Port Vila Blues w-5

by Garry Disher

  He walked through to me back of the house, a fibro extension with a low, buckled ceiling and dust-clogged louvred windows. The only good thing about it was the morning sun striking it through a fig tree in the yard outside. The air was warm, a little streaked and blurry owing to the dust motes stirring in the angled sunlight, and smelling only faintly of illness, privation and cut-short dreams.

  Jardine clawed a hand over the old bakelite smoking stand next to his lumpish armchair. His mouth worked: ‘Mate,’ he said at last, smiling lopsidedly. ‘Where did you spring from?’

  ‘The Double Bay job, remember?’

  Wyatt spoke harshly. He hated to see the weakness in Jardine. Jardine seemed to exist in a fog a lot of the time now and he wanted to cut through it. ‘The MP on the take, Wintergreen.’

  Jardine looked across at him, wavering, trying to draw back the spittle glistening on his lips. His left hand rested palm up in the threadbare brown blanket in his lap. The left half of his face was immobile. A strange, inappropriate expression formed on his face and Wyatt realised that his old friend was frowning, trying to recall the briefing session, the job itself. Then Jardine’s face cleared. A smile of great sweetness settled on it, and his voice was clear: ‘Got you now. No hassles?’

  Wyatt shook his head. ‘I gave your share to Nettie.’

  Jardine shook his head. ‘Mate, I don’t know how to thank you. Me and Net-’

  A lashing quality entered Wyatt’s voice. ‘Forget it.’

  Jardine straightened in the armchair. His right hand fished a handkerchief from the pocket of his cardigan and he wiped his chin defiantly. ‘Okay, okay, suit yourself.’

  Wyatt unbuckled his overnight bag. ‘I found a piece of jewellery hidden with the money. Valuable, Tiffany butterfly.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘We need someone who can offload it for us.’

  Jardine laboured to his feet and shuffled into the adjoining kitchen. A short time later, Wyatt heard his voice, a low murmur on the telephone.

  He stared across the room at the little computer perched mute on a card table. Jardine used it to cross-reference jockey weights, track conditions, blood-line and other horse-racing factors. In five years he claimed to have won $475,000 and lost $450,000 using his system. What people didn’t know was that Jardine had also spent the past few years selling burglary and armed holdup plans to professionals like Wyatt. Wyatt didn’t know how many jobs Jardine had on file, but he did know that they were all in New South Wales and that all would grow rapidly out of date the longer Jardine stayed in Melbourne with his sister.

  Jardine came back. ‘A sheila called Liz Redding, eleven this morning, a motel on St Georges Road.’

  Wyatt watched Jardine carefully. Jardine’s face had grown more elastic in the past few minutes, as if his mind worked well if he had something to stimulate it. Wyatt even recognised an old expression on Jardine’s face, a mixture of alertness and absorption as he calculated the odds of a problem.

  ‘Fine.’

  ****

  Three

  They took a taxi to meet Jardine’s fence. Wyatt wound down his window and leaned into the wind. Every after-hours lapse and misery the car had ever seen was leaking from the seats into the confined space behind the driver. Jardine, foggy in the head again, leaned back into the corner and appeared to sleep. It irritated Wyatt. First the vicious, jabbing pain in his upper jaw, and now this, his friend well under par when he needed him to be sharp with the woman who would be fencing the Tiffany for them.

  ‘What’s she like?’ Wyatt had asked, before the taxi arrived.

  ‘Never met her.’

  A chilling kind of dispassion was Wyatt’s style, but this time he’d given in to his impatience and his throbbing tooth. ‘Mate, how do you know she’s any good?’

  ‘I checked around. Mack Delaney trained her.’

  ‘Mack’s dead.’

  ‘Yeah, but he was one of the best.’

