Wyatt - 04 - Cross Kill (12 page)

Axle was affronted. Shit no. Its
my real name. Axel. A-x-e-l. Danish.

Bax nodded. Axel, he said,
stressing the second syllable.

You got it.

They waited, and two minutes after
the woman had disappeared into Myer, Axel reached into the back seat and
retrieved a black metal box fitted with switches, a dial and a telescopic
aerial. He extended the aerial and tilted the box toward the womans car. Bax
made no comment. The device was a radio scanner and hed seen Axel use it
before. According to a manufacturers sticker on the rear window, the womans
Prelude had been fitted with a car alarm, and Axel was about to disarm it. His
box of tricks would transmit a signal matching the signal the woman transmitted
from the gadget on her keyring when she wanted to unlock the car.

Bax waited. The scanner ran through
the frequencies, the numbers rapidly dissolving and reforming on the digital
readout. Then it locked and Axel said, Bingo.

They wasted no time after that. Bax
took Axels place behind the wheel of the rustbucket and watched Axel break
into the Prelude. Then he drove out onto Dandenong Road, Axel following in the
stolen car, and headed for Flemington.

From the outside, Mach-One Motors on
Flemington Road was just another suburban lube and service garage. The
paperwork listed a Charles Willis as the proprietor, but Charles Willis was a
name old man Mesic had dreamed up and the petrol pumps and hydraulic hoists
were a front for the real business of the place.

Bax parked, tapped the horn twice,
and watched as a massive steel rolladoor cranked open at the rear of the workshop.
He stood back while Axel drove in, then followed on foot, the rolladoor
rattling down behind him.

He was in a space the size of a
barn. Doors, motors, panels, windscreens and car compliance plates were stacked
in orderly rows around the perimeter of the shed. An obstacle course of rear
axles took up a quarter of the floor space; lathes, oxyacetylene cutting
equipment and mechanics took up the rest. The air was smoky, oily, riven by the
screaming tools and hammers. The wrecked Prelude had been delivered and already
a couple of men were cutting away the damaged section. Within twenty-four hours
the legitimate front half would be welded to the back half of the stolen car,
giving the Mesics a Prelude worth $25 000 and untraceable parts worth several
thousand dollars on top of that. Not bad for an outlay of $3750, thought Bax.

The Mesic brothers materialised from
a makeshift fibro office next to a stack of bumper bars. Bax frowned. He had no
wish to see Victor: he just wanted to deal with Leo. If Victor was there, it
could only mean bad news. He faced the Mesics stonily as they approached him,
nodding once briefly in recognition of the warning look Leo was flashing him.

Victor wasted no time. He held out
his hand to Bax. My brother says he gave you five thousand?

Bax gave him the envelope. Heres
your change. The deal is you give me a finders fee, a thousand bucks.

The grin on Victors face was loaded
with the little mans cockiness and malice. Maybe you should have deducted it,
he said, pocketing the envelope.

Oh lovely, Bax thought. He said
nothing.

Understand me, Bax. Were winding
up operations here too. Youve pulled your last car for us.

Bax reached out a hand. Come on,
Vic, give me my thousand.

Victor Mesic stepped back daintily,
as if he were dancing. Uh, uh. Nope.
This
time you get paid when weve
actually sold the car.

Bax shook his head. He felt very
tired. For a while then he stared at the floor, shutting out the Mesics, the
sounds of tortured metal, trying to find some elusive peace at the core of
himself. He didnt know how hed ever let himself get caught up in all this. He
didnt know how he was going to get out of it. All he did know was that time
was running out and hed have to find an unaccustomed chip of ice in his heart.

* * * *

Twenty-one

Until
now youve been an irritation, Jardine said. Its time to hit Kepler where it
will hurt his pocket and his pride.

He paused. He looked at a point
beyond Wyatts shoulder, putting his thoughts together. Wyatt waited. It was
Friday morning and they were in Jardines room. Jardine had considered moving
out, but Wyatt said no, that would only attract attention if the Outfit got it
into its head that he was behind the recent hits on its operations.

Theres a floating casino, Jardine
said finally. Its how Kepler got started, its a good earner for him, and hes
still got a soft spot for it. Its strictly for the high-flyers. There are
plenty of legitimate games for them in Australia. If youre some bigwig from
Hong Kong, say, accustomed to staking six figures at the gambling tables,
places like Jupiters and Wrest Point will lay on the air fare, accommodation,
all meals, the odd bottle of Dom Perignon, etcetera, for you and the wife.

He stopped and gulped tea from his
mug. Wyatt was also drinking tea. Nothing stronger, nothing that might blur the
edges of thought.

Thats fine, Jardine went on, except
theres always the bloke who wants something a bit different. He wants to play
in a place where no one knows his name, where he doesnt have to dress up,
where the risk is greater, the company rougher, the rules arent set by the
Gaming Commission. Thats where the Outfit comes in.

Wyatt waited. Jardine generally took
his time with the background, but it always turned out to be important. He
drank his tea and waited.

Youve noticed theres a lot of
unleased office space in Sydney, Jardine said.

Melbourne too.

Its got the real estate boys
worried, Jardine said, so they offer special deals. One in particular has
caught the attention of the Outfitfree rent for the first six months.

Wyatt inclined his head
imperceptibly, guessing what was coming next. Ready-made premises, he said.

Right. The Outfit sets up a dummy
front company to lease a suite of empty offices, generally an entire floor,
gets some poor bastard who owes them something to decorate the place, hires a
few girls, buys a lot of booze, puts in a few crap tables and stuff, and once a
week holds the biggest game in Sydney, only no one knows about it.

Cash?

Too risky. They deal strictly with
chips. The players buy their chips at some Outfit joint, taxis take them to the
game, they go up in the elevator, and happily shut themselves away for a couple
of days. Theres never more than six playing at a time, attended by three or
four Outfit heavies and a couple of girls.

