Wyatt - 03 - Death Deal (2 page)

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 . . .

Again Wyatt explained that he didnt
have the payroll, hed never had it. No offence, I wouldnt be calling you if
I had it.

Ah well, at least the papers and
the TV got some mileage out of it. How much do you need?

Im not talking about a loan.

Right, Harbutt said. Then, Im
not an ideas man, Wyatt. Im strictly muscle. Give me a sledgehammer, a drill,
a stick of dynamite, thats what I do.

But you can put me in touch with
someone. Local, someone who doesnt know my face.

After a while, Harbutt said, Theres
a bloke I done a couple of smash and grabs for, name of Ray Dern. Hes full of
ideas, except most of them never get off the ground. Lack of local talent.

I want you to line up a meeting.

When?

Tonight.

Where?

Wyatt thought about it. He had
nothing to worry about from Harbutt, and if the man called Dern didnt know the
name Wyatt, or the face, then his motel would be safe enough. He gave Harbutt
the details. Six oclock, he said.

He spent the day sleeping. At three
oclock he caught a bus into the city centre and found a back street discount
shop open. He bought cheap socks, underwear, jeans, shirt, windcheater and a
disposable razor. The clothes were dark. They fitted poorly. He had one hundred
and six dollars left. Back at the motel he showered, shaved, changed into his
new clothes and washed and dried his dirty clothes in the motel laundry. Then
he lay on his bed to think and wait.

He wondered what sort of man Dern
would turn out to be. If Harbutt knew him, maybe that made him all right. Wyatt
knew that the career criminals like himself were fast disappearing. There was
no room for them. He put it down to drugs, the movement of money by electronic
means, advances in security technology. The purely cash jobs were drying up.
These days, armed robbery was virtually unproductive in terms of risk and
profit.

Then there was a knock on the door
and Harbutt and another man filed in and they had a woman with them.

* * * *

Three

She
hung back, letting Harbutt enter first, then slipped through the door and to
one side. It was a display of meekness that Wyatt knew owed more to the man
behind her than to personality. Wyatt had once spent a few days with her and
there hadnt been much meekness in evidence then, so it had to be the man. Dern
was fiftyish, a tall, benign, wise father-figure with a large, sensual,
comfortable body. He beamed, and stuck out a broad tanned hand at Wyatt.

Mr Lake. Good to make your
acquaintance. Id like you to meet Thea.

Thea bobbed, smiled quickly, shook
Wyatts hand. When hed known her shed been calling herself Maxine. She looked
at him levelly, a sallow, mocking blonde in a tight skirt. Then the nail on her
ring finger dug warningly into his palm. It was a way of saying that she wouldnt
reveal his identity if he wouldnt reveal hers.

Thea, Wyatt said, and she released
his hand.

He leaned against the wall and asked
them to sit. Harbutt chose the only chair in the room, Dern and the woman sat
close together on the bed. When they were settled, Dern looked brightly around
at everyone. He was a professional beamer, proud of his tangle of black hair
and the young woman next to him. He wore a costly casual suit, the flowery tie
tugged loose from the collar, and slim-line Italian shoes. Lets start from
the beginning, shall we? he said. The voice was deep-chested, pleased with
itself.

Harbutt leaned forward in the chair.
I told Lake here that you had a couple of jobs in mind that required a good
pro.

Indeed I have.

Wyatt didnt like the man, his air
of satisfaction. Then he thought about the hundred and six dollars in his
pocket and said, What sort of jobs?

Dern blinked, as though there should
have been a few minutes devoted to small talk and other niceties first. Right
you are. He counted on his stubby fingers. One, a weekend warehouse sale.
Two, a racehorse. Three, a private art collection. I need someone who can work
out the angles, bypass security, do a clean job, etcetera, etcetera.

Wyatt looked at the woman. Whats
Theas role in this?

A rich, avuncular chuckle later,
Dern said, She put me onto the first job. My little kitten here just happens
to work for a crowd that specialises in your blockbuster style of three-day
warehouse clearance sale.

The kitten simpered at Dern, then
glanced expressionlessly at Wyatt as Dern went on: To cut costs they only
employ one guard and the takes not collected by armoured car at the end of
each day but after closing time on day three. Could be a couple of hundred
grand in the safe by then. We simply go in before the armoured car gets there.

Wyatt folded his arms and rested his
back against the wall. Half of the two hundred thousand will be in cheques and
charge-card slips.

Doubt flickered in Derns face, but
the optimism won out. Still, even a hundred grand is a tidy sum.

Split four ways, its twenty-five
thousand each. You said a warehouse. Wed have to seal the place. What are we
looking atfour doors, six, ten? Do we know what kind of safe it is? And so on.
Is all that worth twenty-five grand each?

Thea flushed, as though hed
attacked her, not the idea. She was pretty in a soft, undefined way, but it was
spoiled by a perpetual sourness under the beauty. Wyatt knew that she collected
and harboured injustices, and now shed just found another one. He put some
conciliation into his face and voice and said to her, It shows an instinct for
the type of score that can pay off, though. Im not discounting it totally.

She smiled at him. Dern saw it and
narrowed his eyes, as if hed picked up a current running between them. He
asserted himself. Like I said, I come up with the ideas. I rely on people like
you to identify the snags. Next job, the racehorse, Almanac

Harbutt frowned. You want us to fix
a race?

Dern put up both hands and his big
smile creased his face. No, no, no. I want you to
steal
the horse.

Wyatt nodded. This Almanaca big
winner?

One point six million in four
years, Dern said. A mate of mines got twentieth share in him.

Insurance?

Possibly. Or possibly the owners
themselves will fork out to get him back.

Wyatt looked flatly at Dern. One,
how do we transport him? Two, where do we keep him? Three, how do we look after
him? Four, what if they dont pay?

Now irritation and resentment were
getting the upper hand in Derns face. Like I said, I deal with the big
picture. Could it be that difficult though? I mean, rent a farmhouse, buy a few
bales of hay.

Dern, the reason Im alive and on
the outside while my peers are dead or behind bars is that I take the big
picture and look at it dot by dot.

Ahh, Dern said, dismissing him
with his big right hand. The left, meanwhile, was on Theas bare knee, rubbing
it in a way that looked uncalculated but was intended to tell Wyatt to keep his
eyes to himself and to remind Thea exactly who was buying her dresses and
paying her rent these days.

The art collection, Wyatt said.

Definitely an insurance job. Theres
a Western District grazier with a homestead chockers with antiques and original
oil paintings. Old stuff. Old.