by Garry Disher
****
NINETEEN
Snyder was the last passenger to board the 8.10 am flight to Adelaide on Monday morning. Letterman, stretched out comfortably in first-class with the Age for company, saw him come through the door looking like someone who’d always made someone wait. Letterman wanted to slam the heavy, cocksure face. Snyder was a real picture this morning: crisp white overalls again, a chain caught in his throat hair, chunky hippie rings on each hand. For footwear he was wearing dazzling white gym boots. His hair frizzed, catching the light. Letterman, on the other hand, was dressed in a light grey off-the-rack suit from David Jones. He thought, not for the first time, that all kinds flew these days. They didn’t make an effort. They flew looking as if they were slopping around the supermarket on a Saturday morning.
At least Snyder didn’t make eye contact. ‘From now on we don’t know each other,’ Letterman had told him the day before. He watched as Snyder swaggered through to the economy seats, his cabin baggage knocking the shoulders of passengers seated on the aisle. It was a tough, lightweight aluminium case. His radio gear, Letterman thought.
Breakfast was tinned fruit, toast and watery scrambled eggs. Letterman had the toast and two cups of coffee. It gave him indigestion and he had to ask the stewardess for Quick-eze.
Fifty minutes after take-off they landed at West Beach airport, filed off the plane and across the tarmac. A high wind, laden with hot, oily aviation fumes gusted across the airfield. As usual a couple of uniforms and a plain-clothes man watched them come through the glass doors into the luggage-claim area. Letterman wondered if they had him marked as a cop. He knew he looked like a cop. Despite the last couple of years, he still thought, moved and spoke like a cop.
He collected his bag and reclaimed his automatic from the airline security officer. It was a little.25 loaded with hollow-points. Letterman liked to work close- three or four rounds to the head, the hollow-points breaking up and mashing the brain. He’d had a permit to transport a gun on domestic flights since his days on the force. The airlines never questioned him about it, simply took the gun and gave it back to him at the other end.
Then he went out to the taxi rank. There were signs up advising a passenger-share scheme, but Letterman took one look at the tracksuits and gum-snapping jowls waiting in line and thought fuck that for a joke. He told the driver of the first vacant taxi, ‘City bus station,’ and got into the back seat. Snyder, he noticed, was getting into a cab with a fluffed-up blonde teenager and her younger sister, baring his teeth at them like a pig at a trough.
‘Good flight?’
Letterman looked up. The driver had his head cocked, watching him in the rear-view mirror.
‘Just drive,’ Letterman said flatly.
The driver opened and closed his mouth, shifted his shoulders around and drove. The traffic was sparse. They reached the bus station in twelve minutes. Letterman paid and got out. Three other taxis rolled up as he closed his door, Snyder’s among them. Snyder got out. Letterman saw him wave at the blonde as the taxi departed. He saw the blonde curl her lip at Snyder and go into a huddle with her sister.
Letterman went into the bus station and stood in line at the ticket counter. He looked around while he waited. The linoleum floors were worn and dirty. There were scuff marks on the walls. The lockers were chipped and dented, the plastic seats spotted with cigarette burns. It was nine in the morning and the place was wall to wall human garbage and they were all eating hotdogs. Letterman pictured it: lock the doors, toss in a Molotov cocktail.
‘Where to?’
‘Vimy Ridge, aisle seat, rear of the bus.’
This seemed to upset the clerk. He stabbed at his keyboard and said, not looking at Letterman: ‘Return?’
‘Yes.’
The clerk told Letterman the cost. He handled Letterman’s money as if it were contaminated. He was a dreary specimen and Letterman wanted this job to be over, wanted to be knocking back oysters and chablis in the sun somewhere.
Letterman was first on the bus. He sat in his seat at the rear, watching the others board. If there was trouble coming, he wanted to be where he could see it. All he saw was Snyder with a paper cup of vinegary chips, a sleepy soldier, a teenager plugged into a Walkman, and half a dozen defeated-looking individuals clutching trashy newspapers and plastic bags.
