by Garry Disher
She didn’t move to pick up the money. She didn’t do anything, didn’t say thank you. Napper slammed the wrought-iron gate and got out of there, his head pounding. He kept Panadol in the glove-box of the ute. He slid across the seat to open it and his boots knocked off another patch of the floor above the exhaust pipe before he remembered the rust spot. He tossed three Panadol into his throat and chased them down with saliva but he could feel them stuck there, so he got out again, walked to the milk bar on the corner, swallowed a can of Fanta.
6.30 pm. He had ninety minutes to kill before the night shift so he drove to Tina’s, window down in case he was gassing himself with exhaust fumes. He didn’t get much joy with Tina, either. She handed him a lot of shit about the hours he worked, their times off never coinciding, and it all boiled up and he slapped her, just the once, to shut her up. She started bawling, said she hated him, and went out slamming the door.
Anything for a bit of peace. Napper hunted around in her fridge, found a couple of the Cascade lagers she liked, and settled in her recliner with the remote control in his lap.
First up on Channel Seven was the death of Clare Ng, aged ten, killed by a car bomb in Richmond earlier that day. At first attributed to a petrol or gas leak, police now believed that a device had been planted in the boot of the Ng family’s late model Mercedes, parked in an alley behind the restaurant owned by her father, a prominent local businessman tipped to be the next mayor of Richmond. According to a police spokesperson, Clare may have activated the bomb when she opened the boot of the car.
There was more. The outgoing mayor was outraged. Clare was well liked at school. The family was popular. Police hadn’t ruled out elements in the Vietnamese community.
What was she doing opening the boot? Napper wondered. He pictured the lid flying up, smacking her in the face. Then he pictured it happening to his own daughter, and the beer and the Panadol and the Fanta began to churn and heave in his stomach. He put his head in his hands, rocked a little.
The sport and the weather passed, then canned laughter and ads for things that made no sense to Napper. He went to the kitchen, poured away his beer, washed Tina’s dishes for her. He microwaved a TV dinner from her freezer, spooned Nescafe into a mug of water, microwaved that. The night ahead was long and he needed a clear head.
It was 8.10 when Napper got to the station. The bombing had the place stirred up, the boss saying next time it could be on their patch, so watch it, keep your eyes and ears open.
At twenty past eight a WPC came by his desk. ‘You all right, sir?’
‘What do you mean, am I all right?’
She shrugged. ‘You look a bit rough around the edges, that’s all. By the way, someone’s been trying to ring you.’
‘Who?’
‘Won’t give his name. Says he’ll keep trying.’
Malan.
Napper left the station and went to a pay phone. ‘Listen, never call me at work.’
‘You fucked up,’ Malan said.
‘How was I to know the kid would open the boot?’
‘Her tennis racquet was in there,’ Malan said. ‘Why did you make the charge so big? Why didn’t you put it somewhere else on the car? They say it blew the back of the car off.’
‘It was an accident.’
‘Counterproductive,’ Malan said. ‘Eddie Ng will get the sympathy vote now. Instead of throwing doubts and fears into him, he’ll ride high on this. He’s got people rallying around him already.’
Napper didn’t have time to listen to this crap. During the past hour or so he’d managed to get his nerve back. He’d put the death of the child into perspective, the image of the metal smacking her down. ‘You can’t be sure of that,’ he said. ‘Look, you contracted me to do a job and I did it. I’ll be around later to pick up the other half.’
‘You must be joking. If you come anywhere near me again I’ll talk. Even if it means I have to go down with you.’
That left Napper standing on Swan Street with a dead phone against his ear.
****
Twenty-three
The days were getting longer in Sydney and the kiosk near the steps leading down to the underground station sold plants Wyatt had never seen before, heaped in buckets on the footpath. Little flags said proteas, golden torch, gedisha. He recognised clumps of frosty grey gum tree leaves among them. Some tiny orange, lemon and umbrella trees in terracotta pots lined the wall of the kiosk, a wooden structure resembling an Alpine hut. On shelves inside the kiosk were vials of aroma therapy oils, blue and green Mexican glass vases, crystals, terracotta ducks. Since everyone was buying roses, carnations and freesias that Saturday afternoon, the rest of it seemed to be a waste of time.
