Wyatt - 03 - Death Deal

by Garry Disher

  Footsteps and someone whistling. Wyatt swung around and crossed to the opening. A shape blocked the sunlight. Wyatt nodded pleasantly, Good day for it, and limped past the man in the doorway. Youngish, about twenty-five, jeans, baseball cap, black Nike runners with a yellow stripe, an expression on his face of boredom and restlessness out here away from the city streets. He could be anyone, Wyatt thought, and made his way along the path to the pump shed. Behind him the man was idly stamping around inside the dairy.

  The incident confirmed one thing: Wyatt would have to come back for his stuff when all this was over.

  There was no-one in the pump shed. It was a small building, fibro, with a tin roof, cement floor, shelves and an electric water pump connected to an underground rainwater tank. When water pressure dropped in the house, the pump would cut in automatically. Wyatt leaned on his stick, regarding the pump carefully. It was bolted to an alloy support that was in turn bolted to the cement floor. His pistol was under the support itself, a gap five centimetres high sealed with a flap at each end. The area looked just as dusty and untouched as it always had.

  Then the pump motor whirred, building quickly to its rattly full speed. It didnt die away, so Wyatt guessed someone somewhere had turned a tap on. Maybe the auctioneer was making himself a cup of tea, maybe a child was fiddling in the laundry. The noise seemed to fill the little shed, and Wyatts first indication that he wasnt alone was a sharp pain in the flesh high under his right arm. He stiffened. The pain increased a little, the cotton parted before the blade, and Wyatt looked down and around at the Nike running shoes.

  Saves me the trouble of tearing the place apart, eh, Wyatt?

  * * * *

  Ten

  If it had been a gun, Wyatt might have moved against it. No-one would risk a gunshot with eighty witnesses around. But it was a blade and a kind of fear paralysed him. Hed been cut when he was barely a teenager, trapped by the Comets, neighbourhood kids in a gang driven to rage and hate by his lone-wolf air. He had weaved too late and a knife blade had scored his stomachshallow, barely raising a blood ribbon, but the pain had been like a hot wire and his mind had done the rest, spilling his guts into his hands. In Vietnam it was bamboo, one misstep on patrol and a panjee stake had punctured his calf. So Wyatt stood stock-still in the pump house and thought about the razor edge slicing through his chest if he moved against it, slipping between the bones of his ribcage.

  Cat got your tongue?

  What do you want?

  What do I want? What do you think I want? Same thing you came back for.

  Wyatt said nothing. It had happened before, some punk convinced that he had a fortune stashed away somewhere.

  Youre wasting your time. Theres nothing here.

  Yeah, right, you just came back out of sentiment.

  I mean, Wyatt said, theres hardly any money, not worth your while.

  Dont hand me that caper. Every bastards after you. You wouldnt chance it if it wasnt worth it. Turn around.

  Wyatt turned cautiously, thinking the man wanted him face to face, but the black runners edged around with him, the knife tip maintaining its pressure.

  Where are we going?

  To hide till everyones gone home. Then you can show me where the stuff is.

  The clearing sale was over. The main auction had started and there were eighty backs turned to them as Wyatt and the man with the knife stepped out of the pump house. Wyatt didnt try to run. He knew that before hed taken a step his body would betray him and hed feel the knife. He didnt want to call attention to himself. He didnt try to swing round with the walking stick. He did as he was told, walking ahead of the man with the knife, down the hill and into the pine plantation at the bottom.

  At the edge of the trees he stopped. The knife nicked him again. Further in.

  Wyatt walked on. His skin felt damp: blood was gathering at his waist. It wasnt a deep cut, barely painful, but the intention was there, and memories.

  Thisll do. Chuck the stick away.

  The cane flew end over end toward some saplings. They were in a small clearing. The air was resinous, blanketed and still, but snatches of the auctioneers shouts reached them. The pine trees were old and densely packed. The earth between them was bare, all nourishment given up to the trees. The pine needles were springy under Wyatts op-shop shoes. On your stomach, the man said, and Wyatt stretched out on the ground. A beetle skittered over the ground, paused at Wyatts thumb. Above him a Nike running shoe pressed against the base of his spine.

  Three months earlier, Wyatt had shot a man dead among these trees, in a clearing like this one. He said, Whats your name?

  He got a harsh laugh. How does Finn grab you?

  Three months earlier Wyatt had also robbed a lawyer named David Finn, the job set up by Anna Reid, the job that had precipitated all the trouble he found himself in now. I know the name.

  David Finn was my brother, so you might say theres also a personal element in all this, its not just the money.

  They were silent. The auctioneers shouts ceased. Later they heard cars start up in the yard above them and on the road at the front of the farm. Still Wyatt and Finn stayed there. Theyll be signing the papers now, Finn said. Well wait.

  Thirty minutes later he kicked Wyatt. Lets go.

  They climbed the hill again, skirting the boundary unseen. The grounds around the house and sheds revealed the recent presence of eighty peoplepaper scraps, scuffed dirt, torn plantsbut all the cars were gone and they were alone. Satisfied, Finn prodded Wyatt into the dairy.

