Read Wyatt - 04 - Cross Kill Online
Authors: Garry Disher
Wyatt - 04 - Cross Kill (13 page)
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 didnt 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 mentwo
Chinese, two Europeans, two Filipinossat 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 Jardines 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. Theyd soon
wake up when the cold air stirred the smoke.
Wyatt didnt 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 mans 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 dont want to hurt anybody,
Wyatt said. Well 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.
Hed 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 wasnt 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 daughters
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, thats
all I want.
Civilised? If you were civilised
thered be no need for a court order. Im 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, Ive
been a bit strapped for cash lately.
What about me? You think Im 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 wankers 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, thats all. The court didnt 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. Im 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 dont 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 Im talking to you.
She wrenched away. Youre just
scum. Im 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 couldnt 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, Youre tearing me apart.
Youre 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, thats what you owe me.
Make that seven and a half
thousand, Napper said, throwing Malans cash at her feet, plus another
fifteen hundred tomorrow.
She didnt move to pick up the
money. She didnt do anything, didnt say thank you. Napper slammed the
wrought-iron gate and got out of there, his head pounding. He kept Panadol in
the glove-box of the ute. He slid across the seat to open it and his boots
knocked off another patch of the floor above the exhaust pipe before he
remembered the rust spot. He tossed three Panadol into his throat and chased
them down with saliva but he could feel them stuck there, so he got out again,
walked to the milk bar on the corner, swallowed a can of Fanta.
6.30 pm. He had ninety minutes to
kill before the night shift so he drove to Tinas, window down in case he was
gassing himself with exhaust fumes. He didnt get much joy with Tina, either.
She handed him a lot of shit about the hours he worked, their times off never
coinciding, and it all boiled up and he slapped her, just the once, to shut her
up. She started bawling, said she hated him, and went out slamming the door.
Anything for a bit of peace. Napper
hunted around in her fridge, found a couple of the Cascade lagers she liked,
and settled in her recliner with the remote control in his lap.
First up on Channel Seven was the
death of Clare Ng, aged ten, killed by a car bomb in Richmond earlier that day.
At first attributed to a petrol or gas leak, police now believed that a device
had been planted in the boot of the Ng familys late model Mercedes, parked in
an alley behind the restaurant owned by her father, a prominent local
businessman tipped to be the next mayor of Richmond. According to a police
spokesperson, Clare may have activated the bomb when she opened the boot of the
car.
There was more. The outgoing mayor
was outraged. Clare was well liked at school. The family was popular. Police
hadnt ruled out elements in the Vietnamese community.
What was she doing opening the boot?
Napper wondered. He pictured the lid flying up, smacking her in the face. Then
he pictured it happening to his own daughter, and the beer and the Panadol and
the Fanta began to churn and heave in his stomach. He put his head in his
hands, rocked a little.
The sport and the weather passed,
then canned laughter and ads for things that made no sense to Napper. He went
to the kitchen, poured away his beer, washed Tinas dishes for her. He
microwaved a TV dinner from her freezer, spooned Nescafe into a mug of water,
microwaved that. The night ahead was long and he needed a clear head.
It was 8.10 when Napper got to the
station. The bombing had the place stirred up, the boss saying next time it
could be on their patch, so watch it, keep your eyes and ears open.
At twenty past eight a WPC came by
his desk. You all right, sir?
What do you mean, am I all right?
She shrugged. You look a bit rough
around the edges, thats all. By the way, someones been trying to ring you.
Who?
Wont give his name. Says hell
keep trying.
Malan.
Napper left the station and went to
a pay phone. Listen, never call me at work.
You fucked up, Malan said.
How was I to know the kid would
open the boot?
Her tennis racquet was in there,
Malan said. Why did you make the charge so big? Why didnt you put it
somewhere else on the car? They say it blew the back of the car off.
It was an accident.
Counterproductive, Malan said. Eddie
Ng will get the sympathy vote now. Instead of throwing doubts and fears into
him, hell ride high on this. Hes got people rallying around him already.
Napper didnt have time to listen to
this crap. During the past hour or so hed managed to get his nerve back. Hed
put the death of the child into perspective, the image of the metal smacking
her down. You cant be sure of that, he said. Look, you contracted me to do
a job and I did it. Ill be around later to pick up the other half.
You must be joking. If you come
anywhere near me again Ill talk. Even if it means I have to go down with you.
That left Napper standing on Swan
Street with a dead phone against his ear.
* * * *
Twenty-three
The
days were getting longer in Sydney and the kiosk near the steps leading down to
the underground station sold plants Wyatt had never seen before, heaped in
buckets on the footpath. Little flags said proteas, golden torch, gedisha. He
recognised clumps of frosty grey gum tree leaves among them. Some tiny orange,
lemon and umbrella trees in terracotta pots lined the wall of the kiosk, a
wooden structure resembling an Alpine hut. On shelves inside the kiosk were
vials of aroma therapy oils, blue and green Mexican glass vases, crystals,
terracotta ducks. Since everyone was buying roses, carnations and freesias that
Saturday afternoon, the rest of it seemed to be a waste of time.
A white Bentley pulled into the
kerb. The car belonged to Kepler and Wyatt had been expecting it. Kepler
himself wasnt in the car. According to Jardine, the driver was just a driver
but the man in the back was Towns, head of operations for Kepler. Every
Saturday afternoon the two men stopped for roses, collected their boss at the
Darling Harbour penthouse where he made deals and kept a mistress, and took him
home. Keplers story to his wife was that hed spent the afternoon at the
races. Presumably the roses eased his conscience.
The Bentley had tinted glass
windows. Wyatt watched the kerb-side rear door swing open. From his vantage
point behind a wire rack of postcards next to a newspaper stand he had a clear
view of the cars interior. The chauffeur wore a dark coat and a peaked cap,
thats all he could tell. Towns wore a dark suit and highly polished black
shoes. There was no one with him in the back of the car. Towns got out,
stretched to ease a kink in his back, then pushed through pedestrians to the
flower kiosk. The motor was running in the Bentley. The back door hung partly
open.
Wyatt had considered getting into
the car and waiting for Towns, but that had too many holes in it. Towns might
see him there and back away. The driver might get brave and try leaning on the
horn or roaring off down the street. Instead, Wyatt waited while Towns bought
the roses and returned to the car with them. A mans defenses are down when hes
got roses in his hands and hes bending to go through a car door. Wyatt waited.
When Towns was back at the car, getting in flowers first, head down, waist
bent, Wyatt moved. Wyatt himself had a suit on. The pedestrians might have
thought him impatient, the way he shoved in after the first man, closing the
door behind him, but he didnt look entirely out of place and besides, the rich
had their own rules.
The driver wore a cap and dark
glasses. He was a mouth breather and had his head buried in the sports section
of the
Daily Telegraph.
At the rocking of the car he folded the paper
and put it aside. All set, boss?
Then he saw Wyatt. His hand went
into his jacket and he tried to turn around. Wyatt let him see the .38. The
windows were tinted: Wyatt could have waved a machine gun around if hed wanted
to. Dont, he warned. All I want to do is talk. All you have to do is drive
around the block a few times.
Boss?
Towns twisted his mouth. Do as he
says.
Guns, first, Wyatt said.