The bus left at nine-thirty and ran north through farmland. Letterman looked out at the ripening crops and his bleakness grew. He hated it, hated the emptiness, the panicky sheep, the farm kids watching the bus pass with their mouths open. Then he thought he might have to tramp across country like this when he went after Wyatt. He wasn’t dressed for it. His mood grew blacker.
The bus drew into Vimy Ridge just before eleven-thirty. It was a rest stop. Everyone filed out of the bus and looked about, blinking and stretching. Letterman was travelling light, only a weekender bag on the rack above his head. He grabbed it and strode across the street and into a cafe as though he belonged to the place.
The cafe was cluttered with artifacts from the town’s colonial era but Letterman didn’t notice that. He sat where he could watch the bus. He ordered coffee, nursing it for the ten minutes the bus was parked in the street. He continued to watch as the bus passengers filed on board again and the bus departed, leaving Snyder waiting there like a clown.
After a while, Snyder began to look at his watch. He picked his nose and peered both ways along the street. Then Letterman saw an old Holden utility pull away from the kerb a few hundred metres away. It had been there when the bus came in. As Letterman watched, the utility drew alongside Snyder. The driver made no sign to Snyder, just watched him. Snyder picked up his bag and approached the utility. He opened the passenger door and leaned in, apparently to talk to the driver. Then he got in and the utility drove away.
Letterman paid at the cash register and asked about accommodation in the town. His blues had vanished. He’d found Wyatt.
****
TWENTY
‘Where we’re going there are no shops,’ Wyatt said. ‘If you need anything- toothpaste, work clothes, whatever-get it now.’
‘I could do with some Scotch,’ Snyder said.
Wyatt looked at him. Snyder had the red, creased face and heavy belly of a boozer. ‘Absolutely no way. I don’t care what you do afterwards, the next few days no one drinks.’
‘Suit yourself,’ Snyder said, making a face at the windscreen. Wyatt was driving painfully slowly through the town. So was everyone else, but that didn’t make it any better to Snyder. ‘Where we going, anyway?’
‘Abandoned farmhouse about half an hour away. We stay there till the job’s over.’
‘The whole time?’
Wyatt caught a hint of alarm in the voice. He hoped it didn’t mean that Snyder got the shakes if he was away from the bottle for too long. ‘Ideally, yes. I’ll say it again, if you need anything, get it now.’
‘Well, I mean, what’s this place like? We got beds? Bathroom? Is the power on?’
‘That’s all taken care of. Army cots, sleeping bags, towels, food, gas stove and lanterns…’
‘Who paid for it?’
‘I did.’
‘You’re taking it out of my cut, right?’
‘No.’
‘Mr Generosity,’ Snyder said. He opened the aluminium case. Wyatt had no idea what a jammer looked like, but the radio itself looked impressive. ‘All modes,’ Snyder went on, ‘plus band scanning. I want you to know I paid top dollar for this stuff.’
‘You’ll be reimbursed.’
‘Someone bankrolling this?’
‘I am,’ Wyatt said.
‘From that Melbourne job, right?’
Wyatt stiffened. Loman should have warned him about Snyder. He let it go. There was an agricultural supply place ahead and he slowed the dusty Holden, allowing a farmer to cross the road. The farmer was carrying a small drum of chemical spray in each hand. The drums were heavy, the man bowed down, taking short, laboured steps. He wore khaki work cl
othes and rubber boots.
‘Do you reckon it’s true what they say?’
Wyatt had been with Snyder for five minutes and it was five minutes too long. Snyder talked too much, all of it inconsequential. But he made an effort. ‘What do they say?’
‘It’s easier to fuck sheep if you’re wearing rubber boots. You just shove the back legs in so they can’t get away.’
Wyatt stopped, let the farmer get across, and moved on again. He didn’t speak. He saw no reason to speak. He was waiting for Snyder to get his mind around the job.
They reached the edge of the town and Wyatt increased speed. They travelled north for several kilometres and then turned onto a major dirt road. Snyder was sitting forward in his seat. He seemed to be taking a close note of where they were going. ‘There are maps at the hideout,’ Wyatt said.
Snyder sat back. After a while he said, ‘Eddie Loman didn’t tell me much.’
‘I didn’t tell Eddie much.’