A white Bentley pulled into the kerb. The car belonged to Kepler and Wyatt had been expecting it. Kepler himself wasn’t in the car. According to Jardine, the driver was just a driver but the man in the back was Towns, head of operations for Kepler. Every Saturday afternoon the two men stopped for roses, collected their boss at the Darling Harbour penthouse where he made deals and kept a mistress, and took him home. Kepler’s story to his wife was that he’d spent the afternoon at the races. Presumably the roses eased his conscience.
The Bentley had tinted glass windows. Wyatt watched the kerb-side rear door swing open. From his vantage point behind a wire rack of postcards next to a newspaper stand he had a clear view of the car’s interior. The chauffeur wore a dark coat and a peaked cap, that’s all he could tell. Towns wore a dark suit and highly polished black shoes. There was no one with him in the back of the car. Towns got out, stretched to ease a kink in his back, then pushed through pedestrians to the flower kiosk. The motor was running in the Bentley. The back door hung partly open.
Wyatt had considered getting into the car and waiting for Towns, but that had too many holes in it. Towns might see him there and back away. The driver might get brave and try leaning on the horn or roaring off down the street. Instead, Wyatt waited while Towns bought the roses and returned to the car with them. A man’s defenses are down when he’s got roses in his hands and he’s bending to go through a car door. Wyatt waited. When Towns was back at the car, getting in flowers first, head down, waist bent, Wyatt moved. Wyatt himself had a suit on. The pedestrians might have thought him impatient, the way he shoved in after the first man, closing the door behind him, but he didn’t look entirely out of place and besides, the rich had their own rules.
The driver wore a cap and dark glasses. He was a mouth breather and had his head buried in the sports section of the Daily Telegraph. At the rocking of the car he folded the paper and put it aside. ‘All set, boss?’
Then he saw Wyatt. His hand went into his jacket and he tried to turn around. Wyatt let him see the.38. The windows were tinted: Wyatt could have waved a machine gun around if he’d wanted to. ‘Don’t,’ he warned. ‘All I want to do is talk. All you have to do is drive around the block a few times.’
‘Boss?’
Towns twisted his mouth. ‘Do as he says.’
‘Guns, first,’ Wyatt said.
He pocketed both guns and the Bentley rode silently into the traffic. The interior smelt of leather, aftershave, aggression. Wyatt leaned back against the door. Towns was an amiable, scholarly, alert-looking man whose trade included murder. He said mildly, ‘Have you considered taking a train? At the bottom of the steps there.’
Wyatt looked at him flatly. His eyes didn’t stray.
‘I assume you’re the bastard knocking over our operations,’ Towns said finally. ‘What are you trying to prove?’
‘Let me give you two names from the recent past. Bauer and Letterman.’
Towns seemed tired suddenly. ‘Wyatt.’
Wyatt said, ‘You sent Bauer after me, I killed him. You sent Letterman after me, I killed him too.’
For the first time in months there was a twist of emotion in Wyatt’s voice. He heard it in himself and he welcomed it. He didn’t care that the old calmness was gone, the certainty he felt when he
hijacked an armoured car or cleaned out a bank. This time he was after revenge, not profit. It was personal this time, and there was something cleansing about that. He was setting his will against a man who meant him harm. Emotion came into it. He couldn’t be neutral.
He nudged Towns viciously, the.38 bruising the thin man’s ribs. ‘I need to see Kepler.’
‘To kill him? We won’t let that happen. We’ll stop you, here or at his place. Take my word for it.’
‘I’m not interested in killing him. I want to talk. I want to make a deal.’
The Bentley stopped to let an ambulance through. Wyatt stiffened instinctively at the siren. So did Towns. When the car moved on again Wyatt said, ‘Take me to Kepler, or I’ll simply keep hitting you. One day I’ll hit Kepler himself. Take my word for that.’
‘What sort of deal?’
‘Take me to Kepler.’
