Wyatt - 05 - Port Vila Blues (11 page)

Okay, so we dont tackle De Lisle.
What do we do? He picked up the surveillance photographs of Wyatt and Jardine.
What if these characters shoot their mouths off about where they got the
brooch? What if theyre arrested and start making deals? I dont want to wake
up one morning to find the toecutters on my doorstep. I dont want to wake up
knowing Ive been ripped off.

You go on back to Sydney, keep an
eye on De Lisle, Springett said easily. He glanced at Lillecrapp. Meanwhile Ill
plug a few holes down here.

* * * *

Fourteen

Shaken
by his encounter with the men outside the U-Store, Crystal said stuff it to De
Lisles stipulation about no cabs. He collected the tartan suitcase from the
U-Store, walked back to the station and hailed the first taxi on the rank.

The driver was a woman and she
sniffed slowly, deliberately, when he got into the back seat, not the front.
Barrel-shaped, a sparse pelt of carroty hair on her fleshy head, no one was
going to take her for granted. Plenty of room up front.

Im tired.

Her voice was a nicotine-riddled
croak. So am I, Sunshine, so am I, but I say were only on this earth once.

Crystal tuned her out. He stared at
the dewy cars streaming both ways along Spencer Street, his arm protectively
around De Lisles suitcase against his thigh on the seat beside him. He itched
to open it, but it had been locked and he didnt have a key.

What are ya? Pilot? Cabin steward?
You know what they say about cabin stewards, and she began to wheeze, a
version of a laugh.

Crystal focused on the driver. Her
head was a hazy balloon shape spotlit by the low morning sun. He held the
suitcase closer to his hip.

I asked what you did, she said.

Crystal looked away from her. She
hadnt washed recently. He opened the window a couple of centimetres.

Cat got your tongue?

The taxi had stopped for the King
Street lights. There was a luggage tag attached to the tartan suitcase: black
leather with a clear cellophane window. Crystal fished a name card from his
pocket, reversed it and printed the words Mr Huntsman, Reriki Resort on it,
then slipped the card into the leather tag.

Huntsman. What crap. Crystal was
tempted to remove the card and write De Lisle down instead. But that would let
De Lisle know he was onto him.

Ill say it againcat got your
tongue?

Crystal didnt know why he had to be
subjected to this and he told the woman so.

Some people, they think their shit
doesnt stink.

Crystal admonished himself. Dont
say anything, dont give her an edge of encouragement. He felt the cabs tyres
slap over tramtracks. A few minutes later he lurched gently against his door.
The woman had turned left with a faint tyre squeal and was accelerating along
William Street. He mentally plotted their route: skirt the Vic Market, merge
right onto Remington Road, right again onto the Tullamarine Freeway.

He stared at the cars and buildings
without seeing them. All of Crystals grief led back to De Lisle, starting with
an interview room that was like any interview room anywhere: functional,
sparse, close and sour, as though every falsehood, craven emotion and
confession ever heard in it had become a permanent part of the air and the
fittings.

There had been others there in the
room with De Lisle: a senior federal policeman, a senator, a shorthand typist, a
couple of sour faces in suits. De Lisle had started the questioning: Like the
tropics, do you, Louis?

At once Crystal had known what this
was about. He looked at De Lisle, looked him full in the eyes, small eyes
behind a protective squint. My job takes me there.

The Fed leaned forward. He was a
charmer, full of smiles, only they were the professional smiles of a cadaverous
undertaker. Were not talking about your crappy job. Were talking about other
sorts of trips. Holidays, kind of thing.

Crystal said: Sorry, was that a
question?

The Fed ignored him. He flipped
through a file on the desk in front of him. Youre single?

Crystal said nothing.

I beg your pardonI see here that
you were married once but divorced several years ago. No kids, I take it?

Crystal shook his head
imperceptibly.

De Lisle said, Youve got a
girlfriend though.

Crystal shrugged. Is that a crime?

A single mother, I believe. Two
boys, six and eight.

