Death Deal w-3

by Garry Disher

  Jesus Christ, leave him out of this.

  It seems to me youre in strife, old son. Now, the thing is, youve got a plane, you know the terrain, you could be a great help to us.

  Like how?

  Hughes said, Up till now its been sweet, right? A handful of Aussie currency in exchange for bulk amounts of New Guinea Gold worth a mint back home. Except now the locals want to branch out a bit and I can see a quid in it for both of us.

  Get to the point.

  Simple, Hughes said. Guns.

  I dont need any guns.

  Arsehole, I mean the locals want guns, some of them. Hughes ticked them off. Youve got your raskol gangs in Moresby, your tribal factions here in the Highlands, your OPM freedom fighters, your Bougainville rebels.

  It was all politics to Lovell. So?

  So they want guns. They cant get them here, apart from the odd. 303 left over from the war.

  Lovell shook his head. Where am I supposed to get guns? What kind of guns?

  Hughes took a sheet of paper from his shirt pocket. Body damp had made it limp. Pius gave me a shopping list.

  Lovell ran his eye down the page. It listed semi-automatic rifles, preferably AK47s, rocket launchers, surface-to-air missiles, preferably Stingers or RP7s. The names meant nothing to Lovell. You could fight a war with this stuff.

  Too true.

  Are you sure you want to do this? I mean, these guys are strictly stone age.

  Theres a buck in it.

  These surface-to-air missiles: what the hell do they want them for?

  Hughes laughed. Yeah, I know, unreal. Its the helicopters, Australian Iriquois on loan to the PNG forces. They hate them on Bougainville. In the Solomons theyre pissed off because they reckon their air space gets violated all the time.

  Politics again. Lovell held onto the page by one corner. Where am I supposed to get this stuff?

  Use your initiative. Youve got blackmarket mates in Singapore? Use them.

  I dont have to deal with you. I could kiss goodbye to this and find another source for the Gold.

  You could also find sugar in your fuel tank one day, Hughes said, no mildness about him now. You could find Mr Bone knocking on your door. The cops waiting for you.

  You bastard, Lovell said. He paused. Ill need cash, big cash, to buy arms.

  Unfortunately, thats your problem, old son. Youll find a way. But look at it this way: PNG is loaded down with cannabis. Pius and I could fill one jumbo jet a week for you for the next ten years if you were interested, all for a few guns now and then. So, how about it?

  Lovell was already putting it together in his head. Buy from his blackmarket contacts in Thailand and Singapore, the guns moved by fishing boat or yacht to somewhere in Torres Strait or the Gulf country, then fly them into PNG. If he played this right, hed be able to cut himself free of Bone eventually.

  If he could get hold of upfront money first, that is.

  I tell you one thing, he said. From now on Ill be supervising every time my kites refuelled.

  Hughes winked, as if Lovell had made a joke.

  Twenty-five

  Nurse had a compartment in his mind for Lovell, the seventy-five thousand dollars worth of stolen heroin, his gambling debts on top of that. The door to this compartment was always open, so he always remembered it was there, but it was only one compartment after all, and for most of that week he managed to ignore it, going about his normal life at home, on the freeway, in his office. His wifes cottagey kitchen, Radio National on his car radio in the mornings, Angie, the teller with the boobs these things were familiar, unsullied reminders that life was okay after all. Not great, but he was hanging in there.

  Then on Thursday Lovell came to his house, and the badness spilled out like a stain. It was eight oclock at night, big day tomorrow with the money transfer, so he was only half paying attention to Joyce and Mignon. They were doing the dishes, Joyce washing, Mignon drying, Nurse stacking the plates away, when the knock came.

  Mignon answered it and she came back stricken, as if Lovell were a god. Lovell looked tall and lean beside her and his teeth flashed white in his tanned pilots face. He grinned at Mignon, eyes crinkling nicely. He grinned at Joyce. He wore a bomber jacket and seemed slangy and reckless and huge in the little kitchen overlooking the good private school at the bottom of the hill.

