Cross Kill w-4 Read online

  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 Axel’s 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. ‘Here’s your change. The deal is you give me a finder’s fee, a thousand bucks.’

  The grin on Victor’s face was loaded with the little man’s cockiness and malice. ‘Maybe you should have deducted it,’ he said, pocketing the envelope.

  Oh lovely, Bax thought. He said nothing.

  ‘Understand me, Bax. We’re winding up operations here too. You’ve 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 we’ve 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 didn’t know how he’d ever let himself get caught up in all this. He didn’t know how he was going to get out of it. All he did know was that time was running out and he’d have to find an unaccustomed chip of ice in his heart.

  ****

  Twenty-one

  ‘Until now you’ve been an irritation,’ Jardine said. ‘It’s time to hit Kepler where it will hurt his pocket and his pride.’

  He paused. He looked at a point beyond Wyatt’s shoulder, putting his thoughts together. Wyatt waited. It was Friday morning and they were in Jardine’s 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.

  ‘There’s a floating casino,’ Jardine said finally. ‘It’s how Kepler got started, it’s a good earner for him, and he’s still got a soft spot for it. It’s strictly for the high-flyers. There are plenty of legitimate games for them in Australia. If you’re 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.

  ‘That’s fine,’ Jardine went on, ‘except there’s always the bloke who wants something a bit different. He wants to play in a place where no one knows his name, where he doesn’t have to dress up, where the risk is greater, the company rougher, the rules aren’t set by the Gaming Commission. That’s 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.

  ‘You’ve noticed there’s a lot of unleased office space in Sydney,’ Jardine said.

  ‘Melbourne too.’

  ‘It’s got the real estate boys worried,’ Jardine said, ‘so they offer special deals. One in particular has caught the attention of the Outfit-free 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. There’s 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 didn’t care about some clever Outfit swindle. He cared only about hitting the Outfit where it hurt. ‘When’s 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 they’d 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, he’d just go on hitting them.

  The agent who met them in the foyer of the Bellcourt Building at one o’clock 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 weren’t important. ‘A trade magazine?’ he said, trying to work up some enthusiasm.

  ‘That’s 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 doorman’s 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 won’t 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 didn’t stay there long. The fifth-floor suites also had balconies and that’s all they needed to know.

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

  Wyatt and Jardine weren’t 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, they’d had enough to be going on with, they’d decide this weekend and be in touch.

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

  They came back just before six o’clock. This time they wore dark overalls, balaclavas and latex gloves. Wyatt carried a gym bag, Jardine an aluminium extension ladder. The doorman didn’t 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 doorman’s desk and joined Wyatt in leaning his forearms on the top. Then he reached over and pushed the doorman’s chest. The man’s 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 Wyatt’s job was to read men like the doorman. He knew the doorman felt humiliation under the fear. The doorman had a job to do, he’d failed to do it, so maybe he’d do something foolish unless Wyatt eased the fear and the humiliation. He said gently, ‘What’s your name?’

  The doorman’s 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 don’t need to call anyone if you’re 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?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Bill, we’re in a hurry. Just be satisfied that we don’t 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, I’m 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 cleaner’s storeroom. ‘I’ll leave the light on, Bill,’ Wyatt said. ‘We’ll be back for you in thirty minutes, no more.’

  He had no intention of coming back, but he didn’t want the doorman to know that. He wanted the doorman to sit quiet for a while, that’s all.

  Three minutes later they were in the empty suite on the sixth floor again. The air had a shut down, empty smell about it, but Wyatt could sense the energy and tension in the floor beneath them. He imagined the cigarettes, the sweat and whisky, the murmured bids, the chips clacking together. The feeling passed in a second. He didn’t have time to indulge his imagination.

  Jardine unlocked the balcony door and Wyatt carried the gym bag through. The curtains were drawn on the fifth floor, the lights on behind them. Wyatt took out a nylon rope ladder, fastened one end to the balcony railing, and let the other end unroll into the darkness.

  He pulled the balaclava down over his face and climbed down. Jardine followed him. On the fifth-floor balcony they took out.38s, eased open the sliding door and slipped inside.

  There was only one game. Six men-two Chinese, two Europeans, two Filipinos-sat around a table. Four of them were smoking. A poolhall light hung low from the ceiling, throwing a harsh glow onto the table. The rest of the room was shadowy. Two closed doors led to rooms at the far end of the suite. There was a bar at the back with a shelf of bottles behind it.