  Wyatt conceded that. He’d used Delaney once in the old days to move stolen gear. Delaney had specialised in ransoming silverware, paintings, watches and coin and stamp collections back to the owners or to the insurance companies, but now and then he’d forge the provenance of a painting and sell it at auction overseas. As he’d explained it to Wyatt, art thieves had it good in Australia. Insurance premiums were prohibitive, meaning galleries and private owners were often not insured, relying on cheap security systems to protect their paintings. They also tended not to keep good photographs of the items in their collections, or at best only kept handwritten descriptions. An international magazine called Trace tackled art theft by maintaining a computerised recording system, but subscription costs were high and there were on-line compatibility problems, and, as a result, few of the Australian galleries, dealers, auctioneers or private collectors had joined. Many paintings stolen in Australia were shipped overseas to private buyers. Mack had explained that in Japan it was possible to gain legal title to a stolen art work after only two years; in Switzerland, after five years. Then there were the buyers who had no interest in aesthetics. They used the paintings to finance drug deals. In Wyatt’s eyes, everything boiled down to that, these days.

  Wyatt peered at the motel as they passed in the taxi. There always was a motel, in Wyatt’s game. He hid in motels, outlined hits in motels, divided the take in motels. Motels made sense. The other guests left you alone, coming and going just as you did. If the truth be known, half of them were probably up to something illicit or illegal anyhow. Unfortunately motels were also easy to stake out and potential traps. They were stamped from the same mould: layout, carpet, paintwork, bedding, decor, prints above the fat beds.

  They got out of the taxi a block past the motel and walked back. It was called the TravelWay and it faced St Georges Road. One lane of cracked and buckled asphalt had been cordoned off by plastic ribbon and witch’s hats, and boggy holes had been carved out under the tramtracks in the centre of the road. In the late morning light the street was a wasteland, still and lifeless.

  Wyatt viewed it sourly: this wasn’t a place with a quick exit. The motel itself was a simple building, a one-storey block parallel to the street, with rooms facing St Georges Road and an identical number of rooms backing on to them, facing suburban back yards at the rear. Most of the cars in the lot were Falcons and Commodores, commercial travellers’ cars, white station wagons with sample cases and cardboard displays stacked behind the front seats. Wyatt automatically examined the interior of every car in the lot and on the street outside, then watched the door to room 14 for a few minutes while Jardine sat on a bluestone block in the sun.

  Satisfied that they weren’t walking into a trap, Wyatt knocked on 14 and stepped to one side. That was automatic, too: he’d been shot at through spyholes; men had come at him through doors or bundled him into rooms through doors much like the red door to room 14.

  Jardine, hearing the knock, blinked and limped to join him. A woman’s voice, pleasant and inquiring, the voice of a faintly puzzled legitimate guest, said, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Frank Jardine,’ Jardine said.

  The door opened. Nothing happened. When hands didn’t seize Jardine and men didn’t scream at him to drop to the ground, Wyatt stepped into view behind him.

  The woman’s eyes flicked over them, assessing their faces, where they had their hands, finally checking the motel forecourt and the torn-up street behind them. Until she’d done this she said nothing, expressed nothing but wariness, but then she smiled, a flood of warmth in the poky doorway. ‘Come in,’ she said, stepping back, one hand indicating the room, the other holding the door fully open.

  As they edged past, Wyatt saw her glance at his overnight bag. Aware of his eyes on her, she looked up and grinned. He smiled a little, despite himself. She had a cheery vigour that he liked, an air of someone good at her job but not about to let it button down the atmosphere. She wore sandals and a billowy cotton shirt over patterned tights. A faint scent of soap and shampoo drifted around her hea
d. Her hair was fine, dark and dead straight, parted in the middle, framing her face. There was a faint asymmetry about her features: one eye seemed to stare out a little, one cheekbone sat a fraction lower than the other, giving her an air of sceptical good humour and quick intelligence.

  Wyatt entered the room cautiously. Apart from the standard fittings, it was empty. Jardine checked the ensuite bathroom and came out again, nodding the okay. So he hasn’t completely lost it, Wyatt thought, setting the overnight bag on the bed and unzipping it.

  ‘Straight down to business,’ the woman said.

  ‘He is a bit obsessive,’ Jardine agreed, catching her mood. Together they watched Wyatt.

  ‘Does he talk? Drink tea or coffee?’

  ‘Been known to,’ Jardine said.

  Wyatt had few skills at this sort of thing, but he made an effort. ‘I won’t have a drink, bad tooth, but you two go ahead.’ His palm floated automatically to his cheek.