  This is the first place you checked. Youve got stuff stashed here, right?

  All along there had been a vicious edge to Finns voice. Wyatt knew it would be dangerous to play for time with Finn. The man would work the knife on him until he talked, and enjoy doing it. There, he said, pointing.

  Get it.

  Wyatt reached up, withdrew the money, turned around cautiously. He got his first good look at Finn: compactly put together, with a short neck, small hands, skinny forearms, an indistinct, forgettable face.

  Wordlessly Wyatt handed over the money.

  Finn took it and stepped back. He still held the knife, cutting the air between them rhythmically like a charmer distracting a cobra. Wyatt saw him risk a look at the money inside the sandwich bag. It was in hundreds, held together by a paper clip, but there were only twenty of them, scarcely any thickness at all. Finn looked up in disbelief. And the rest.

  I told you. Thats all there is.

  Finn snarled, advancing on Wyatt. Bullshit. I bet its all like this, a bit here and a bit there all over the place, am I right? He jerked his head. Come on, smartarse, the pump shed.

  Finn had made two mistakes. Hed allowed Wyatt to turn and face him and hed lost his temper. All his anger was concentrated in the arm that held the money. He shook it in Wyatts face, the knife arm temporarily forgotten, and Wyatt lashed out with his right foot, driving the heavy leather toecap into Finns ankle. Finn screamed, dropped to the ground. He huddled on the flagstones, rocking himself for comfort, clutching his foot.

  He wouldnt stay like that. He had youth and the knife on his side. Wyatt headed for the door, leaping as Finn slashed at him with the knife, and ran toward the pump house. He had about thirty seconds to remove the plate and retrieve the Colt from its hiding place under the pump. If the nuts were seized by age and rust, his thirty seconds could count for nothing at all.

  Wyatt!

  It was a roar of hate behind him. Wyatt plunged into the gloom of the pump house, fell to his knees, scrabbled at the base of the pump. Something was wrong. Where there should have been a plate there was only a gap, and where there should have been his Colt automatic, his fingers encountered grit and dust.

  This what youre looking for?

  Wyatt stood and turned to the voice. He saw his pistol first, the steady hand that held it, then the owner of the voice. He was tall, his face fleshless and unknowable, like a mask snipped out of tin.

  The man grinned. The name is St
olle. Rule number one, Wyatt. Never go back.

  * * * *

  Eleven

  A moment later, stumbling feet sounded outside the pump house. The man called Stolle backed into the space behind the door again. Finn appeared, hugging the doorframe. Hate and pain contorted his face and strangled in his throat. He lunged at Wyatt with the knife, hacking the air to get at him.

  Hey, Stolle said. Over here.

  Finn halted. He turned to the voice, and seemed to walk into the Colt as the barrel tip emerged from the darkness of the shed. Stolle fired. The range was point-blank and Wyatt heard it as a muffled exhalation in the little shed. Finn jerked back as if hed been punched, momentum slamming him flat to the opposite wall. Then he folded and the life went out of him.

  Wyatt crouched warily, on his toes, watching the Colt. It swung around on him. He watched Stolles finger on the trigger. The man was wearing latex gloves. Wyatt looked for an opening but there wasnt one.

  Stolle grinned. Arent you going to thank me?

  Wyatt said nothing, keeping low to the ground, tensing his leg muscles.

  I tell you what, heres a sign of good faith, Stolle said. His gun arm relaxed and suddenly the Colt was reversed in his hand and he tossed it.

  Wyatt caught the pistol. What he did then was automatic. He felt threatened and needed to eliminate the threat. He slapped the grip into his right hand, a sensation as natural and familiar to him as breathing, snap-sighted the barrel tip on Stolles stomach and pulled the trigger.

  Nothing.

  Stolle grinned. He was a man who liked to grin. He patted his pocket. I emptied the clip, old son. Except for one shell in the chamber, now used. One shots generally enough, Ive found.

  Wyatt waited. Stolle would explain himself sooner or later. He continued to hold the gun and edged to the middle of the floor.

  Stolle circled with him, placing himself next to the door. The grin left his face. Time to talk business. Someone wants to see you.

  You sent those two clowns after me.

  That I did, Stolle agreed.

  They fucked up.

  They found you, Stolle said.

  Get to the point.

  Come with me now, to Brisbane, and you get five thousand of the clients money, up front.

  Wyatt stared at him. And what else?

  Theres more money in it for you, thats all I know. She says its urgent. Maybe if you dont come now, youll miss out.

  Forget it.

  Fine, Stolle said. That does make a lot of sense. Theres a body here, your hand on the gun. Half the cops in the country are after you. Theres a price on your head so you cant trust any of your mates. Fine. You might as well hang out here till they get you.

  Stolle delivered this with his lip curled, as if he thought sarcasm might influence Wyatt. Wyatt ignored the delivery but he couldnt ignore the content. It was dangerous for him to stay here. He didnt know who Stolle was and he had no reason to believe the mans story. Private detectives were slippery, murky; they walked with cops and they walked on the other side. For all he knew, this was an elaborate ruse by the Outfit. He lashed out suddenly, smacking Stolle twice with the Colt, in the stomach and on the back of the head as he went down. Stolle stretched once on the concrete floor, groaned and seemed to go to sleep.