  Nurse stumbled through the introductions and they stared at one another, Joyce and Mignon with their lips slightly apart. Nurse said, Actually, were a bit tied up at the moment.

  Joyce came to life. Nonsense. Get Mr Lovell a drink.

  Ian, Lovell said.

  Get Ian a drink.

  Lovell asked for scotch, ice, no water. Joyce said shed have a martini. She never had martinis. Mignon asked for one too, but both parents packed her off to finish her homework. Nurse poured himself a scotch as well, and he, Lovell and Joyce sat far apart in the well-upholstered chairs in the best room at the front of the house.

  Having Lovell there seemed to open Nurses eyes to the room for the first time. It was all Joyce and he hated it, the berber-look carpet and the chintzy fabrics over everything, an old copy of Vogue on the coffee table. Then Lovell raised his glass, said Cheers, and everything about the man was insinuating and mocking.

  Joyce sat like a fulcrum in the room. Nurse and Lovell both directed the conversation through her. Nurse said, Ian is one of our biggest clients. Lovell grinned at her, confirming it. Both men waited.

  What is it you do, Ian?

  Aviation business.

  That must be interesting.

  It is.

  Finally Lovell leaned toward her. It was a careless, masculine gesture, full of promise. His brown forearms were on his knees, his glass dangled from one slender hand, his eyes were crinkling: the force of the pose hit her like a blow. Nurse saw her swallow. Actually, Joyce, your husband and I have got some tricky matters to sort out before the New York exchange opens tomorrow.

  Joyce flushed. Of course. Ill leave you to it.

  She went out, closing the door behind her. Lovell watched her go, then turned to Nurse. Lovely. Over here, me old mate, so I dont have to yell.

  He pointed to the couch next to him and the journey across the room racked Nurses nervous system. His voice trembled. What do you want? Its out of order, coming here.

  You could say Im a bit strapped for cash.

  I could sell the car.

  Chickenfeed. I need a lot more than that, and you owe me more than your cars worth.

  I dispute that. It wasnt my fault your stuff got stolen.

  You dont know, do you? You havent got a clue how it works. Lovell edged closer, violence crackling around him like static electricity. Matey, in this business, you lose it, you replace it.

  How? Nurses voice went shrill. He tried again. How? I wouldnt have a clue where to get heroin.

  You werent listening. I need cash. Seventy-five grand for the smack you lost plus another twenty-five to cover the hassles you caused me.

  I havent got that kind of money. What do you expect me to do, sell the house?

  As soon as he said it he wished he hadnt. Lovell said, Theres a thought.

  Please.

  On second thoughts, it would take too long.

  So, how?

  Keep your voice down. A bank loan.

  Nurse lost energy. He collapsed into the spongy material of the couch. Hed heard of this sort of thing happening, organised crime figures getting their hooks into bank managers, arranging loans they had no intention of repaying. He said, I cant do that, regulations wouldnt allow it.

  Lovell looked at him, shook his head slowly. Dont give me that crap. You do it every day.

  What about asset security for the loan? Could we nominate your plane, maybe?

  Youre incredible, you know that? Get real, Nurse. I want you to forget the formalities, dont you understand that? Jesus.

  Nurse muttered, When?

  Well, I need it soon, dont I? You see, being out seventy-five grand, I had to dig
into my own reserves to pay for the last delivery. Now I find myself in a position where I need upfront cash.

  What about Bone?

  Lovell spoke through his teeth. We dont speak about the people I work for, understand? That side of things is strictly my business.

  Nurse realised then that Lovell was running scared on this deal. Hed lost a load of heroin, probably soured relations with his buyers, and had people breathing down his neck.

  Not that that was any comfort. With one round-trip to New Guinea, Lovell could be back on track, whereas he, Nurse, had permanently derailed himself.

  He had to know: What if it cant be done?

  Lovell tipped back his throat, sliding the last of his scotch down it like an oyster. Cute daughter, Nurse. What is she, fourteen? Fifteen? Hard to tell at that age.

  You leave her out of this.

  Lovell was finished. Tomorrow morning, your office.