Snyder waited. When it was clear that Wyatt wouldn’t go on, he said, ‘Eddie told me I’d need plastic explosive and radio jamming gear. If I wasn’t in the fucking outback, I’d say we were going to do a security van.’
‘We are.’
Snyder turned to him. ‘Out here?’
‘The firm’s called Steelgard,’ Wyatt said. ‘It’s a small outfit servicing the local banks, but there’s a big construction firm on their books at the moment.’
‘Weekly payroll?’
Wyatt nodded.
‘Where do we hit?’
‘I’m taking you there now.’
Snyder frowned, looking out at the crops and roadside mailboxes. Here and there cypress trees lined farmhouse driveways like green slashes on the dusty landscape. ‘I don’t like it. It takes too long to cut your way in these days.’
Wyatt explained about the breakdown truck. ‘You set your jammer on, we transport the van to the farm, find a way in at our leisure. No panic, no messing about.’
‘You can’t be serious,’ Snyder said. ‘The cops will get on the blower and there’ll be roadblocks between here and Timbuktu before you know it. I say we go in hard and fast, blow a big hole in it, fuck off straight away.’
It was always like this on a job, Wyatt thought. The soldiers always wanted to be the generals. He said, quietly, coldly, ‘You do it my way or not at all. If you want out, tell me now so I can take you back to the bus stop. I’ll send you a retainer in a few days time, five thousand dollars. But if I hear you’ve been sounding your mouth off about me or the job, I’ll cancel your ticket.’
‘Well, Jesus,’ Snyder protested. ‘I just thought I was making a valid point. You’re telling me we all front up to the roadblocks and hope to Christ the cops don’t ask to look in the glovebox? Jesus Christ.’
‘We stay inside the area,’ Wyatt said. ‘After two or three days they’ll think we got away at the start and the roadblocks will come down. It’s always the same.’
Snyder put his hand on the dashboard as the utility pitched and shuddered over a patch of corrugations in the road. Dust roiled around them, coming through the door seals in choking puffs. ‘How will we know when it’s safe to leave?’
‘One of us scouts around in this,’ Wyatt said, patting the steering wheel. ‘Just another farm vehicle. If she doesn’t come back, we’ll know it’s not safe.’
‘She?’
‘There’s a woman.’
Snyder didn’t say anything. He looked at Wyatt, and Wyatt could sense his mind working, but he didn’t speak.
A minute later Snyder said, ‘Getaway vehicles?’
‘There’s this ute, a bike, and the truck we use to transport the van.’
‘That’s the bit I don’t like, carting the van around on a breakdown truck. We’ll stick out like a sore thumb.’
Wyatt explained about Brava Construction. ‘They’ve had four wheel drives, low loaders and earth-moving equipment all over this area for weeks now. People are used to them. We disguise ours with Brava logos and a bit of paint, throw a tarp over the van, and no one will bother us.’
‘The guards, the driver?’
They can stay in the van. If there’s a tarp over it they won’t see where we’re taking them.’
‘I tell you one thing,’ Snyder said, ‘it won’t be me who wastes them.’
‘No one’s wasting anybody. I’ve got a.38, that’s all we need, and I don’t intend to use it unless I have to.’
Snyder said nothing. He sat forward in his seat again, taking note of their route. A short time later they came to the Belcowie short cut. Wyatt slowed the utility and turned into it.
‘Here?’
Wyatt nodded. He drove for two kilometres and stopped where the road plunged steeply down into a dry creek bed. The road was narrow, loose and shaly.
Snyder leaned forward and grinned. ‘Couldn’t have picked a better place myself.’
‘The truck parks here at the edge of the incline,’ Wyatt explained. ‘Our man stands in the road, looking down, scratching his head like he doesn’t know if he can make it. The van comes up, sees that it can’t get past, and stops. They’ll be wary, they always are, but it will look genuine enough. They might even wind down the window, offer to help. If they call their headquarters, it won’t do them any good. You’ll have the radio jammed.’
‘What if he backs up and turns around?’
‘See those wattles? We hide back there in the ute. As soon as the van is in position we box it in.’
‘Local traffic?’
Snyder was asking all the right questions. ‘We put up road-closed signs at both ends,’ Wyatt said.
