Pay Dirt w-2 Read online

  ‘Something’s going on over the road,’ the licensee said.

  Trigg paused. The licensee was wiping glasses and looking out the window at the camp beyond the vine-covered pub verandah.

  The farmer turned to look. So did Trigg and Venables. They watched, fascinated. There were white cars and vans everywhere and knots of policemen struggling with angry construction workers.

  ‘It’s a raid,’ Trigg said.

  As they watched, a tall figure loped unnoticed from a corner shed, scaled the fence as if it were nothing, and dropped this side of it. He seemed to land on the run. There was something skilled and resolute in the way he moved.

  Venables and Trigg pushed through the old-fashioned swing doors. The road was empty. Shouts and struggling continued inside the camp, but the man had disappeared.

  Then they heard a car start up. It entered the road in a controlled skid, fishtailed in the gravel, and sped past them, the engine working hard. It was a big, dusty Ford and they had an impression of intensity and jutting angles in the man behind the wheel.

  Trigg, seeming to swell, stamped his little heels. ‘Bastard. He’s taken the LTD.’ He shook his fist at the receding dust cloud. ‘You’re history, pal.’

  ****

  FIVE

  The keys were in the ignition of Trigg’s LTD so Wyatt took that rather than waste time hot-wiring one of the rust buckets in the used-car lot. He headed north from Belcowie, driving the big car punishingly, feeling it bounce and shudder on the torn-up roads. He lost control at one point, spinning around in gravel and slamming against a strainer post. It slowed him down. The side panel had buckled, scraping the front tyre, and he limped into Terowie, a small town on the Broken Hill road. General MacArthur had stopped there once, in 1942; that was all Wyatt knew about the place.

  Within five minutes he had stolen another car. He drove south this time, keeping to the main road. In Riverton he stole a third car. The closer he got to Adelaide, the more civilised the landscape seemed to become. The towns were closer together, the farms less wind- and sun-blighted. But he was afraid of roadblocks. At Tarlee he headed across to Nuriootpa and wound through the small towns, wineries and sleepy tourist roads of the Barossa Valley. Then, hoping they’d think he was aiming for Melbourne, he turned south-east and drove to Murray Bridge. He dumped the third car there and caught an Adelaide train, getting off in the Adelaide Hills.

  He walked the final ten kilometres to Leah’s house, taking small back roads which were choked on either side with blackberry bushes. Soon his heart stopped hammering. The hills reminded him of the small farm on the Victorian coast which he’d been forced to abandon a few weeks earlier. There were the same orchards and fat white sheep, the same geometric patterns of roads, paddocks, hedges and townships. Only the sea was missing. He breathed in and out, almost enjoying himself.

  He let the tension run out of his body and started to think about the chinks he’d identified in the Steelgard operation. Wyatt didn’t take foolish risks. Having a shot at the Belcowie payroll now would be risky but he thought he could make it a calculated risk. He acknowledged the element of frustration in his motives, but frustration wasn’t an emotion he had much time for.

  Wyatt was forty years old. Respectable men his age were marking time until their retirement. The hard men his age were dead or in gaol. Wyatt was different. He’d never been burdened by doubt, uncertainty or personal ties. He worked from an emotionless base. He could cut to the essentials of a job and stamp his cold hard style on it.

  The essentials of this job were clear-the Steelgard operation was vulnerable, at least on the Belcowie run. The guards were careless and lazy, the delivery itself unvarying and insecure. He’d have to change the how and the where, though. Belcowie and the Brava camp would be in a state of tension for the next few weeks.

  A car changed down to first gear behind him and began to labour up the hill. He stepped off the road and into a clump of trees. The vehicle came into view, a faded green Land Rover with dogs and fencing wire in the back.

  When it had gone, he continued walking. Ten minutes later he came to the little town where Leah lived. It was called Heindorf and revealed the German influence in its cottagey stone houses, painted wood trims and European trees.

