Wyatt - 05 - Port Vila Blues (14 page)

Too much for Baker. He checked his
watch. Almost noon. Time for a few quick belts.

The pub across the road had Castlemaine
on tap. Baker had a schooner, a vodka chaser, a schooner, a vodka chaser. He
patted his pockets. Hed had a Serepax prescription filled just the other day.
He found the tablets in the same pocket as the car keys. He swallowed one, then
threw back another vodka. Another beer would have been a big mistake: Just
nipping out for a leak, your worship. Baker sniggered, imagining the look on
the beaks face.

The guy behind the bar gave him a
wink on the way out. Good luck, mate. Keep your head.

Thanks, Baker muttered.

Keep his head? What did the guy
mean? Baker crossed the road. On the other side he put one foot after the other
up the steps of the courthouse. In through the swinging doors and then a
double-check of the computer printout on the notice board. There it was: Baker,
Court 5, 2 p.m. He looked at his watch. Holy Christ, five past two.

Where have you been? Goldman
hissed outside number five court. She reeled back. Oh, Terry, you havent been
drinking?

Settles the nerves, he told her.

Well, come on. Victor De Lisles the
beak today and he doesnt like to be kept waiting.

It became apparent to Baker during
the twenty minutes that followed that he might have made a miscalculation with
his cocktail of beer, vodka and Serepax, especially on top of the downers hed
popped that morning. He was aware of the police prosecutor droning away: guy in
a suit, solid build, a moustache like you see on nine out of ten coppers. Then
Goldman had a go, and Baker heard her suggest to the beak that they settle his
case now, save some strain on the court system. Baker yawned a lot. He beamed.
He was required to stand through all of it and that was the hard part.

Then the fog cleared a little and
Baker felt the eyes of the magistrate fix on him. Baker twitched at the man,
halfway between an open smile and a respectful nod.

Ms Goldman?

Your worship?

Is Mr Baker inebriated? Have you
been drinking, Mr Baker?

If the court pleases, Mr Baker is
an alcoholic, a disease he is currently doing his best to overcome.

Thats not what I asked, Ms
Goldman. I asked whether or not he has taken upon himself to appear
in my
court
in a state of intoxication. Mr Baker, perhaps you would care to
honour us with an explanation one way or the other?

Baker frowned, picking his way through
the heavy language. Pardon?

Youre a bit of a
loafer,
eh,
Mr Baker?

A cop at the back laughed out loud.

De Lisle went on: Whens the last
time you did an honest days work, Baker? Maybe youre not a loaf, maybe youre
a sponge. Soak up the welfare system, do you, Baker? Got some poor woman at
home supporting you?

Your worship, I really must
protest

Im not interested, Ms Goldman. De
Lisles face twisted. I see his type over and over again. Useless. A drain on
the community. Repeat offenders too stupid to learn from their mistakes.

Your worship, really

Not now, Ms Goldman.

Something was going on. Baker
concentrated, hearing the sneer in De Lisles voice, registering the contempt.
De Lisle? What kind of a wog name was that? He saw a short, pink, fattish kind
of character, self-satisfaction written all over him. Ill get you, pal, Baker
thought. Calling me useless. Calling me stupid.

Meanwhile De Lisle was all
professional again. He overrode Goldman and began gabbling a legal summation in
a recitative voice, to the effect that Baker did have a case to answer and was
bailed on his own recognizance to appear in the District Court on a date to be
fixed.

Baker wasnt interested in that. He
barely listened. He was encouraging a picture in his head: De Lisle thrashing
about in pain, begging,
pleading
with Baker to spare his worthless life.

* * * *

Twenty

Wyatt
slowed for a traffic bottleneck in Ringwood, the hills clarifying in the
distance, and considered just how murky this deal with the Tiffany had become.
If Liz Redding were simply a fence, hed be wary out of habit, knowing that the
only other factor to take into account was the ripoff factor: you cant get rid
of the goods yourself, fences can, so youre forced to rely on them, knowing
theyll always rip you off a few per cent. But at least you also knew that
neither you nor the fence wanted the law involved.