Snyder was still leaning forward in his seat. He was a solid form in white and Wyatt could smell Old Spice aftershave on him. There was a series of cracking sounds. Snyder was popping his knuckles.
****
TWENTY-ONE
Tobin was the last to arrive. They heard him before they saw him. The sky that Monday evening was vast, still and cloudless, carrying clearly the roar and snuffle of the truck as Tobin negotiated the bends and washaways and shifted gear. They stood on the verandah of the farmhouse to watch. Eventually headlights appeared in the distance.
Wyatt walked down the track to open the gate. Behind him, Snyder and Leah talked in low voices. Wyatt had been watching both of them in the hours since his arrival with Snyder. If anything, Snyder seemed to be a little amused by Leah’s presence. Wyatt supposed that was better than hostility. Apart from some eye-rolling about the basic food supplies and the house dirt, Snyder was acting pleasant and relaxed. Snyder had done jobs like this before. He knew about being stuck in other people’s company. For her part, Leah made an effort to talk to Snyder. She seemed to know that Wyatt had nothing to say to him. But in a snatched moment she’d revealed to Wyatt that she’d never leave her daughter alone with Snyder. If she had a daughter.
Wyatt reached the road gate and waited. When he was sure about the truck, he opened the gate and stepped out into the road, flashing a torch. The truck’s headlights flashed back at him.
When Tobin was through the gate, Wyatt closed it and climbed onto the running board below the driver’s door.
Tobin grinned at him. ‘The others all here?’
‘Yes.’
‘The woman?’
‘Forget about the woman. Tell me about the truck.’
‘Pinched it this afternoon. The plates are off a wreck.’
‘Tomorrow we paint it. When that’s done, we wipe off our prints. After that we wear gloves.’
Tobin shifted into second, muttering aggrievedly, ‘You make me feel like this’s my first time or something.’
‘Your feelings don’t interest me. We’ve each got a job to do. Part of mine is to make sure nothing gets overlooked.’
Tobin scowled. The headlights were picking up the sheds, tankstands and farmhouse by now. Leah and Snyder were on the verandah, shading their eyes.
‘Drive into the long shed there on your right,’ Wyatt said. �
�I’ll close the doors behind you.’
He got off the truck and watched. When it was done, he led Tobin across the yard to the house and introduced him to Snyder. Tobin also greeted Leah, throwing his arm around her and grinning. ‘We meet again.’
He held her for a beat too long and she grimaced. ‘So we do.’
‘Yep,’ Tobin agreed, still grinning.
The atmosphere got genial after that. They went into the main room of the house, where Wyatt and Leah had laid out the supplies and set up a two-ring camping stove. While Snyder toasted slices of bread on one burner, Leah heated a saucepan of tinned stew on the other. Wyatt got out plastic plates and cutlery and poured mineral water into enamel cups for each of them. Tobin, on the floor with his head on a football he’d taken from his overnight bag, said, ‘You giving us poofter drinks?’ He grinned at Leah and Snyder, looking for a reaction. Leah smiled at him absentmindedly. Snyder ignored him. So did Wyatt.
Tobin crossed one ankle over the other and clasped his hands together behind his head. ‘What about the sleeping arrangements? Leah, where do you sleep?’
Leah jerked her head towards a door at the end of the room. ‘In there.’
‘Right, right,’ Tobin said. He paused, weighing up his words. ‘I suppose women in one room, blokes in another?’
‘We each get a room,’ Leah said.
‘No doubling up, kind of thing?’
‘No.’
Wyatt watched all this. Everything about Tobin was loaded. He was saying he liked Leah’s looks and might act on it and what did you others intend to do about it?
Separate rooms had been Leah’s suggestion. Wyatt could see the sense of it. He realised again how every job was ten per cent work and ninety per cent psychology. If there was any waiting involved, the problem was compounded. He’d always known about the emotional baggage people carried around with them, even when they should have been concentrating on a job. He knew all about hidden grievances, attacks of nerves, insanity and boredom. He didn’t want to add sexual jealousy to that. He didn’t want Snyder and Tobin smouldering away in the darkness while he shared a room with Leah. And he wasn’t worried about Leah. She knew how to handle herself.