  Wyatt went over to Finn and turned him over. Finns trunk was blood-soaked, the blood sticky on Wyatts fingers as he searched Finns pockets. The trousers were empty but for a set of keys for a Budget rental car. He stripped back the bloodied jacket flaps and saw the punctured inside pocket. Wyatt groaned softly. It had been an unlucky shot, and not only for Finn. He tugged free the sandwich bag. Blood had got to the money and there was no mistaking the force and nature of the damage left behind when the slug had ploughed through the bag on its way into Finns chest.

  A kind of fury welled in Wyatt. He choked off a curse, stood up, kicked the body. Then he forced himself to be still and think. He took out a handkerchief, wiped his prints from the sandwich bag, put the ruined money back in Finns pocket. He cleaned his fingers and used the handkerchief to retrieve Finns car keys.

  He thought about the gun. He needed it but the Colt was dangerous to him now: if he were ever caught with it in his possession, a ballistics check would tie him to Finns murder. The guns definition had to be altered. Wyatt knelt at the base of the pump again, reached further under it, dragged out a small wooden box. It was a service kit for the Colt: gun oil, cleaning rods and brushes, spare seven-shot clip, spare barrel and firing pin. Wyatt took the gun apart and replaced the barrel and the firing pin. Neither had been used before, except in the factory. In effect, it was a new gun, and the only killings a forensic expert could tie it to hadnt happened yet.

  Finally, still protecting his hands with the handkerchief, he searched Stolle. A wallet in the mans jacket yielded one hundred and eighty dollars. Wyatt pocketed the money. He poked through the wallet: credit cards, drivers licence, PI licence in the name Macarthur Stolle, and a couple of cards admitting Stolle to exclusive gaming rooms at Jupiters, Wrest Point and Monte Carlo casinos.

  Stolle groaned and stirred. Wyatt kicked him upright. You mentioned five thousand dollars. Where is it?

  Stolle grimaced, both hands over his face. That was a cunt of a thing to do.

  Five thousand. Where is it?

  Stolle concentrated finally. You get it when we get on the plane to Brisbane, not before.

  Wyatt walked to the door and out. Forget it.

  He didnt have his two thousand but he did have close to two hundred and a gun and the keys to Finns car. By three oclock he was in Sorrento, on Port Phillip Bay. When the ferry to Queenscliff left at four, he was the first aboard. At the other end he didnt drive to Geelong but stayed where he was, in a rental van at the edge of a small oval a short walk from the beach.

  That evening he called Harbutt again.

  * * * *

  Twelve

  They met in a docklands pub called the Prince Patrick. It was Harbutts choice, a squat corner pub with dirty stucco above cold blue tiles on the outside walls. Inside, the carpets were scorched and worn; an oily film of smoke and alcohol and urine vapour clung to the mirrors and shelves. The threadbare towelling on the bar was ashy and beer-soaked. At ten oclock in the morning there were plenty of drinkers, shift workers clocking on and off work or merely evading it. The air was heavy and malty. It was an old smell, surly and male.

  Harbutts hand was shaking. He hadnt shaved and his eyes were red-rimmed.

  Been on a bender? Wyatt asked him.

  Harbutt drained his beer and lit a cigarette. Wyatt was drinking coffee.

  Wyatt tried again. Not working today?

  Harbutt looked at him. Mate, they gave me the push. Me and two hundred others. Another two hundred by the end of the year.

  Wyatt watched Harbutt carefully, saying nothing. An edge of hunger was a useful quality in the man you were pulling a job with. Desperation or the shakes werent.

  Hair of the dog, Harbutt said, ordering another beer. Ill be right. Its the shock, thats all.

  Yeah, it would be.

  Harbutt laughed. It turned into a cough. Mate, youve never done a days work for someone else in your life, except maybe when you were a kid. Never pulled in a fortnightly pay packet. No wife and kids to provide for.

  You havent got a wife and kids.

  You know what I mean. Never had to think about the future. Never faced retrenchment.

  Wyatt didnt argue with him. His life was precarious in its own way but he didnt intend to moan to Harbutt about it. He changed the subject. Hows Dern?

  Havent seen him.

  Thea?

  All Harbutts attention was directed at his cigarette. He rolled the burning tip on the edge of the ashtray, examined the hot cone. I think Dern told her to get lost.

  Wyatt said, Ive been thinking about those jobs he proposed.

  Harbutt looked at him then. I didnt exactly think youd come back for old times sake. Which one?

  The wareh
ouse sale this weekend.

  Why that one?

  Because we walk away with cash in our pockets. With the other two jobs theres only the promise of it from some insurance company. Plus the wait. The longer we wait, the greater the chance theyll track us down.

  But you said the place was too open, too many angles to figure.

  It could work if we hide on the premises at closing time. Disable the nightwatchman, blow the safe at our leisure.

  Harbutt nodded. Some of his old form was returning. His cigarette burnt itself out, his beer went flat. Last day of the sale is on Monday, he said at last. We do it on Sunday night?