Pay Dirt (7 page)

Here? he said.

Its the address I was given.

Leah followed the main drive past
the large front buildings and around behind them to a block of six smaller
sheds and wholesale outlets. Three were vacant. The others were a hose and tap
supplier, a cane furniture manufacturer and a small transport business. The
transport business was at the end of the row and there were two vans parked
outside it. A prissy script on the door of each van read KT Transport, Express
Service to Country Areas.

Keith Tobin, esquire, Leah said. No
job too small.

She parked the car and they got out.
A man was on his back under one of the vans. He wore desert boots. He was
tapping metal on metal and the soles of the desert boots twisted and turned in
sympathy.

Mr Tobin? Leah said.

The boots were still. A muffled
voice replied, Who wants him?

You got a phone call from a mutual
acquaintance. You were told to expect us.

Tobin was not sharp. The boots
appeared to be taking in what Leah had said. After a while, the man slid out
from beneath the van and stood up. Got you now, he said.

Wyatt watched all this, hoping it
didnt mean that Tobin was bad at his job. He saw a vigorous man aged about
thirty, dressed in overalls. There were small blue tattoos on his forearms. His
hair was cropped short, and a bushy moustache sprouted under his pitted nose.
He was loud and cheerful, had vacant eyes in a lively face, and looked, Wyatt
thought, exactly like a test cricketer. As he watched, Tobin stripped off the
overalls, revealing brief green shorts, a blue singlet and long stretches of
healthy-looking skin. Then Tobin put on sunglasses with mirrored orange lenses
and said in a rapid mumble, Come in the office.

Wyatt looked around once before following
Tobin and Leah. If there was anyone who didnt look right hanging around, hed
pull out immediately. He saw no one. He went in.

The office was a mess. Ring-folders
and crumpled invoices and receipts littered the desk and floor. There were beer
cans on the window ledge. Wyatt didnt want to waste time. He didnt wait for
Leah but said, Have you got form?

Tobin took off the sunglasses. Sorry?

Wyatt waited. It was the only thing
to do. The seconds ticked by while Tobin got the question worked out in his
head.

Not me, mate, Tobin said finally. A
sullen expression replaced the open, empty look hed started out with. Whats
it to you, anyroad?

You can drive heavy vehicles?

Now Wyatt was speaking Tobins
language. No worries.

A low-loader, car transporter,
something like that?

Yep.

Are you booked up this week?

Why? Whats this all about? I was
told you had a job on.

What about next week? Got any work
on that can wait till later?

Tobin looked sulkier. Im not
exactly swamped.

What about family, friends? Leah
asked. Anyone whos going to wonder where you are if youre away for a few
days?

Nup. You better start fucking
telling me what the job is pretty soon or you can fuck off, okay?

Leah seemed to know what she was
doing. Wyatt let her handle it. What are you doing this Thursday? she asked. Any
chance you can make a run up north?

Suppose. Whats it to you?

We want to show you something. Do
you deliver to Burra?

Every week. Theres a bloke there
owes me for a case of Scotch, five hundred smokes, videos ...

Leah nodded. Well meet you there.
Thursday, ten oclock.

Listen, Im getting pissed off with
this. Times money. If you want a pro you got to pay for it, and I want
something up front.

Nothing up front, Wyatt said. All
your expenses will be paid and you get a cut on the take if you come in on
this. Same terms for everybody.

How much?

Between fifty and a hundred grand.

Each?

Wyatt nodded.

Tobin whistled. Then he jerked his
head, indicating Leah. Is she in this?

Have you got a problem with that?

Well, I mean, you know.

Wyatt turned and walked to the door.
Okay, thats it, we find someone else.

No, hang on, mate, hang on, Tobin
said. No offence. Never worked with a bird before, thats all.

One thing, Leah said. Im not a
bird.

Gis your name, then.

Were pushing him too much, Wyatt
thought. He feels that hes giving but getting nothing in return. Take it
easy, he said calmly. He gave Tobin their names and described the job. Okay?
he said. Are you in so far?

Security van? Tobin said, making a
click of awe with his tongue. Then he made a show of frowning hesitation, as if
he was a pro and the job had holes in it. The paint jobll have to look right.

Yes.

Well, look no further, said Tobin
expansively. He pointed through the window. See them vans? Painted them
myself. Duco, lettering.

Wyatt inclined his head admiringly. Classy.

Tobin thrust out his hand. Count me
in, he said.

Wyatt shook it, thinking there was
muscle here and not much else. But the job demanded muscle too, and if he could
run the operation so it was tight, the weaknesses wouldnt matter.

* * * *

FOURTEEN

Letterman
watched as Pedersen came out of his house and got into a Range Rover. The Range
Rover looked new. He started the Fairmont, ready to follow Pedersen. He was
reminded of the job a security firm had offered him when he was dismissed from
the force. They wanted his detective skills, they said. Theyd pull strings and
get him licensed as a private investigator, and hed start on $700 a week. The
money was okay, but the work wasnt. Letterman knew about private
investigators. They went into the game thinking they were Spensers or Cliff
Hardys but soon went sour from boredom. Being a PI meant living in a car and
working half a dozen cases at oncetailing wives and husbands, checking credit
and employment records, drinking thermos coffee while workers compensation
claimants ran around on tennis courts, maybe getting out of the car sometimes
to guard an exhibition of furs in David Jones. Stuff that for a joke.

The Range Rovers rear lights came
on, the right one brighter and whiter than the left. Letterman had been tailing
Pedersen for two days now. On the first day, when Pedersen stopped at a TAB to
place a bet, hed broken the brake light lens with a stone. He hadnt known
then if Pedersen would go out at night or not, but if he did, the broken light
would make him easier to tail.