  Twenty-six

  The gum-chewing assistant in Kampworld looked meaningfully at the sun-drenched street outside, the heat shimmers and toxins in the air, the soft tar, then down at the T-shirt, shorts and thongs she was wearing, then at the balaclava, black wool. Sure this is what you want?

  Im sure, Wyatt said.

  She shrugged. She tucked the balaclava into a plastic bag. Nine ninety-five.

  Wyatt handed her ten dollars, got five cents change. There was a guide-dogs charity tin next to the cash register but if the girl remembered him, told the cops hed put money in the tin, theyd run a check on every print on every coin. Bushwalking, he explained. Tasmania.

  That seemed to explain it to the girl. Oh, Tasmania, she said, as though the word meant sleet and winds off the Antarctic. Already she was grinding her jaws again, grinning Can I help you? to a kid clutching a pair of Doc Martens.

  Wyatt joined Phelps and Riding in the car. They were silent, professional men. It was Saturday morning, two days before the hit, and this was a shopping trip. Phelps drove to Toowong next, waiting in the car with Wyatt while Riding bought a balaclava in a disposals store. Then he drove to Buranda. Every second shop was a clothing discounter. The three men separated. Phelps came back with running shoes, jeans and a nylon jacket of the kind worn by athletes. Riding and Wyatt bought cheap black shoes and cheap business suits. The money would be transported in a couple of roomy pink and blue striped shopping bags. Anna Reid had supplied them with latex gloves bought from a department store pharmacy. Everything was capable of leaving a trace for the forensic experts, so everything except the money would be burnt later.

  The guns were already taken care of. Riding had supplied them, a sawnoff shotgun for himself, a. 38 each for Wyatt and Phelps.

  The three men spent Saturday afternoon scouting around. They started in Logan City, Wyatt pointing out the bank, the small courtyard behind it. After five minutes of exploring the adjacent streets they settled on a place to stash the first getaway car overnight on Sunday. It was a busy twenty-four hour service station at the bottom of an exit ramp on the Gold Coast freeway. It would not be noticed there and the area was too open, too well lit to attract vandals or car thieves.

  Where now?

  Wyatt indicated a spot in the street directory. East Brisbane.

  The managers house was a Queenslander, prettified with savagely pruned flame trees and pastelly colours on the external trim. The street itself was short and narrow but a bus ran along it, there were a handful of shops at the end, and plenty of cars used it. That was useful to know. Wyatt preferred activity to a cul-de-sac where nothing happened all day except the probing sweep of eyeballs behind the neighbours curtains.

  Phelps cruised past slowly a second time then took them along the side and back streets until Wyatt was satisfied that he would know if the manager, Nurse, took a wrong turn on Monday morning.

  After East Brisbane they drove to the grounds of the university in St Lucia. The road curved slowly around to the right, the river on one side, tennis courts and playing fields on the other. Phelps rode the brake, avoiding speed humps, joggers and kids on roller blades. With the windows down they could hear the whok of racquets slamming tennis balls. They came to a sharp bend in the river with fewer people about and more open space. According to a sign, they were behind the residential colleges. Students cars, small Japanese sedans with roofracks and bumper stickers, were nosed into concrete barriers next to sloping lawns and hockey fields. Trees hid the colleges from view. Music pounded from a window somewhere above them. Otherwise the area was deserted.

  Here? Phelps said.

  It was Ridings idea. He had been a student here, fifteen years ago. At ten on Monday morning, he said, theyll be in lectures or still in bed. If were seen making the final switch, no-one will think twice about it. Theres always someone loading and unloading stuff around here.

  Sure, Phelps said. What was the course again?

  I did computer science.

  Computer science, Phelps said, trying the words out with his tired mouth. You could be making big bucks legitimately if youd stuck to it.

  I was expelled, Riding said. They caught me tapping into NASA files.

  Huh, Phelps said.

  Wyatt listened to them. He didnt claim to understand what made them tick. All he knew was, there were people like Riding and Phelps, who would always slip out of concentration, and there were people like himself.

  Twenty-seven

  In Singapore on Sunday morning the message was sure, no problem, as soon as we see the colour of your money.