The Fed leaned back, folded his arms
across his chest. Some blokes have trouble relating to women. Im not saying
theyre queer or anythingthey switch their attention to little kiddies.

By befriending single mothers,
said one of the suits.

Look, if you lot are going to
charge me with anything, charge me.

This is only an inquiry, Mr
Crystal, the senator said.

De Lisle cut in: Some men seek
attention in other ways, like hanging around in public lavatories, slipping
porn under the door to kids, shrugging as if all this were regrettable but
understandable. Kids are curious. I know I was at that age. They want to find
out more, so its only natural some of them will follow through.

The senator had looked on, appalled
and fascinated. The nameless faces in suits smiled a little. De Lisle and the
Fed watched Crystal shift in his seat. There was a cast in one of the Feds
eyes, giving him a look of permanent scepticism. But youd think the toilet
block approach would be pretty dicey. Thered have to be easier ways of getting
kids to come across for you.

I wouldnt know.

So you just
amble
your way
through life, not thinking about sordid things like that, De Lisle said.

Crystal stiffened. He had caught the
mans word stress.

Funny you should say that, your
worship, the Fed said. AMBL is an acronym.

Is it?

Association for Man-Boy Love.

Huh, De Lisle said, full of
wonder. Better than Australian Paedophile Support Group. You cant get an
acronym out of that.

The seconds ticked by. De Lisle
turned the pages in Crystals file. Well theres a coincidence.

What?

Our friend here has been to
Thailand and the Philippines six times in the past three years.

Go on.

Yep. I asked him just now if he
liked the tropics but I dont think I caught his answer. De Lisle bent
forward, trying to look up into Crystals face. Where do you like best?
Thailand? Maybe Jontien? I hear its got a fantastic white beach. Or maybe you
prefer the Philippines? I hear Batangas is nice.

One of the suits said: A bloke who
was so inclined could pick himself up a kid for ten bucks in one of them
places.

Those places, De Lisle corrected
automatically. You know what they say, Lou: Sex before eight, or its too
late. Would you say that, Lou, old son, old pal, old sport?

Crystal remembered turning on De
Lisle, snarling: I dont know what youre on about. Whatever it is, youre
barking up the wrong tree.

The Fed said coldly, Quit the
bulldust, Crystal. Youre a rock spider. Think what the hard boys in Pentridge
will do to you when they find out. They hate guys like you even worse than they
hate cops. All those hard men, sexually abused by blokes like you when they
were little kids. Theyll cut off your cock and make you eat it.

The senator gasped. Crystal said, You
cant prove anything.

Yeah? The Fed leaned down, fumbled
in a briefcase, came up with a videotape. We found this in your ceiling this morning.
You seem to be having more fun than the kid. What is he, Thai? About eight
years old?

Crystal had let a sob rip from his
throat. Children seduce too. Its not only the adults.

But theyre still children, the
senator said. He grimaced. People like you, you give Australia a bad name in
Asia.

There was silence. To fill it,
Crystal found himself saying, I want to make a deal.

A deal? De Lisle said. You havent
been charged with anything. This is an inquiry, thats all, a fact-finding exercise.

An hour later, Crystal had been out
on the street, sweating, drained, pale, but a free man. Free until De Lisle got
in touch with him that evening with a proposition.

Unvarying red tiles and powerlines
were slipping by now as the taxi jockeyed for a clear run along the freeway.
When the airport came into view, Crystal leaned forward and said, International
terminal.

Oh,
International
terminal,
whoopy doo, the woman said.

Crystal gave her the exact fare,
told her to keep the change, and got out. Inside the terminal he reported for
duty, stashed the tartan suitcase in his staffroom locker and helped get the
airbus ready. It was a day like any other.

So far.

But knowledge was power and forty
minutes before takeoff Crystal made his way to the airlines supply room. Among
the airsickness bags, spare pillows and blankets, plastic suit covers and
aircrew badges and caps there was a bunch of keys. Hed once counted them:
forty. Suitcase keys, hanging on a brass ring like ranks of tiny flattened people.
The airline had collected the keys over many years. There was always a
passenger whod lost the keys to his luggage. There was always one key that
would fit.