  The smiling sympathy in Liz Redding’s face and manner was genuine. ‘Abscess? Old filling?’ She came close to peer at his face. ‘It does look swollen on that side,’ she said. ‘You’d better get it seen to or your performance will suffer.’

  She could have meant anything by that. He felt an absurd desire to embrace her. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Sure. Tough guy.’

  ‘Look, can we get down to it?’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  Wyatt stepped back from the bed and leaned his rump on the leading edge of the television bench under a painting of junks on Hong Kong harbour. Jardine swung die room’s only chair around and sat in it. Both men watched Liz Redding fold back the tissue paper until the Tiffany sat in the palm of her hand.

  ‘Nice,’ she said at last.

  Taking a jeweller’s glass from her pocket and holding it to her eye, she examined the Tiffany stone by stone, turning the piece occasionally, allowing for light refraction. Finally she took a small set of scales from a box in her satchel and weighed it. ‘It’s the real thing, all right.’

  ‘How much?’ Wyatt asked.

  ‘He does like to get down to it, doesn’t he?’ she said. ‘Depends on whether or not it’s sold as is or broken up, the gold and the stones sold individually.’

  ‘Be a pity to do that,’ Jardine said. He took the Tiffany from her hand, placed it above her right breast, angled his head to gauge the effect. ‘That’s where it belongs.’

  Liz Redding grinned, pushed his hand away. ‘Yeah, right, once a year I draw the curtains, remove it from its hiding place, admire myself in the mirror.’

  Jardine grinned back at her.

  Wyatt’s jaw was burning. All the strain of his chosen life seemed to erupt in him and he snarled, ‘Cut the crap, you two. I want to work out where and when so we can get the hell out of here.’

  It might have been Wyatt’s anger, or it might have happened anyway, but Jardine’s treacherous body failed him again. He seemed suddenly to fill with shame, shifting in his chair and moaning softly.

  Wyatt frowned at him. ‘What?’

  Jardine, his face contorted, said helplessly, ‘Mate, I’ve shit meself.’

  Wyatt stared at him. ‘Oh, Frank,’ he said.

  He lifted Jardine out of the chair. Jardine was a tall man, once quick and strong like himself, but now he was skin and bone. The chair seat was smudged watery brown and Jardine reeked of his own waste.

  ‘Come on, pal. I’ll take you to the bathroom.’

  Jardine shuffled with him across the floor. ‘I’m sorry about this. I’ll-’

  ‘Shut up,’ Wyatt said. He felt a kind of tangled anger. He didn’t want thanks, he didn’t want to clean shit off his friend, he had no room for feelings he’d never had before, yet he knew all of it was unavoidable and necessary.

  ‘Sometimes I just-’ Jardine said.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, shut up.’

  Then Liz Redding was on the other side, helping him support Jardine. ‘Quit that. You’re upsetting him.’

  For a moment, Jardine was the instrument in a tug of war. ‘I’m taking him to the bathroom,’ Wyatt said uselessly.

  ‘No you’re not. I’ll do it. You haven’t got the touch.’

  ‘I’ll call a taxi.’

  ‘Forget it. Just leave, okay? I’ll get him cleaned up and I’ll drive him home myself.’

  Wyatt released Jardine. Jardine’s shame eddied around the three of them. By now it was an intimate thing to Wyatt, not strange or repellent. He said, ‘Take care, Frank.’

  He turned to Liz. After a moment he said, ‘Thanks.’

  She sighed, nodded, smiled sadly. ‘Give me twenty-four hours to put out some feelers, here, Amsterdam, maybe New York.’

  ‘Okay.’

  She led Jardine into the bathroom, saying, ‘Tomorrow morning suit you?’

  ‘Southbank,’ Wyatt said.

  ‘Fine.’

  Wyatt left the motel. He liked to be the first to leave. If you left first, the others couldn’t wait around the corner and follow you.

  ****

  Four

  The bank was a ‘feeder’. The largest branch in the largest town in the upper reaches of the Yarra River Valley in Victoria, it ‘fed’ the smaller branches in the smaller towns. Fair enough-except that a cool half million was in the vault, twice the normal amount, and if they didn’t hit the place tonight, all that money would disappear into the wallets and paypackets of the locals tomorrow.

