Read Wyatt - 03 - Death Deal Online
Authors: Garry Disher
Wyatt - 03 - Death Deal (7 page)
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
Stolle. 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 warehouse 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?
Yes.
Could be a goer.
What can you tell me about the
place itself?
They call it The Barn because thats
what its like, a huge barn. They sell liquidation gearfurniture, clothes,
electrical gear, tools, records and tapes, laid out on these long benches.
Wheres the safe likely to be?
Theres a mezzanine level, offices
and that. Up there, Id say.
You think we could hide in the
place unnoticed?
Plenty of places, Harbutt said. Toilets,
storage rooms, under a bench, even in one of them rubbish bins on wheels.
Where does Thea work?
Harbutt patted his pockets for his
cigarettes. Nine to five at their head office in town. She wont be there.
Wyatt watched his friend. I dont
want Dern or Thea to know about this.
Harbutt straightened in his chair. Got
you.
They fell silent.
Which leaves the safe, Wyatt said.
Are you up to it?
Harbutt splayed his fingers. They
were more or less steady. Give me a combination, a drill, a stick of
gelignite, whatever you like.
I want you to lay off the booze
till after the job.
Harbutt nodded.
Good. Well make a dry run. The
sale opens tomorrow, so it has to be tonight.
Youre mad, Harbutt said. The
nightwatchman.
Its a risk we have to take. There
wont be any money on the premises, so hes not likely to be too jumpy. We need
to know where to hide when the time comes, what kind of safe it is, the best
way out. We can keep out of his way easily enough. If he spots us, well run,
thats all.
They separated and met again at The
Barn late that afternoon. It sat alone on an immense asphalted field outside
Geelong. At one time it had been a supermarket called Super City; the old name
was still discernible, painted over on the facia board. The front was all
glass, two storeys high and running the length of the building. The glass
curved inwards from a shallow channel choked with pansies. A sign said: The
Longest Curved Glass Window in the Southern Hemisphere. It was five oclock
and several vans and lorries were backed up at the side of the building. A
dozen men were carting sofas, refrigerators, sealed cartons and racks of
dresses through the side doors.
Wyatt and Harbutt approached the
front door. They each carried a clipboard and wore a dustcoat with the word Inspector
stitched across the top pocket.
Workplace safety check, Wyatt told
the security man at the door.
The man shrugged. It meant nothing
to him. The world was full of grey men in dustcoats writing things on
clipboards.
Wyatt and Harbutt went inside.
Wooden trestle tables groaned under the weight of Taiwanese calculators, Korean
batteries, Chinese shoes. Refrigerators and toasters were stacked around the
walls. Armchairs and sofa beds littered an area the size of a tennis court in
one corner. Sales staff hurried around, pricing goods and pasting large SALE
signs on the walls.
At the rear of the building a broad
staircase led to a narrow mezzanine level that extended halfway down the length
of the building on each side. There were a number of frosted glass doors
leading to plasterboard petitioned offices. Under the stairs were toilets and a
storeroom.