  He stood at the end of her street and crouched as if to tie his shoelaces. He couldn’t see anything that shouldn’t be there. The cars were the same ones he’d seen a few weeks ago. No one was about. He stood up, entered the street, and walked to the end. Leah’s house was halfway along. Everything looked all right. He turned the corner. The street backed onto a small pine forest. He climbed through a wire fence, circled behind the first row of trees, and stopped at the rear of Leah’s house. He checked for life in the neighbouring houses. No windows were visible, only fences and backyard fruit trees. It was early evening. Here and there a light was on.

  Leah was squatting with a trowel at the edge of a strawberry patch when he cleared her back fence. He landed neatly and crouched, as still as a spooked cat in the twilight. She didn’t seem surprised to see him; she merely stabbed the trowel into the black soil and stood up.

  ‘It was on the six o’clock news,’ she said, brushing her hands on her jeans.

  ‘Immigration?’

  She nodded. ‘They detained eight of Jorge’s Chileans.’

  ‘Anything about me?’

  ‘Only that one man had escaped in a stolen car,’ Leah said.

  Then she looked bitter. ‘I had to tell my girls to pull out. The feds were getting nosy.’ She shook her head. ‘It was a goldmine while it lasted.’

  She was getting depressed. Wyatt knew her well enough to read the signs. She’d sometimes fall into a fatalistic blackness of spirit that might be triggered by some reversal but was never entirely absent from her makeup. She thought of her past as a yoke. She’d been on the game for years, and now she ran girls who’d once been like her. She believed that she’d be happy when she broke out of that pattern. She needed luck, she’d say sometimes. Luck and money.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ Wyatt said.

  ‘That’s what you’re good at, Wyatt.’

  He let it go. He said, ‘I want another crack at the payroll. I need your help.’

  He knew that she welcomed action when she got the blues. He watched her. Normally he thought of her as having the kind of grave beauty that didn’t need a smile or other signs of life, but now she grinned. Her nose wrinkled. It altered her entire face.

  ****

  SIX

  The day started badly for Trigg and it got worse. First there was an article in Cosmopolitan. He’d gone into ‘Cut and Dried’ for a body-wave, add a few centimetres to his height, and he was under the dryer, flipping pages, when he came to ‘Short Men-Are They Sexy?’ Raelene had yanked him out before he finished the article but not before he’d read that because Alan Ladd was so short, Hollywood had shot all his love scenes with him standing on a box.

  Then when Trigg walked back down the main street of Goyder, two people made cracks about the LTD getting stolen in Belcowie the day before, and his reflection in the shop windows showed that his body-wave was full of air, standing up from his head like it was in shock. His cuban-heeled elastic-sided boots seemed to expand to the size of footballs on his feet. He had the feeling the whole of Goyder was laughing at him. It got so bad that he stopped and bought a tub of Brylcreem, and back at Trigg Motors he plastered his hair down and saw clients without getting up from behind his desk.

  But he’d asked the mayor to drop by after lunch. He’d have to stand up then- there was a lot at stake. She arrived at two-fifty, twenty minutes late, and he took her on a tour of the showrooms, service bays and car lots of Trigg Motors, calling her ‘your worship’.

  Then he took her back to his office. ‘Coffee?’ he said. ‘Tea? Something stronger? I got sherry, gin and tonic, rum and coke?’

  The mayor’s cat’s-arse mouth tightened. She seemed to sniff. ‘I’m afraid I have to get back to chambers,�
�� she said.

  Trigg knew then that he’d lost, but still, he grew businesslike and clapped his hands together. ‘I’ll be brief,’ he said. ‘I’ve been in this city ten years. Trigg Motors is a pretty big concern, I employ a lot of people, plus there’s all the other spin-offs for the local economy. The city’s done a lot for me, now I want to give something back.’

  ‘Mr Trigg-’

  ‘Liberal endorsement for Central Ward next month,’ Trigg cut in. ‘As a Councillor I could do a lot for this city.’

  The mayor had started to back towards the door. She was a neat little package in her formal spring suit, stiff hair and handbag, and Trigg wanted to push her over. ‘Oh, I am sorry,’ the mayor said. ‘The Party’s already got someone in mind for Central.’

  ‘That was quick,’ Trigg said, before he could stop himself.

  ‘Mr Trigg, there are procedures. Long service to the Liberal Party, and so forth.’

  Trigg wanted to say, And old money. And brown-nosing. He held it back and kept his voice even. ‘Perhaps if I could address the local branch?’