  It was pretty much as Wyatt had imagined it from Jardine’s description. What interested him now was the position of the Outfit goons. He saw one behind the bar, one at the door, a couple more leaning against the walls. They looked half asleep. They’d soon wake up when the cold air stirred the smoke.

  Wyatt didn’t give them time to come awake. He ran to the gaming table, jerked one of the Chinese players out of his chair and let everyone see the.38 at the man’s throat. ‘Drop your guns on the floor.’

  The goons tensed, reached into their jackets, thought better of it. The man from Hong Kong was good for a million bucks a year to the Outfit. They dropped their guns. Meanwhile Jardine flushed a couple of half-naked teenagers from the other rooms.

  ‘We don’t want to hurt anybody,’ Wyatt said. ‘We’ll be out in five minutes.’

  He spoke clearly, his voice flat. His approach when guns were out was to say little, act mildly, never use his colleagues’ names. He always used handguns, never shotguns, in situations like this one: shotguns were clumsy, noisy, messy; they caused panic. He never waved the gun around: instead, he would choose a target and keep the gun there, a clear promise of who would get it first if someone else got out of line.

  He’d said all he needed to say at this stage. Jardine scooped the chips into the bag, stepped back from the table and herded the Outfit goons and the shivering callgirls onto the balcony. He finished by locking them out there and joining Wyatt.

  Wyatt turned his attention to the gamblers. Four of them were idle and corrupt and liked to hurt people, and so they believed that they were going to die. The other two looked angry. None of them intended to play in an Outfit game again.

  When Wyatt did speak again it was to say: ‘Tell Kepler you win some, you lose some.’

  ****

  Twenty-two

  Napper rapped the cast-iron doorknocker and waited. Josie shared the house with another single mother, a lawyer, but he wasn’t worried about encountering the lawyer today. A misplaced social conscience kept her in the Fitzroy Legal Aid office on Friday afternoons, telling street scum how to avoid fines and jail terms, while Josie minded the kids. Napper knocked again. It was a renovated terrace house, the door Deep Brunswick Green like every other door in Fitzroy.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Then, immediately, ‘Get back inside, Roxanne. What are you doing here?’

  Napper had time to see his daughter’s face, avid then sulky, before Josie barred the way and had closed the door. She stood on the welcome mat, glaring at him.

  ‘Just a civilised word, Josie, that’s all I want.’

  ‘Civilised? If you were civilised there’d
be no need for a court order. I’m going inside, I have nothing to say to you.’

  Always the same, a shrill note of complaint, the face pinched and bitter. Disgusted, Napper said, ‘Look, I’ve been a bit strapped for cash lately.’

  ‘What about me? You think I’m made of money?’

  As far as Napper was concerned, his hard-earned income put eighty-dollar jeans on his daughter, it put his ex-wife through some wanker’s diploma up at the uni, and all he got out of it was an endless hassle. But this was a push-pull game of old grudges and suspicion that they were playing, almost unconsciously, so he said mildly, ‘I just want a fairer settlement, that’s all. The court didn’t take everything into consideration.’

  ‘Like what? That you like to spend a hundred dollars a week on beer and vodka? That you like to visit brothels?’

  Napper flushed. ‘I’m forced to live in poverty-’

  Josie shrugged.

  ‘-while you slack around up at the uni, contributing nothing to the care of our daughter.’

  Josie said, ‘I don’t believe this. The system was supposed to protect me from crap like this.’

  She moved to go into the house then, but Napper spun her around by the shoulder and screamed into her face: ‘Look at me when I’m talking to you.’

  She wrenched away. ‘You’re just scum. I’m reporting this, hassling me like this, perving on Roxanne at the pool. It makes me wonder if you did things to her when you were still living with us.’

  Napper couldn’t find the words he needed so he stepped away from her. A pain began behind his eyes, one of his split-open headaches. He put his fingers to his temples, opened and closed his mouth, and finally said, ‘You’re tearing me apart.’

  ‘You’re tearing yourself apart,’ his ex-wife said, holding the door close to her trunk, edging into the house. ‘You want to go to court again? Nine thousand dollars, that’s what you owe me.’

  ‘Make that seven and a half thousand,’ Napper said, throwing Malan’s cash at her feet, ‘plus another fifteen hundred tomorrow.’