Guns?

Not allowed, though the Outfit will
be carrying.

Once a week?

All year round. Just before the
first rent payment is due, the game moves to new premises somewhere.

Wyatt grunted absently. He didnt
care about some clever Outfit swindle. He cared only about hitting the Outfit
where it hurt. Whens the next game?

Jardine smiled. Starts tonight.

The two men fell silent. They had
hit the Outfit twice now, quick and hard. The floating crap game was next. The
object this time was to throw a scare into the big punters so theyd never play
in an Outfit game again no matter how much compensation and shut-up money the
Outfit had to fork out to them. If the Outfit refused to talk to Wyatt after
that, hed just go on hitting them.

The agent who met them in the foyer
of the Bellcourt Building at one oclock was young, about twenty-eight, a
slight figure overwhelmed by a dark, double-breasted suit. He wore the coat open
to display his hand-painted tie, his hair was cropped short on the sides, and
he carried a mobile phone. Jardine and Wyatt also wore suits. The agent took
one look at the suits and decided these guys werent important. A trade
magazine? he said, trying to work up some enthusiasm.

Thats right.
Ceramics
Quarterly,
Jardine said.

Anything from lavatory bowls to
vases, Wyatt said.

We need plenty of space, Jardine
said, for desks, layout tables, computers.

They had come to the doormans desk
in the centre of the foyer. The doorman was half asleep over a copy of the
Daily
Telegraph,
now and then glancing at security monitors. The agent signed the
book and ushered Jardine and Wyatt across to the elevator. Ceramics. Sounds
interesting.

Jardine and Wyatt got into the lift
with the agent. They had nothing more to say about ceramics, but they were
working, so they stayed in character, not exchanging glances, not winking.
Wyatt said, Is there a doorman on duty around the clock?

He goes off at six. For after-hours
access you need a swipe card.

Wyatt nodded. They got off on the
sixth floor. Ahead of them was a vast empty room. The air smelt of new carpet.

This is it, the agent said. He
pointed to a cream-painted wall and a solid-looking door further along the
corridor. The floor above is empty. The one under us was rented a few weeks
ago. Accountants. You wont hear boo out of them.

Jardine walked into the vacant
suite. Wyatt followed him. They prowled around the perimeter of it, discussing
partitions, lighting and airconditioning with one another in low voices. The
agent wandered nearby, now and then checking his watch.

Finally Wyatt and Jardine made their
way to the windows. The glass was tinted. They could see the spine of the
Harbour Bridge in the distance, the glassy spires of downtown Sydney. One
window opened onto a balcony. Wyatt pushed at it experimentally.

Here, let me show you, the agent
said.

He unlocked the door and slid it
open. There was grit and oiliness in the air outside. Wyatt and Jardine stepped
out and pretended to look out over the city. They didnt stay there long. The
fifth-floor suites also had balconies and thats all they needed to know.

The agent looked at his watch. Just
about perfect for what you gents are after.

Wyatt and Jardine werent so sure.
They asked to see suites on the fourth and seventh floors. The agent let it be
known that there were also empty suites on the second and ninth floors, but
Wyatt said thanks, theyd had enough to be going on with, theyd decide this
weekend and be in touch.

Just remember, the agent said on
the footpath outside, sign a long lease and youll get the first six months
free.

They came back just before six oclock.
This time they wore dark overalls, balaclavas and latex gloves. Wyatt carried a
gym bag, Jardine an aluminium extension ladder. The doorman didnt recognise
the two men. As they came in from the footpath and advanced across the marble
floor, he put down his paper and asked, Help you blokes?

The lobby was empty. Jardine rested
the ladder against the high edge of the doormans desk and joined Wyatt in
leaning his forearms on the top. Then he reached over and pushed the doormans
chest. The mans chair was fitted with castors. It shot back, too quickly for
him to push the alarm button. By the time the chair had stopped moving and the
man had come out of his chair, Wyatt was behind the desk with him, tickling his
throat with the barrel of his .38. The doorman said what everyone says: What
do you want? His voice was shaky.

Wyatt took the gun away. The doorman
could still see it, he knew the threat was still there, but the cruel black
hole was pointing at the floor now. He gulped and tried to gather himself. What
do you fellows want?

Part of Wyatts job was to read men
like the doorman. He knew the doorman felt humiliation under the fear. The
doorman had a job to do, hed failed to do it, so maybe hed do something
foolish unless Wyatt eased the fear and the humiliation. He said gently, Whats
your name?

The doormans hair had worked free,
oily ropes of it like spaghetti over his left ear. He pushed it back across his
bald scalp and said, wanting to do the right thing, First name? Or both my
names?

First name will do fine.

The man worked some moisture into
his mouth. Bill.

Bill, Wyatt said. Well, Bill, we
want your help.

What kind of help?

Is the wife expecting you home?

Bill muttered, Single bloke.

Fine, so you dont need to call
anyone if youre going to be late?

No.

We need your keys for a while,
Bill. We also want you to lock the main door now and turn out a few lights so
the place looks closed. Can you do that?

Why the gun? What are you blokes up
to?

Im sorry, Bill, were in a hurry.
Just be satisfied that we dont intend to shoot anyone, okay?

Bill nodded. Wyatt escorted him to
the front door, watched him lock it, then took the keys from his nervy fingers.
Now, Im afraid we have to tie you up, Bill.

They roped his wrists and ankles to
the castor chair, taped his mouth and shut him in the cleaners storeroom. Ill
leave the light on, Bill, Wyatt said. Well be back for you in thirty
minutes, no more.

He had no intention of coming back,
but he didnt want the doorman to know that. He wanted the doorman to sit quiet
for a while, thats all.