Pedersen pulled away from the kerb.
Letterman waited half a minute then pulled out after him. On Nicholson Street,
where the traffic was heavier, he settled in two car lengths behind the Range
Rover, keeping the bright tail-light in view.

So far today had been a repeat of
yesterday. Pedersen had slept until lunch-time, spent the afternoon going to TABs,
a pub and a brothel, taken Red Rooster chicken home for dinner, and gone out
again at eight oclock. Last night Pedersen had driven to King Street in the
city. Letterman had watched him park the Range Rover illegally, put on a black
leather jacket ten years out of date, and try to get into one of the clubs. Hed
been refused admission there and at another club a few doors along. Letterman
saw him gesture angrily at the bouncers in each place. All the bouncers that
Letterman had ever known were ex-crims with records for violence, so Pedersen
had been lucky not to have his head kicked in. Not that Letterman blamed the bouncers.
Pedersen didnt look right. He had a prison pallor, a jumpy manner, bad taste
in clothes. And he looked almost middle-aged, too old for the King Street
clubs.

Tonight was different. Tonight
Pedersen drove to a pub in Fitzroy. It had a blackboard on the footpath
advertising mud wrestling. That sounds about right, Letterman thought, watching
Pedersen park illegally again and go in.

Letterman didnt follow straight
away. He switched off the engine and turned the radio to a talk show on Radio
National. With any luck hed hear that some poofter had jabbed the New South
Wales Police Commissioner with a syringe.

Later Letterman turned on the
interior light and scribbled in his notebook. He had a complete record of all
Pedersens movements over the past two days, and they added up to one thing, in
his view Pedersen was still living off the proceeds of the job hed pulled
with Wyatt six weeks ago, the job that had wrecked the Outfits Melbourne
operations.

He also had telephoto shots of
Pedersen going in and out of pubs, TABs and a brothel called Fanny Adams. Hed
used up a whole roll of film and had it developed at a one-hour place, the sort
of place that has a high turnover and no curiosity. Some of the photos would go
to the Outfit. They demanded before and after shots of all contract hits. But
the photos were also groundwork. Letterman liked to make a study of his targets
before he hit them. He intended to hit Pedersen at homehe hadnt decided how,
yetbut if something went wrong and he couldnt manage it, hed go through the
photos again and familiarise himself with Pedersens other haunts. He hoped it
wouldnt come to a hit in the open. The Outfit stipulated that in getting rid
of loose ends like Pedersen he should attract as little attention as possible.

He turned off the interior light
again, locked the Fairmont and crossed the road. He loosened his tie and
untucked an edge of his shirt front before he entered the pub. He spotted
Pedersen immediately, without appearing to look at him. The mud wrestling had
just finished and the air carried a pungent layer of sexual hate and bitterness
beneath the smoke, noise and splashed beer. Pedersen himself looked jittery and
frustrated. Rather than front up to the bar, Letterman grabbed an abandoned
glass with an inch of beer in it and slumped like a regular at a corner table.
He didnt look directly at Pedersen. He didnt look directly at anything other
than the floor. He kept Pedersen in his peripheral range. The Pedersens of this
world, Letterman thought, can smell cop, even ex-cop, the instant they make eye
contact.

Letterman stayed there for an hour.
He ordered a glass of beer from a passing topless waitress at one point and
endured another mud-wrestling match. A live band played between shows. Someone
seemed to be selling speed and Buddha sticks.

Then Pedersen got ready to go. It
looked like being an extended departure he was clapping the shoulders of other
drinkers whod been ignoring him all eveningso Letterman left first. He
crossed the road, got into his car, and settled a hat on his head. It probably
wasnt necessary, but he didnt want Pedersen puzzling about where hed seen
the bald man in the Fairmont before.

As Letterman watched, Pedersen
crossed the road unsteadily, U-turned in front of a tram, and sped north with a
faint tyre squeal. Letterman waited for the traffic to ease, then followed him.
Pedersen cut through to Nicholson Street and went north along it. Hed been
drinking heavily and it showed in his driving. Just my luck, Letterman thought,
if he gets pulled over for drunken driving. He lost Pedersen at Brunswick Road
when Pedersen ran a red light, but it didnt matter, Pedersen was going home.

Letterman got to Pedersens house in
Brunswick in time to see the Range Rovers rear lights go off. He pocketed a
Polaroid camera, got out and ran silently across the road and behind the Range
Rover. It was a narrow street, dark, and Pedersen didnt hear him coming. When
Pedersen let himself into his house, Letterman pushed in behind him. He pushed
the door closed, hearing the lock click home, and took out his knife.

Pedersen spun around, then flattened
his back to the wall in shock. His breath was beery. Letterman raised the knife
and touched the blade tip under Pedersens jaw, watching with interest the
gulping motions in Pedersens throat. He said softly, Maxie.

Max Pedersen gulped again. Who are
you?

You dont want to know that, Max,
Letterman said. He used Pedersens first name deliberately. It gave him an
extra advantage over Pedersen, who didnt even have a last name to call him.

For the next two minutes Letterman
said nothing. Instead, he put his head on one side and then the other, turning
the blade tip under Pedersens jaw. The hall light flashed on the steel.

The silence began to work. It always
did. What do you want? Pedersen asked. Just tell me and Ill do it. You want
money? I got some in my wallet.

Still Letterman said nothing. He
would let the silence do its job, then fire the hard questions so they hit like
punches.

He shouted the first one.
Where
is he?

Pedersen winced. Who?

Letterman said nothing. He waited,
then asked softly, Where is he?

Who? I dont know who you mean.

Almost a caressing whisper this
time: Where is he?

Who? Pedersen pleaded. Only I
live here. Who do you want?

Letterman stood back at arms length
and nicked Pedersens neck with the blade. When he spoke it was bleak and fast:
Wyatt.