By now the Bentley had gone around the block. It was creeping in traffic a few metres from the flower-choked footpath again. People glanced in exhaustion at the glossy flank of the big car before plunging down the station steps. Towns shifted in his seat. ‘Anything you want to say to Kepler you can say to me.’
Wyatt shook his head, close to frustration. What was it with Towns? Why were they negotiating on this? The shutters lifted from his face and he began to fire the.38. Shots smacked into the seat close to Towns’s left thigh, waist and shoulder.
The Bentley swerved violently, bumped over the kerb and stopped at a skewed angle across the footpath. The driver turned around, eyes wild. Wyatt waved him on with the gun. ‘Just drive,’ he said. He fired into the seat again. The puncture marks were dark in the cream leather.
Towns had frozen at the first shot. He seemed to wish himself smaller. Finally he breathed in, expanded his chest. ‘Okay, okay.’ He leaned toward the driver. ‘Take us to Kepler.’
‘The penthouse?’
‘The penthouse.’
Wyatt looked out, his heart thudding. The driver was sweeping them past Hyde Park. The trees were torn and leafless. There had been two days of freak spring storms and Sydney was sodden and steaming, a city of edgy, cooped-up people and wind-stripped gardens. The late afternoon sunlight angled through the bare trees. A couple of black sailors from a US warship were kidding with schoolgirls on a park bench. People strapped with cameras, packs and money-belts ambled along the paths, joggers and cyclists slipping in and out among them. Wyatt saw a kid snatch a purse and run with it on roller blades. Everyone watched the kid dart past them but no one stopped him. That sums up this city, Wyatt thought. He didn’t speak again, and willed calmness on himself.
The penthouse was on the marina at Darling Harbour. ‘Stay with the car,’ Wyatt told the driver.
The driver looked at Towns, Towns nodded.
Towns used a swipe card to get them into the building. They crossed the foyer, a place of dark marble and thick glass. Towns pressed the lift button and they rode to the top.
The doors opened onto a small hallway. Towns used the swipe card again to let them into the penthouse. Wyatt looked around. The carpet was thick, the sofa was leather, and Kepler had tacked Ken Done paintings over the walls. There was no sign of anyone. ‘Where is he?’
Just then they heard a manufactured squeal coming from one of the other rooms. Towns regarded him neutrally. ‘Take a wild guess.’
‘Let’s check on his performance,’ Wyatt said, prodding Towns with the gun. Towns led him to a corridor to the left of the main room. The sounds of passion were more pronounced now, with plenty of unimaginative dirty film dialogue. Towns stopped outside the room where all the heaving was going on and said, ‘He’s not going to like this.’
Wyatt prodded him with the gun. ‘We might learn something.’
It was the woman who had twice tried to kill him in Melbourne. She had very long legs and they were waving in the air. She was making all the noise but her eyes, still scarred and bruised, were open and aimed abstractedly at the ceiling. Any noise Kepler made was muffled because he had his mouth stuck to her neck. He had a massive wattled trunk, skinny agitated buttocks and thin legs.
‘Hope you haven’t got a dicky heart, Kepler.’
The noises shut down at once. Kepler went still, then the woman pushed at him and he splayed onto his back, looking gluey, red and limp. The woman sat up, drew her knees to her chin and slowly grinned, taking in Wyatt’s exhausted, prohibitive face. He read it as a challenge and ignored her. ‘I want you both under the covers.’
The woman’s grin widened. ‘Don’t tell me I make you feel uncomfortable?’
‘Shut up,’ Kepler said wearily. He swung his legs to the edge of the bed. ‘Let me get dressed, and we’ll have a talk.’
Wyatt shot out the tiffany lamp next to the bed. ‘Under the covers.’ He waved the.38 at Towns. ‘Join them. Then we can talk.’
****
Twenty-four
Wyatt started with the woman. ‘She’s been trying to kill me.’
Kepler lifted his pudgy hands and let them drop again. ‘It’s what she does.’
Wyatt stared at her. ‘Have you got a name?’
‘Rose.’
‘Rose what?’
‘Rose will do.’
She was low in the bed between the two men, only her head showing. She was watching him, gauging him, her face small and white and her bruised eyes dark like two discs in a mask. Now and then he caught a flicker, as though she were telling him they shared a history and had to play out its consequences.