  Lovell replied, But you can fill the order okay?

  Sure. No problem.

  The intermediary for the arms dealer was a Chinese tailor just off Bugis Street. Lovell hated Singapore. Twenty years ago hed been kicked out for looking like a hippie. Well, in those days he had been a hippie. Hed landed in Singapore in the first place because he wanted to take the hippie trail overland to London, like everyone else. But theyd shut the door in his face and ordered Qantas to fly him home again. Qantas had got pissed off. In the end, to save hassles, hed had a haircut. Five hours later, half a dozen twittering transvestites had felt him up on Bugis Street, squeezing his balls, tweaking his nipples, running their hands up his crack, and lifting his passport and moneybelt. Bugis Street was clean now, and Lovell preferred short hair, but he still hated Singapore.

  How long?

  The Chinese tailor looked at him. Explain, please.

  I said how long will it take you to fill the order?

  No problem. We see your money first.

  A hundred thousand bucks. Lovell groaned inwardly. Hed hoped hed have something left over from the hundred thousand Nurse had given him on Friday morning, but no such luck, meaning he still had to find the full seventy-five thousand for the smack stolen from Nurse.

  It was all in the timing. Pray that Bone would take a while to notice the shortfall, giving him time to buy the guns, deliver them, fly back with a few planeloads of cannabis to sell to the eighty thousand Queenslanders who smoked it at least once a week. Earn back his original stake plus Bones seventy-five grand.

  Maybe he could get this gook to see reason. Weve done business before, he told the tailor.

  The man beamed, his glasses flashed and his sleek oiled hair caught the dim light. Funny how their hair was either dead straight or kind of fluffy.

  Yes.

  Buddha sticks, Lovell said. White rock. Pink rock.

  Yes.

  So you know my moneys good. So why cant you ship the guns now and Ill pay you in a few days time? This will be an ongoing thing, you know.

  No problem. We see your money first.

  Lovell flew out of Singapore at two oclock, a hundred thousand dollars poorer and his hatred for the place a notch or two tighter. He flicked restlessly through magazines, tried to doze. He was a pilot; he was no good at this kind of shit, smuggling, dealing, overseeing couriers.

  When he eventually got to Brisbane airport that evening it was dark outside. He kept close to people. In the carpark he checked his
car before getting in. On the freeway he changed lanes, hung back, spurted ahead. It had been a week since Nurse was robbed. Why the silence? he wondered.

  Twenty-eight

  On Sunday they set the incendiary devices.

  Phelps was responsible for these. There were two devices and they consisted of plastic jugs half-full of petrol, a timer and battery, two contact points a whisker apart.

  Half-full to allow fumes to build up, Phelps explained. At nine-fifteen tomorrow morning a spark will jump across the contact points and pow, instant fire.

  Wyatt nodded encouragingly. He knew how the devices worked but he saw it as part of his job to drop praise here and there, encouragement, to keep Phelps and Riding efficient and calm.

  They put the devices in place at five oclock, the hottest part of the day, when the city sprawled heat-dazed and inattentive under the sun. The first incendiary went at the bottom of a four-metre-high pile of used tyres in a yard several blocks east of the bank. Lots of smoke and drama, Phelps said.

  They set the second in a dumpster of rubbish behind a nearby supermarket. Flattened cardboard, paper, plastic sheeting, plywood, styrofoam packaging: it would cause plenty of panic but no damage.

  That night they stole the getaway cars.

  They lifted both cars from the long-term carpark at the airport. Travelling separately to the airport by bus at half hour intervals, they met at a side entrance to the carpark. Wyatt arrived last. What have you got?

  Riding spoke softly. A fawn Camira.

  Parking ticket?

  He nodded. On the dash above the steering wheel, stupid prick.

  When?

  A jet was taking off. The sound thundered around them, so Riding waited. An hour ago, soon after I got here.

  That was good. The owner was not likely to be back for it before Monday afternoon. What they needed now was a second car much like the first. Witnesses at the university who saw the changeover were more likely to confuse two cars that were similar in size and shape.