold-speckled frames. Her hair was dark, permed into a cloud around her head. Somewhere under all the frills there was a calculating heart.

  What did you say to her?

  I said fuck off and the result was Ive been peeling vegies ever since and some inmates tried to heavy me.

  The woman looked up, saw Anna, saw the priest with her, and smiled.

  Brace yourself.

  Wyatt watched as the woman threaded her way among the tables. The inmates and their visitors kept their eyes lowered and stopped talking, relaxing only when it was clear the woman had someone else in her sights.

  Anna, how are things with you today?

  Anna said stonily, Go away.

  Arent you going to introduce me?

  Father Kennedy, Anna said.

  The woman gushed over Wyatt. An enamelled name-plate on her lapel read Lesley Van Fleet. There was lipstick on her teeth, cracks in her make-up.

  Annas settling in very well here, Father. She knows that if I can help her, I will. Anything at all, she only has to ask.

  Van Fleet was watching Wyatt but it was all aimed at Anna. He could see the womans love of manipulation and imagined her house, a life surrounded by pampering luxuries paid for with inmates money.

  Youre very kind, he said.

  When Van Fleet drifted off to another table, he said, Theres your ticket out.

  Forty-one

  At eight oclock that evening, Van Fleet said immediately, Its not enough.

  Wyatt regarded her calmly. Apparently she cast off the veneer when she went home at the end of the day. Her face was free of make-up, giving it a diminished, unprotected look, reinforced by the puffball slippers on her feet and a pair of pink silk pyjamas. She had been smoking when Wyatt found her. Hed picked her back door lock, proceeded noiselessly through the house with his gun out, and come upon her in an armchair reading a book. The cigarette sat unfinished in an ashtray and she picked up a sherry glass.

  Nowhere near enough.

  Not Get out of my house… Who do you think you are?… No, Ill never do it or Ill tell the police. He had promised her money and she had wanted it at once.

  Wordlessly he counted out another five thousand dollars. The first five, crisp twenties and fifties, was neatly stacked in front of her.

  I knew you werent a priest. I could tell.

  Shed had a few drinks. They hadnt softened her, just increased her sourness. The money and her acceptance of it reminded her that she hated herself, but she also had a kind of sneering contempt for Wyatt and knew the cards were stacked in her favour. People like you, you make me sick.

  Wyatt counted out the money a note at a time.

  Think youre Bonnie and Clyde. Youre just scum. Give me one of those poor husband-killers any day.

  Wyatt looked at her. Theres envy there somewhere, he thought. Shes stuck, thinks shes missed out. He took in the room: soft falls of curtain over the window, fluffy white hearthrug, a pink tinge in the wallpaper and plenty of cold, clean white paint on the skirting boards, doors and mantelpiece. Small porcelain milkmaids and shepherds were grouped on an antique sideboard. The lounge suite was new, stuffed cream leather couch and armchairs. She was listening to a syrupy FM station and reading a fat paperback called Siren Song.

  Ten thousand, he said.

  She sipped her sherry, staring at the second bundle of banknotes on her coffee table. Her fingernails were like talons, albino pink, and he saw her slip one between stiff, lacquered waves and scratch her scalp. The sound was audible across the room.

  She looked up at him. Tell me again.

  Wyatt told her.

  She folded her arms. Nope. Not enough. Too much risk.

  Wyatt bundled the money into one pile and put it in his pocket. He didnt look at her, didnt speak. He was in the doorway when she called out: Wait a minute.

  He paused with his back to her.

  Fifteen thousand, she said.

  Wyatt came back into the room. He sat down, put the ten thousand dollars in front
of her and said, Ten.

  Make it twelve.

  Wyatt had been prepared to go to fifteen. What mattered most was that she wanted the money badly enough whether it was five or fifteen. He waited a while, then counted out another two thousand dollars.

  Theres your twelve.

  Van Fleet drank greedily and refilled her glass. Wyatt could smell day-old perfume, cigarette smoke and sweet sherry, and hated it. He wanted to get out of there but this was just the beginning.

  Van Fleet folded her arms again. Okay. Ill need three days to set it up. Well need a room, notices, the education officers permission. More than anything, the paperwork has to look right, as if I couldnt be blamed for thinking the offer looked genuine so I passed it on to the education officer.

