Death Deal w-3 Read online

  This is the first place you checked. Youve got stuff stashed here, right?

  All along there had been a vicious edge to Finns voice. Wyatt knew it would be dangerous to play for time with Finn. The man would work the knife on him until he talked, and enjoy doing it. There, he said, pointing.

  Get it.

  Wyatt reached up, withdrew the money, turned around cautiously. He got his first good look at Finn: compactly put together, with a short neck, small hands, skinny forearms, an indistinct, forgettable face.

  Wordlessly Wyatt handed over the money.

  Finn took it and stepped back. He still held the knife, cutting the air between them rhythmically like a charmer distracting a cobra. Wyatt saw him risk a look at the money inside the sandwich bag. It was in hundreds, held together by a paper clip, but there were only twenty of them, scarcely any thickness at all. Finn looked up in disbelief. And the rest.

  I told you. Thats all there is.

  Finn snarled, advancing on Wyatt. Bullshit. I bet its all like this, a bit here and a bit there all over the place, am I right? He jerked his head. Come on, smartarse, the pump shed.

  Finn had made two mistakes. Hed allowed Wyatt to turn and face him and hed lost his temper. All his anger was concentrated in the arm that held the money. He shook it in Wyatts face, the knife arm temporarily forgotten, and Wyatt lashed out with his right foot, driving the heavy leather toecap into Finns ankle. Finn screamed, dropped to the ground. He huddled on the flagstones, rocking himself for comfort, clutching his foot.

  He wouldnt stay like that. He had youth and the knife on his side. Wyatt headed for the door, leaping as Finn slashed at him with the knife, and ran toward the pump house. He had about thirty seconds to remove the plate and retrieve the Colt from its hiding place under the pump. If the nuts were seized by age and rust, his thirty seconds could count for nothing at all.

  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?

  Garry Disher

  Wyatt — 03 — Death Deal

  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.

  Wyatt looked around swiftly. It seemed promising. Harbutt, he noticed, was sweating. He hadnt been drinking, the job was making him edgy.

  They prowled around the shop floor. By six oclock the last of the goods had been delivered and the sales staff were heading for their cars. The nightwatchman had based himself at the door. He was middle-aged, beer fat and unhealthy looking. All his attention was on the young women as they left the building. He stared after them, rubbing his palms on his thighs. Hed set a bright red canvas directors chair nearby. He looked like a man who intended to get the weight off his feet when the place was empty. Sit in his chair and stare out at the night.

  He didnt see Wyatt and Harbutt in the dark rear of the big room. They climbed the stairs, let themselves into the first office. It contained a desk, photocopier and filing cabinet. They settled down to wait. A dim globe at the head of the stairs leaked enough light through the frosted glass for them to see one another. Later, when the nightwatchman was dozing or inattentive, they would check the other offices. From time to time they murmured. Harbutt talked edgily, as though the building bothered him: too big, too isolated, too many sounds of its own. Wyatt let him talk. They wouldnt be heard here and theyd know if the nightwatchman was climbing the stairs. If he did climb them, that ishe had no reason to.

  At nine oclock, two things happened. A vehicle pulled up outside, there were voices, a different vehicle drove away.

  And lights went on all over the building.

  Thirteen

  Light flooded the tiny office. Wyatt stiffened. He shifted around the wall until the desk screened him from the door. From that position he could see Harbutt clearly. Harbutt was on the floor, his back to the wall, leg
s straight out. He was slack, fatalistic, as if hed expected the lights. Now he drew up his knees, rested his forehead on them. For a short time, nothing happened. Wyatt watched Harbutt coldly. After a while, Harbutt felt the force of Wyatt there in the room with him, and began to talk. His voice was low, scarcely audible, and what he said was:

  Its not easy getting retrenched at my age. It gets to you, eats away at you. I doubt if Ill find another joba bloke like me, Im for the scrap heap. I cant turn pro. Im not like you, I cant put something together and make it work.

  Wyatt didnt reply. He might have been listening to Harbutt, or listening to the vast silence outside the door. He had his Colt out.

  You were right to drop us, Harbutts muffled voice went on. Derns not solid enough. Anyone can see that. Theas got a vicious streak. She doesnt like to be crossed.

  The building sat silent and brightly lit on the dark plain. Presently Wyatt said, Youd better tell me what happened.

  Harbutt shifted his rump to get comfortable. After you shot through the other night, Dern kicked Thea out of his car and said he was finished with her. I gave her a lift home. You know what shes like, Wyatt. One thing led to another. I mustve been crazy. I mean, it shouldve been clear as the nose on my face it wasnt me she was interested in. She thought Id lead her to you, I suppose.

  You told her about tonight?

  Its getting sacked like that, mate. It was a shock. I was never that good at putting money away. My redundancys already eaten up with the mortgage. He looked directly at Wyatt for the first time. Theres a price on your head, twenty grand, did you know that?

  You and Thea shopped me to the Outfit?

  Harbutt nodded.

  And our nightwatchmans been bribed to go and get himself a cup of coffee for the next hour or two?

  Harbutt nodded again. And thats all I know about it, I swear. I dont know if theres one gun out there or a dozen.

  Not a dozen, Wyatt thought. The Outfit was Sydney based, weak in Melbourne, so they wouldnt have organised that many guns. They would have sent a local, maybe two. He slid along the floor and eased open the door to the corridor.