  The mayor stopped backing away from him and seemed to come to a decision. Her chin up, her back straight, she said, ‘I think it only fair to tell you we can’t afford to do anything, well, open to interpretation.’

  Trigg’s face changed. ‘Spit it out,’ he snarled.

  The mayor flushed. ‘The rumours,… I’m sorry, Mr Trigg,’ she said.

  This time she reached the door and opened it and disappeared through it.

  Trigg’s right hand went up to shape and pat his hair. It came away slicked with Brylcreem. He checked in his desk drawer mirror and saw a gleam of oil on the tops of his ears. He wiped them with his handkerchief. He was churning inside. His debts were crippling him; business was non-existent. But try and expand, make the necessary contacts, and see where it got you. The old money had this town sewn up tight.

  The call on his private line came soon after that. He heard the STD beeps and then Leo Mesic in Melbourne was saying, ‘You were down this month.’

  Trigg went pale. Panic settled in him. He hated and feared the Mesics.

  ‘Well?’ the voice said.

  Trigg tried to rally. After all, Melbourne was six hundred and fifty kilometres away. ‘I was down last month and I’ll be down next month. There’s a recession on.’

  The voice went on as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘You know how it works-every time you miss a payment or part thereof, you’re deeper in shit.’

  Trigg wanted to say, Watch my lips. ‘What do you people expect over there?’ he said. ‘You tie me up with cars no one here can afford, they’re using the farm ute till wheat and wool prices come good again. The guy subcontracting the pills, booze and the videos owes me twenty thousand. The kids have switched to sniffing Clag or something because they can’t afford speed. I mean, what do you expect? You must be getting the same story from all your other mugs.’

  While Leo Mesic responded to him, Trigg reflected that there wasn’t much difference between an upright citizen cunt and a gangster cunt. They both squeezed you out. Neither gave you a break.

  ‘…which comes to three hundred thousand you owe us,’ the man in Melbourne said.

  ‘Look, no offence, but when people here pay me what they owe me, I’ll pay you what I owe you.’

  People like Tub Venables, he thought. It was ironical-the Mesics had him paying interest on the interest, and he had Venables paying interest on the interest, and neither of them could pay. The only way I’ll get anything out of Venables, he thought, is payment in kind.

  Out of the hum on the line Leo Mesic said doubtfully, ‘Maybe we can discount the cars.’

  ‘That would help,’ Trigg said, keeping it light.

  Underneath it he felt sour and anxious. The Mesics had him where they wanted him-by the balls. Now that they’d got him to invest, they weren’t about to let him buy his way out. The booze, videos and drugs were cheap, but he still had to pay up front. The stolen cars all had ‘legitimate’ paperwork but they were Mercs and Volvos and top of the range Toyotas that no one could afford any more. Would they let him sell on consignment? No way. He could run, but they’d track him down sooner or later.

  ‘Three hundred thousand,’ Leo Mesic said. ‘See what you can do to reduce it.’

  The line went dead, but the day didn’t improve. Trigg’s intercom buzzed a few minutes later and Liz in reception said, ‘Sergeant King to see you. Shall I send him in?’

  Jesus Christ, Trigg thought. ‘Did he say what he wants?’

  ‘Something about yesterday.’

  ‘Has he found the LTD?’

  ‘He didn’t say. He just said can he have a word about yesterday.’

  ‘Tell him to come in,’ Trigg said.

  At first Trigg thought he’d remain behind his desk, but then he thought you can’t do that to a cop who’s maybe doing you a favour, so he was standing at the window, looking out at acres of Volvos, Mercs and Toyotas, all unsold, all stolen, when King came in.

  ‘Master of all he surveys,’ King said.

  Trigg kept his face even. King could be a sly bastard. Either he was being pleasant or he was saying he knew the cars were bent. Well, let him. Using the cover of pumping petrol for Trigg after school, King’s son pushed dope to the town’s riffraff.

  ‘Fancy a Laser?’ Trigg said. ‘I can give you two thou off this week.’

  ‘Speak to the wife,’ King said. He was six feet tall, veined and stringy as a length of rope. Trigg had to cock his head back to see King’s face. ‘Listen,’ King went on, ‘we just traced your car.’

