Wyatt - 04 - Cross Kill (7 page)

Give me maintenance and Ill give
you a break, his ex-wife said.

Give him hell, the women said, but
they were stepping back, watching to see what hed do. What he did was not risk
embarrassment with the battery. He walked to the Caltex service station on the
corner.

* * * *

Eleven

Wyatt
watched the London Hotel for three hours that afternoon, standing patiently at
the first-floor window of a second-hand bookshop on the opposite corner. At
four oclock he slipped across the street. Ornamental trees in terracotta pots
stood on either side of the sliding glass doors of the hotel. Using one of them
as cover, Wyatt surveyed the reception desk and the lobby. The clerk was
talking on the telephone. The mans clothes flapped and sagged on his body and
his face was rubbery with anxiety, his left hand worrying the manufactured knot
in his bow tie. The lobby itself was empty. Wyatt wondered how best to work
this. If he went in now, the clerk would spot him and run. There were probably
side and back entrances but they would take time to find.

At that moment two taxis drew into
the kerb behind him. Several young women got out. They wore suits with
shoulderpads and carried white vinyl conference wallets. He stood back and
watched them enter the lobby. A couple of the women glanced at him. It was
covetous, as though they were intoxicated by the day and wanted to admit an
element of risk into it.

Wyatt waited. He watched the women
walk across the lobby to claim their room keys. He went in then, using them as
cover. While they conversed noisily at the reception desk, Wyatt buried his
nose in a revolving display of brochures of Melbournes beauty spots. When the
women were gone he stepped up to the desk and opened his windbreaker.

The clerk saw the .38, closed his
eyes and tried to make the best of it. Is sir enjoying his stay?

Wyatt didnt say anything. He
watched the scared , eyes, waiting for the man to break.

It didnt take long. I was just
doing my job, the clerk muttered.

Wyatt ignored that. You were on the
phone just now. You looked worried.

The clerk swallowed. Yes.

What about?

The clerk said, Look, its nothing
personal. I had orders to watch your movements, thats all.

Wyatt tried again. I know that. I
want to know what the phone call you had just now was about.

Theyve been calling every fifteen
minutes in case you came back here.

And here I am, Wyatt said. He
looked at his watch. Its four. What time do you knock off work?

Any minute. Im on eight till four.

You were also on duty when I got in
last night.

They asked me to do extra shifts.

So you could keep an eye on me?

Yes.

Is anyone else here on the payroll?
Anyone else told to keep an eye out for me?

The clerk shook his head. Just me,
he said miserably.

Ill need to collect my things.

The clerk began to look panicky. I
was told to pack up everything in your room after you left this morning.

Have you done it?

The clerk nodded. Its all out the
back.

Where?

Ive got a room here.

Were going to chat a while, until
your replacement comes on duty.

The clerk swallowed. Then what?

Thats up to you. For the moment
all you have to do is act like Im a mate whos dropped by for a drink.

The evening-shift clerk arrived soon
after that. Wyatts man took off his bow tie, shrugged himself into a zippered
nylon jacket and led Wyatt through dark corridors to a poky courtyard room next
to the motel kitchen. The air smelt of rotting food. There was a rattly
airconditioning unit nearby. The clerk hesitated at his door. Wyatt nudged him
with the .38. If its any consolation, I dont intend to kill you, he said, although
thats open to change. The clerks shoulders slumped. He opened his door.

The room smelt of poverty. There was
a dull, oily sheen to the walls, from cheap paint badly mixed and meanly
applied, revealing green paint underneath. Against one wall was a plywood
wardrobe with a spotty mirror, next to a varnished desk with a world map on it.
A frayed armchair was in one corner, a cheap stereo in another. At some stage
in the past, cigarettes had been stubbed out on the smoky plastic turntable
lid. The tits-and-bums calendar on the wall was two months out of date. The
feature for July was a tanned backside awkwardly cocked with grains of yellow
sand clinging to the flesh.

Wyatt pushed the clerk down into the
armchair and sat on the bed opposite him, the .38 dangling loosely between his
knees. Whats your name?

The clerk opened and closed his
mouth. Finally he said, Philip.

Phil, or Philip?

Whatever. Doesnt matter.

It mattered to Wyatt. This was all
part of relaxing the man, letting him feel he had some identity, some
importance, despite the circumstances. Which do you prefer?

Philip.

Okay, Philip, all I want from you
is some information.