  I understand.

  Call me tomorrow.

  She reached across to pick up the money but he got to it first. It went into his pocket and a wail of loss and privation broke from Van Fleet. No!

  Wyatt stood and looked down at her. He took the money out. Ill give you a thousand. The rest you get on the day itself.

  He could see her working out the profit and loss. In case you decide to keep the thousand and report to the cops, remember two things: twelve thousand is better than one thousand, and he showed her his gun again I kill people.

  Van Fleets mouth went down in a sulk and she snatched the thousand from him. Let yourself out.

  Wyatt changed hotels twice in the following three days. He telephoned Van Fleet several times. When she finally said that she was ready, he shaved his head and paid a pharmacist to put a ring in each ear. He bought hundred-dollar jeans, a seventy-dollar shirt, and black lace-up boots stitched with yellow thread. He bought a baseball cap in a surf shop, a scuffed briefcase in a junk shop and a bundle of second-hand books with titles like Style Manual and Plotting Your Way to Success.

  Van Fleet picked him up the next day at twelve-thirty. She did not comment on his appearance but held out her hand for the money. Instead, he counted out five thousand dollars and stuffed them into a post office jiffy-bag that had a stamp and her name and address on it. He knew that greed crawled in her and he was stringing it out. Theres a letterbox on the corner.

  She stopped the car while he got out and dropped the jiffy-bag in the slot. He got back in the car.

  You still owe me six thousand. I want it now.

  Think, Wyatt said. Theyll check you out, theyll have to. Do you want them finding six thousand dollars in your bra or in the glovebox of your car? He had a second jiffy-bag, prepaid but unaddressed. He put the money inside it and stuffed it in his briefcase. Weve reached the point where it has to be trust on both sides, all the way. If you try to warn anyone at the prison, Ill tell the cops to check your mail tomorrow. If all goes well, Ill post this as soon as were out.

  Think youre so smart.

  That was all she said. They got to the prison at twelve-fifty-five, timed to coincide with a shift change at the gate. He pocketed Van Fleets keys and tucked his gun under the front seat of her car. She signed him in and he clipped a visitors pass to his shirt. They went through the metal detector, a door was buzzed open, and they were in.

  Library, Van Fleet said.

  Wyatt bounced on his toes as he walked. He wore the cap at a jaunty angle. At a couple of places in the corridor, posters had been pasted to the wall, advertising a workshop in the library, 1 pm sharp. He hoped that Anna had done her part.

  The prison library was a broad, glass-walled room at the end of the corridor. The books were in grey metal stacks, their spines colour-coded according to subject area. Most were yellowfictionand most of these were fantasy novels. There were three large tables and a couple of computers. Posters and book jackets were taped to the glass between the shelves.

  The room was occupied: Anna Reid and a brisk, efficient woman wearing an ID card bearing the words Education Officer. The woman said regretfully, I hope for your sake a few of the other inmates show up. It was such short notice, you see.

  Wyatt gave her a careless grin. Im used to it.

  Right, well, Ill leave you to it, shall I? This is my lunch break.

  She bustled out, glancing amusedly at Wyatt, nodding at Van Fleet.

  A moment later, three inmates slipped into the room. Annas friends. They were jittery, grinning, curious about Wyatt. Doesnt look your type, one of them said.

  They moved quickly. A powerful woman nodded at him and stationed herself at the door. Her job was to dissuade anyone who thought the notices advertising the workshop were genuine. Wyatt could feel her scrutiny, her black eyes trying to penetrate him. His sex didnt interest her. His life lived in risk and walking in shadows did.

  The other women took Van Fleet behind a protruding bookstack. He heard the snap and scrape of clothing against flesh. It took the women five minutes to get Anna into Van Fleets suit, blouse and stockings, shape a wig around her head, cake her face in make-up, fit the glasses to her face.

  She came out looking like Van Fleet, carrying Van Fleets clipboard and satchel. Van Fleet was behind the bookstack, trussed and gagged.

  Then the three women were gone. They touched Anna as they went and the lithe woman whod guarded the door said, Send us a postcard. They ignored Wyatt.