  Trigg winced and shielded his face, miming apprehension. ‘Break it to me gently, old son.’

  ‘Smashed headlight, crumpled passenger-side wing.’

  ‘The bastard. Where was it?’

  ‘Terowie.’

  ‘Terowie? He’s heading for Broken Hill,’ Trigg said. ‘He’ll go to ground there with all the other wogs.’

  ‘Did he look wog to you?’

  Trigg shrugged. ‘These days your wog looks like you or me. You can’t tell.’

  ‘According to the blokes he worked with, he’s not wog, he’s Australian.’

  ‘So why did he run?’

  ‘You tell me,’ King said.

  They stood side by side at the window. Outside, Happy Whelan was washing an XJ6 in his overalls. He looked like an ox with a toothache. Acres of duco baked in the sun. ‘With all the excitement there yesterday,’ Trigg said, almost to himself, ‘I thought maybe someone was trying to snatch the payroll.’

  ****

  SEVEN

  ‘Leah sent me,’ Wyatt said.

  The man wearing the overalls had a wedge of watermelon at his mouth. He was snatching bites from it as if Wyatt had a stopwatch on him. He spat out a pip. ‘Leah,’ he said, wiping the juice away.

  ‘She said you could fix me up with a bike.’

  The sign outside said Jap Job. The proprietor of Jap Job gestured with the watermelon at the motorcycle parts, tools and greasy rags that surrounded him. ‘Bikes are my business,’ he said.

  ‘She said ask for one of your specials,’ Wyatt said.

  ‘Did she now?’ The proprietor snatched another bite from his watermelon. He had long, tangled hair and a drooping moustache. There was juice on his chin. He chewed for a while, then pointed the watermelon rind at Wyatt. ‘If ever your guts are crook,’ he said, ‘eat this.’ He tossed it away then, dramatically, stood stock still and brought out a liquid belch. ‘Better out than in.’

  Wyatt was tired of this. ‘Let me concentrate your mind,’ he said, lighting a match and throwing it on the floor. It landed a metre away from a cut-down drum in which carburettor parts were soaking in petrol. He followed it with a second match.

  The proprietor of Jap Job went white and rigid. ‘It’s concentrated, it’s concentrated.’

  ‘I want a bike that’s good on the open road and across country. Something strong, fast and light. I want it today, and I d
on’t want anything that can be traced to some semitrailer hijack.’

  The man went sullen. ‘It’ll cost you.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Three thousand.’

  Wyatt had money left over from the job that had gone sour in Melbourne, so he didn’t quibble. ‘What time?’

  ‘Five.’

  ‘Five o’clock,’ Wyatt said, and walked back onto the street.

  Jap Job was a stone and corrugated iron shed in a side street behind the business centre of Gawler, a town forty minutes north of Adelaide. Wyatt walked back to the centre, found a hotel, and ate a mixed grill. It was the first mixed grill he’d eaten for five years. He’d thought they’d gone out of fashion. He asked for a glass of light beer with it. The barman managed to sneer without moving a muscle in his face. Wyatt supposed that the only light beer served in this pub was in the ladies’ lounge.

  He spent the afternoon exploring. He’d gone to Adelaide by bus and to Gawler by train and he was tired of sitting down. He liked Gawler. He liked the old stone buildings and the river, the town-and-country feel about the place.

  At four-thirty he retrieved the backpack he’d stashed in a station locker and by ten to five he was at the rear of Jap Job. Easy Rider had looked like the sort of man who’d call in the Hell’s Angels to sort out his grievances, but there were no strangers about.

  At five o’clock Wyatt came in the front way, his hands loose at his sides. There was a motorbike in the corner that hadn’t been there before. The proprietor didn’t greet Wyatt, only said, ‘Suzuki Five Hundred. Clean as a whistle, climb Mt Everest.’

  Wyatt didn’t care what sort of bike it was. He straddled it, to see how it would fit him. The engine felt warm, so he started it with the ignition key. It fired up, low and satisfying. He turned it off again.

  ‘You want to test her?’ the man said.

  ‘I’ll be back if it’s no good.’