  There was twice the normal amount in the vault because this was Wednesday and tomorrow was Thursday, payday and also the first day of the Upper Yarra Festival. According to the blueprints supplied for this hit, over the next four days wineries would be flogging raw whites at twenty bucks a pop, every village showground in the valley would stage a handful of run-down ghost trains and shooting galleries, and it all added up to a lot of people needing a lot of spending money, starting tomorrow morning.

  Niekirk glanced at his watch. The town clock had struck midnight ten minutes ago, but the eight-to-midnight disc jockey was still inside Radio 3UY, next door to the bank. The midnight-to-dawn announcer had arrived, but until the other man clocked off and went home, Niekirk, Riggs and Mansell had to sit tight and wait.

  Not that the waiting would be a problem. The three men sat in the van like clones of one another: silent, watchful men in their thirties, dressed in black balaclavas, black overalls. The van belonged to Telecom, stolen an hour earlier in Eltham. If anyone asked questions, Niekirk, Riggs and Mansell were tracking down a cable fault. They also had a stolen Range Rover with tinted windows stashed in Warrandyte. The Range Rover was Riggs’ and Mansell’s way out of the hills. They were wearing dinner suits under their overalls and if anyone stopped them later, they were a couple of winemakers celebrating the start of the festival.

  Niekirk had his own way out. He’d be carrying the money and he didn’t want Riggs and Mansell to know where he was taking it. And once he’d made the delivery, Niekirk didn’t know where the money was going. De Lisle, the man who put these jobs together, wanted it that way, and Niekirk was in no position to argue, not when De Lisle could put him in jail for a long time, and especially not when De Lisle controlled the pursestrings. Disappear with the money himself? Forget it. De Lisle would find him in five seconds.

  Mansell went tense suddenly. He was in the driver’s seat, a headset clamped to his ears, a police-band radio in his lap. He fine-tuned the radio, listening intently. ‘I’m getting something.’

  Neither Riggs nor Niekirk spoke. If they had something to worry about, Mansell would soon tell them. Even so, they relaxed visibly when Mansell grinned. ‘Kid ran his car into a tree near Yarra Junction.’

  Niekirk nodded. That was good: a car smash would tie up the local boys in blue for a while. He watched Mansell. Mansell disliked being the driver and radio man. But, as Niekirk continued to point out to him, Riggs was needed to open the safe, himself to oversee the job, leaving Mansell to keep watch.

  Niekirk spoke. ‘Here he comes now.’ />
  A man had come through the side door of Radio 3UY. He wore a denim jacket and jeans and his shaved skull gleamed in the moonlight. The three men saw him stretch, yawn, shiver, then climb into a sad-looking VW and clatter down the hill and out of sight.

  Niekirk glanced at Mansell. ‘All clear?’

  Mansell nodded.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  Riggs and Niekirk slipped into the darkness and across the street to the metre-wide alley that separated the bank from the radio station. The bank’s rear door was flat and implacable, a dark steel mass in the wall. There were two locks, and Riggs knelt before the lower one, took a set of picks from the breast pocket of his overalls, and went to work. Niekirk watched him, training the narrow beam of a pencil torch at the lock.

  A half minute later, the lock was open and Riggs started on the upper one. He breathed heavily as he worked, audible sounds of effort and concentration. Then the second lock fell open and he seemed to deflate, the tension draining away from him.

  Niekirk folded back a flap of his overalls, where he’d stitched a tiny radio into a pocket above his breastbone. He depressed the transmit button. ‘We’re going in.’

  He heard Mansell’s acknowledgement, a crackle of static, and pushed open the steel door. According to the briefing notes, there was minimal security inside the bank. There had never been the need for it-you didn’t get bank raids in these little hill towns, where lives were modest and every road was crippled with S-bends. But Niekirk hadn’t lived as long as he had by accepting the things he was told without checking first. He paused in the doorway and played the torch beam over the interior walls, floor and ceiling. Nothing.

  He put his mouth to the radio, said, ‘It’s clear,’ and led the way into the bank.

  Behind him Riggs shouldered a canvas bag of tools and closed the door in the rear wall, sealing them off from the cloudy moon.