  Wyatt followed Anna to the main gate. The time was ten minutes past one and the afternoon shift paid no attention as Anna scrawled in the book and Wyatt handed back his visitors pass. The gate clanged shut when they were halfway to Van Fleets car. Anna stumbled a little as though shed been shot and Wyatt heard a moan, low and relieved, in her throat.

  Forty-two

  They had checked all along Broadbeach and Surfers Paradise. Stolle wasnt playing Jupiters or the Monte Carlo. That left the Flamingo, a place that didnt feature in the tourist brochures. Small, practically anonymous, the Flamingo was a casino with a hotel attached, fifty suites starting at one thousand dollars a night. Five levels, ten suites to a level, one ordinary gaming room on the ground floor and something for the high-rollers called the International Room. They learnt that Stolle was paying one thousand dollars a night for suite 306, and losing between fifty and one hundred thousand dollars a night in the International Room.

  They checked in. Later Anna said, He won a million in the first week, and lost most of it two nights ago.

  Wyatt ran his fingers the length of her spinal column. After a week in prison, she looked thinner. Her backside was small, tight and youthful, and as he stroked it she raised her hips from the bed.

  The girl at the front desk told you all this?

  With the help of a fifty dollar note. Theyre not well paid here. Management told them theyd get rich on tips but the big spenders dont like to tip.

  What story did you give her?

  Anna laughed, twisting her head around to look up at his face. I got the idea from Stolle himself. I said I was a private detective hired by his wife to gather proof about his level of income and spending for a divorce settlement.

  Some expense account, accommodation at the Flamingo.

  They had less than a thousand dollars left of the money that Wyatt had pocketed in Nurses vault. They had left Brisbane with three thousand and spent one thousand quickly buying a haircut for Anna and the kinds of luggage and clothing that would get them into the Flamingo. And a thousand for suite 506, two floors directly above Stolles. The balcony looked out on cliffs, marinas and curving yellow sand, but they werent there for the view.

  Wyatts hand was ceaseless, down her long, supple spine to the backs of her thighs and slipping between them. Anna raised her rump and arched her back and reached under with her hand to find his. She clamped it where she wanted it until their hands were moving together, a ten-fingered hand pressing and probing. She said she wanted him inside her, straightaway, as she was, and he moved around on his knees, then forward and it was easy, a kind of gliding release.

  She was the first to speak afterwards, leaning over him on her elbow when he was close to sleep: He doesnt keep it in his room.

&
nbsp; He snapped awake. She saw his open eyes and went on: The hotel provides safety deposit boxes. The girl on the desk said Stolle was always going to his to buy more chips. Are you up to another raid, guns blazing?

  He shook his head.

  She flopped onto her back, fitting her flank to his. How are we going to do it, then?

  They drifted into sleep. Wyatt woke again and this time he was clear and focused. We get him to take the money out for us.

  She mumbled. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted slightly. Not all of the strain had left her face, and her hair was very short now, like a cap on her skull, so that she looked small and drawn. He showered and dressed, letting her sleep.

  She awoke while he was examining the lock. What are you doing?

  He didnt answer. He poked his head into the corridor, saw that it was deserted, and began to work at the mechanism with his locksmiths picks. He gave up. The Flamingo had installed tricky locks in its doors, a deterrent to hotel thieves. It would take too long to break into Stolles room. He shut the door, Anna watching, thinking it through with him.

  The balcony.

  He nodded.

  It was almost 5 pm, the sun sliding toward the hinterland horizon. They took a bus several kilometres to the Oasis Shopping Resort in the most garish part of the Gold Coast and bought leather work gloves, latex gloves, one pair of overalls, rope and a climbers harness.

  At the hotel again, Wyatt waited in their room while Anna talked to her informant. She came back. Stolles in the International Room and has been most of the day. Apparently thats been the pattern all week. Hell stop for dinner at eight, and resume playing again at nine.

  Dinner, a few drinkshell be sluggish by nine.

  What now?

  He picked up the phone. We type the note.

  Ten minutes later there was a knock at the door and a maid delivered a portable typewriter in a carrying case. Anna typed while Wyatt dictated.

  You bastard, he said. I saw Mostyn before he left and he told me what the deal was. We need to talk. Im at the Sunset Strip, on the Esplanade in central Surfers. Room 101. Whitney.