But that kind of certainty didnt
exist when it came to someone who walked the murky ground between the insurance
companies and lawless professionals like Wyatt. The insurance companies were
ostensibly on the side of the law. The only thing in Wyatts favour here was
their well-known reluctance to fork out the full value on any claim. They would
rather fork out a few thousand dollars to get the Tiffany back intact, no
questions asked, than pay the full replacement valuewhich didnt mean they
wouldnt also work with the law if it suited them to do so.

With that in mind, Wyatt did what he
could to stack the odds in his favour. He hadnt been carrying for monthstoo much
metal, too many airport metal detectors, and Jardines burglaries hadnt
warranted a gun. But today he had Jardines unused, untraceable .32 automatic
in the waistband at the small of his back. Not his preferred handgun, but it
would do if the shooting were close and fast.

Next was the handover place itself.
If thered been more time and if he were dealing with a buyer or a fence, then
hed have insisted on meeting in the safety-deposit vault of a bank. Hed have
a safety-deposit box, the buyer would have a box. Hed have the Tiffany, the
buyer would have scales, pincers, jewellers eyeglass and purchase cash. Theyd
complete the trade in complete privacy and neither would be tempted to pull a
cross, not with so many guards, cameras, witnesses and steel doors around.

But there wasnt the time, and Liz
Redding wasnt a simple buyer or fence, so hed suggested a Devonshire tea
place near Emerald. It was taking him over an hour to get there, but the hills
offered escape routes and boltholes. He could slip away on one of the back
roads or hole up in a weekender cabin or even perch up a tree for a few hours.
Hed be hard to track from the air and hard to follow in the dense ground
cover.

He thought through the getaway
alternatives. If this were a trap he was walking into, hed run and keep
running, assuming he had the initiative to begin with. If not, then he was left
with holing up in Emerald until the heat was off, or holing up a few kilometres
away until it was safe to leave. He thought he knew how the cops would work it.
Theyd block the roads out first. If he didnt show, theyd move the search
closer to Emerald. Clearly the answer was, if he got away in the initial
confusion hed hide where he could watch the roadblocks. When they came down
for the cops to narrow the circle, that was the time to run and keep running.

Assuming the caf itself wasnt
being staked out, the interior crowded with cops posing as customers, waiters,
cashiers, cooks.

Finally, Wyatt had worked on
himself, doing what he always did before a hit. Hed eaten a modest breakfast,
enough to give him energy but not slow him down. He had a train timetable in
his pocket, and reserves of cash to buy his way out of trouble. And he was
wearing a useful, quick-change disguise if he needed one: the jacket was
reversible, there was a beret folded into an inside pocket, he wore sunglasses.
Change all three factors and he might change his appearance sufficiently to get
away unnoticed.

The caf offering Devonshire teas
was on the northern edge of the town, separated from the first of the shops by
a belt of gums, tree ferns and bracken. Wyatt parked the car in a bay outside a
milkbar, went in, bought an icecream, came out again. He set off down the
street, heading away from the caf. He strolled for four blocks, not hurrying,
taking tiny smears of the icecream into his mouth to make it last. Then he
crossed the street and came back, pausing now and then at the window of a craft
shop, a nursery, a display of New Age crystals and self-help books. The crystals
and the books were incomprehensible to Wyatt.

The sweep was smooth, methodical,
made with the steady, quiet competence with which he stamped all his jobs. He
didnt let the tension of his situation work on his nerves. It helped that he
didnt see anything that he hadnt expected to see. There were a few tourists
like himself, a few local merchants, housewives doing the shopping, a couple of
horticultural types in Land Rovers and here and there a stoned-looking sixties
counter-culture throwback, probably from a hovel back in the hills somewhere.
Wyatt preferred the pure, peeping bellbirds to any of them.