He waited until he was alone in the
locker room and went to work on the tartan suitcase. The sixteenth key sprang
the lock and he found neatly packed but cheap shirts, underwear and socks.
Disappointed, he began to rummage, and thats when he found the stuff. He
gaped, felt the surface of his skin tingle: brooches, necklaces, earrings,
pendants, rings. Something about the weight and density of the metal, the way
the stones caught the light, told him that De Lisle was no traveller in costume
jewellery.

* * * *

Fifteen

In
the way that he obsessively aligned the edges of knives and forks with the
weave pattern in a tablecloth, or stacked firewood according to size, Wyatt
walked once a day, every day. This walk took him in a loop around the high
streets of Battery Point, then down onto Salamanca Place and past the yacht
basin, and finally up again into the steep slopes of North Hobart. If he ever
varied his route it was to cut down the Kelly Steps instead of through the
park, or circle the moorings clockwise instead of anticlockwise.

Two weeks since the Double Bay job
and this morning there was blossom on the fruit trees in the Battery Point
gardens. Wyatt paused to stare at a house on the park overlooking the water. A
climbing rose clung to the verandah posts and there was old glass in the
windows, thick and irregular, so that the massive sideboard and silver
candlesticks in the room behind the glass seemed to swim in and out of shape. A
widows walk went right around the house and Wyatt could imagine sitting up
there, watching the big ocean-going yachts tacking up the Derwent. He wondered
if a woman had ever paced the boards of that widows walk a hundred and fifty
years ago, watching for returning sails or waiting for a knock on the door.

Wyatt decided to go by way of Kelly
Street. He plunged down the Kelly Steps, hearing the clack of a typewriter in
the tiny whalers cottage at the head of the steps, then slowed. There was a
man below him, mounting the steps, and at the bend he stopped and looked up.
Wyatt tensed, gauging the danger in front of him, listening for footsteps
behind him. When he was putting a hit together he made it a point to avoid
lifts, undercover carparks, stairwells. He never let himself get boxed in.
Instinct and caution had got him through forty years on the planet but this
time hed allowed his guard to relax.

He stopped and began to crouch, as
though to tie his shoelace. At the same time he turned his head and glanced
back toward the head of the steps. Clear. He glanced down again and relaxed.
There was fury on the mans face, directed at a daydreaming child, a small boy
trailing his fingers on the stone and singing softly to himself. Jesus Christ,
get a move on, the man snarled, reaching down to yank the boys arm.

Wyatt straightened and continued on
down the steps. Who would come for him here, anyway? All the old scores had
been settled.

He strolled the length of Salamanca
Place, keeping to the grass islands, avoiding the spill of tourists and
drinkers outside the cafs and bars. After a moments confusion about traffic
flow at the end of the walk, he circled around to the right, past a restored
ketch and on to the main dock area. More tourists, queuing for ferry rides,
reading menus outside one of the restaurants, gawking at the yachts.

Wyatt gawked, too, but with a more
critical eye. For the past six weeks hed been paying an old yachtsman to take
him out in the mans two-master and teach him how to work the sails, navigate,
look after himself at sea. When he had the money, when he had cleared his
obligation to Frank Jardine, he would buy a boat and live on it. A boat made
sense, given the life Wyatt had chosen to lead, was forced to lead. He didnt
think that fate would let him live in one place year after year again, and he
didnt want to stake everything on a house and land if the police or some
death-dealer from the past managed to find him and force him to abandon it all
and run again. If he lived on a boat hed be mobile. He could follow the big
jobs around, or move on whenever the local heat got too much for him. Plenty of
people lived on boats. There were globetrotters moored in every marina and
yacht basin in the world. No one would ask him to justify himself, no one would
notice him. And although he wouldnt have the rolling open hills of the place
on the coast hed been forced to abandon three years ago, hed at least have
the vast sea and sky.