‘Are you payroll or freelance?’
‘What does it matter?’
It mattered to Wyatt. If she were freelance she would always be a problem, wanting to settle her grudge. If she were in Kepler’s pay, Kepler would have to persuade her that this job was off now, the contract cancelled. Wyatt turned to Kepler inquiringly.
‘She works for me,’ Kepler said.
‘Exclusively?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about the three heavies she had working with her?’
‘Hired help,’ Kepler said. ‘We won’t be using them again.’
Wyatt turned to the woman. ‘Rose, I’m no longer a target. Mr Kepler is about to explain that to you.’
‘Really?’ Kepler said. He had folded his arms over the grey mat of hair on his soft chest. ‘Why would I do that?’
Wyatt pulled a matchbox from his inside pocket. He opened it with one hand. Glassy chips the size of fingertips thudded onto the quilt of the bed like fat drops of rain. ‘Your diamonds,’ he said, ‘worth a hundred thousand grand.’
‘I’d like to know how you knew about that.’
‘Shut up. Diamonds, a hundred grand. Cocaine, another hundred grand. Loss of goodwill and business from your gambling mates-’ Wyatt shrugged ‘-incalculable damage.’
Kepler stared at the diamonds, then heaved up out of the sheets to pick them up. ‘You’re off your rocker. What’s this all about?’
‘As I just said to Rose, you put a price on my head and now I want you to remove it.’
Kepler laughed. ‘Why should I do that?’
‘To save yourself more grief.’
Kepler shrugged. ‘I’ve got a large and loyal workforce. We’ll hunt you down.’
Wyatt ground the barrel of his.38 into a bulge in the quilt that was Kepler’s foot. ‘Kepler, I’m doing the hunting now. Can’t you see that?’
The foot jerked, then stopped. ‘I’m genuinely puzzled. Why don’t you just take the diamonds and piss off overseas?’
Wyatt shook his head. ‘I like it here.’
‘Or go underground,’ Kepler said.
‘I don’t want to run. I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life.’
Kepler gestured irritably. ‘You’ve got the drop on me here, I’m defenceless, so why not kill me?’
‘It might still come to that.’
‘No, seriously,’ Kepler said. ‘I want to know.’
‘Having a price on my head interfe
res with the work I do. I want to continue doing what I did before all this. I want to operate freely. I can’t while the contract’s still active, wondering if every punk I meet intends to prove himself by going up against me.’
‘And if I don’t cancel it?’
‘Then I’ll kill you. Maybe not now-maybe I’ll let you stew a little. And I’ll keep hitting your operations until no one trusts you, until you’re ruined.’
Towns spoke for the first time. ‘That wouldn’t remove your central problem, Wyatt. The contract would still be active. The organisation has plenty of resources. Even if you kill all three of us, whoever takes over will find you sooner or later.’
Wyatt didn’t look at Towns. He watched Kepler, saying nothing. He’d known how the conversation would go.
‘Are you listening?’ Kepler said. ‘In terms of a bargaining position you’re offering fuck-all. Why should we listen? You can’t just promise to stop hitting us. You’ll have to come up with something substantial.’
Wyatt seemed to think about it. Kepler looked at him thoughtfully. ‘What I could do is offer you a job. A man with your talents, you could be very useful.’
‘You must be joking,’ Wyatt said.
He knew what working for the Outfit would be like. The Outfit had snared a lot of good professionals who were now in the slammer. What they offered sounded good on the surface. They’d set up every job for you, complete with floor plans, equipment, back-up-even videotapes showing the layout if that’s what you needed. Then they’d fence the jewels, paintings, bullion, travellers’ cheques for you, launder the cash, taking those sorts of risks onto their own shoulders so that you weren’t worrying about being ripped off or trapped by undercover cops.
The catch was, once you were one of theirs, the Outfit worked you day and night and paid you peanuts for all that hard work and talent. If lucky, you’d earn maybe ten cents on die dollar for everything you stole and the Outfit pocketed the rest. If unlucky-if you were arrested, or cracked under the pressure-you were on your own.