By now he had a clear picture of the
Devonshire tea place. It had a first floor balcony with umbrellas open to the
sun, but he wasnt about to tree himself there. Hed meet Liz Redding on the
ground floor: plenty of doors to the open, and plenty of windows if it should
come to a dive through the plate glass, his jacket over his face and arms for
protection. Otherwise there seemed to be a basement, a rose arbour at the side,
a couple of shadowed porches and alcoves of greenish, weathered boards. Hed
stay clear of places like that, just as he stayed clear of any place where he
might find his exits blocked in front of him and some final threat coming hard
behind him.

So, he was as safe as he could make
himself. That left only the negotiation itself. Wyatt had no doubts about his
strength there: he had the Tiffany, Liz Redding wanted it.

What else did she want? He wanted
her, but that didnt mean he was going to act on it. Then he stopped thinking
those things and watched a car pull into the small asphalted area in front of
the caf. Liz Redding was driving but it was not the car shed been driving the
day he and Jardine had met her at the motel in Preston. No sticker of any kind
in the rear window.

She got out. Plenty of loose
material hanging on her slim frame today: baggy pants, a billowing white
T-shirt reaching to her knees. She swung the strap of a black purse over one
shoulder and strode into the caf. He went in after her, knowing that he wouldnt
feel any more or less safe five minutes from now.

* * * *

Twenty-one

Baker
trailed Ms Goldman back to her office, and the moment he pulled the ugly vinyl
chair up to her desk he blurted it out: You know what he bloody well called
me? Stupid, useless, lazy.

She took some time to respond, his
file spread open in front of her. Hed noticed that about her before. Getting
her attention was like trying to turn a ship at sea, you had to allow plenty of
room and time. Well, she was Legal Aid, the government was paying her, so he
wasnt going to get top priority. If he had plenty of dough, shed be all over
him. Finally she dragged her eyes away from the file, saying Hmmm? absently,
looking more or less past his right ear, not into his eyes.

Useless, Baker repeated. He said
I was stupid and lazy.

I dont recall that.

Thats what he said. Shouldnt be
allowed. I mean, fair go, theres a recession on. Baker waved his hand to
indicate the masses huddled in the corridors and waiting rooms outside. I bet
fifty per cent of the poor bastards who come here havent got a job, so why
have a go at me?

I remember he asked if you were a
loafer, the Goldman woman said, twinkling a little.

See? Like I said, he called me
lazy.

Oh, Terry, thats just his little
joke, a play on words. Your name is Baker, right? Bakers bake loaves, hence
loafer.

Baker wasnt about to let her
mollify him. He felt obscurely ashamed and bitter. What about calling me
stupid and useless? Anyhow, what kind of names De Lisle? Wog name, not even
Australian.

The lawyer refused to answer that.
She was looking into his face now, all right, so he knew hed hit a nerve. She
held his gaze, cool and blank, and he looked away, trying to make it casual,
masking it with a cough, a scratch, a realignment of his limbs in the orange
chair.

Maybe the Goldman woman was
relenting, for she said, It was the luck of the draw that we got him today,
rotten luck in fact. He does have a reputation.

Tell me about it, Baker muttered.
He looked into the distance to show that he didnt give a shit.

But hes highly regarded and he
does his bit, which is more than you can say about a lot of others.

Yeah? How? Baker demanded.

She shrugged. Well, hes a circuit
magistrate in a couple of Pacific countries.

Baker grunted. Lets hope a shark
gets him.

He added the shark to the fall off a
cliff, the shorting light switch igniting built-up gas, the smacking front of a
Mack truck, the sort of thing he could set up so it looked like an accident.

Ms Goldman laughed, a genuine laugh,
as if they were on the same wavelength when it came to De Lisle and what he
deserved. Maybe the guy had squeezed her one day without being asked, Baker
thought, gazing at her, thinking hed like a piece of that himself.

She read it in his eyes and
something in her shut down again, her shoulders hunching forward, her forearms
on the desk, effectively closing her body off from him. Now, Terry, your
defence, she said.