Theyll kill me.

Why should they do that? Why should
they even know youve been talking to me?

Philip was silent, thinking about
it. What do you want to know?

You fingered me, correct?

Philip said yes. He was looking at
the floor.

How did you know it was me? Who
told you to look out for me?

You were seen arriving in Melbourne
a few days ago. They tailed you. They knew where youd checked in.

They. Who do you mean by they?

Philip looked up. Theyre from
Sydney.

The Outfit?

Philip nodded.

Do you work for them?

Not me. I was given five hundred
bucks to keep my eyes open, pass on messages, that kind of thing.

Wyatt smiled. It didnt reach his
eyes. Five hundred bucks. Youre beginning to feel thats a bit on the low
side, eh, Philip? You thought your life was worth more than that.

Give us a break, the man said, and
he began to list his fears, creating a picture of meanness and badness in the
Outfit. When Philip had talked himself out, Wyatt said, Did you know theres a
contract out on me?

Forty thousand bucks.

The clerk smirked a little. To kill
that, Wyatt raised his .38, cocked it, released the hammer, cocked it, released
the hammer, until the smart look left Philips face. He lowered the gun again. Who
do you take your orders from? Kepler in Sydney?

I dont know. All I do is ring this
number they gave me.

Have you got a Melbourne address
for them?

Philip looked up at Wyatt. I dont
know where theyre based down here. Look, forget it, stay clear, youre just
buying yourself a lot of strife.

But Wyatt had no intention of
staying clear. He couldnt work while there was still a price on his head. He
couldnt put a team together against the Mesics while forty thousand dollars
was distracting every punk on the street.

He stood up to go. There was a safe-at-last
look on Philips face. Wyatt removed it. He said flatly, I know where to find
you, Philip.

* * * *

Twelve

Wyatt
needed a bed for the night and he needed a safe passage to Sydney, but the
Outfit was a threat on both
counts. He didnt think
theyd have the clout to cover
every hotel, every
booking office, but he didnt want to test it. He killed time in a cinema then
found a bar in a side street and nursed a Scotch, thinking it through,
Renting a car was out, sitting behind a wheel for ten hours
on a highway where the fuel tankers jackknifed and jobless rural kids tried to
end it all by steering into the oncoming traffic. Thats also why he wouldnt
hitchhikethat and the fact that he liked to have more control when he was on
the move. He could change his face, but that required time and a bolthole, and
he was running out of both. He couldnt flythe Outfit would concentrate its
energies on the check-in counters. If he wasnt so broke, hed charter a plane
and avoid the normal passenger formalities, but his funds were low and hed
need all of it to bankroll his hit on the Mesics. That left a bus or a
trainassuming the Outfit didnt have city terminal staff on its payroll or
hadnt brought extra people down from Sydney to find him now that hed been
spotted.

Same again, sir? the barmaid said.

Wyatt had been staring past her,
sitting as still as a tombstone, his concentration absolute. He knew he couldnt
walk to Sydney, or swim or flap his arms or somehow materialise there, so he
went through the options again, looking for holes.

He found one, blinked and smiled.

It moves, it breathes, its alive,
the barmaid said.

Wyatt was aware of her watching him
after that, polishing glasses, one eyebrow hooked, ready to banter with him. He
guessed that she bantered with everybody, it was second nature to her, but
something told him that banter was only part of her act this time. She seemed
to like him and, as evening approached, he felt drawn to her. When finally he
grinned, her face grew watchful and anticipatory. It was an engaging face,
smart and humorous. She moved easily and well as she worked. An hour later he
had a bed for the night.

Her name was Marion and she lived in
cluttered comfort in an East Preston weatherboard house. The floor seemed to
dip dangerously under Wyatts feet, and doors sprang open as he walked past
them, but the central heating had kicked in an hour earlier and immense
cushions and bright fabrics gave the house a cheery edge. A childs hectic
drawings were stuck to the refrigerator but Marion, brewing tea in the light of
a candle and touching Wyatts arm from time to time as she moved about the
kitchen, said nothing about having a child. She was frank and generous and
uncomplicated, and had little to say to him at all.

Until, curled next to him on a sofa,
she said idly, Are you on the run?

He stared at her. What makes you
say that?

No car. Youre travelling light.
You dont strike me as completely broke, or too mean to pay for a motel. She
looked at him carefully. Id say you genuinely want to be with me, but you
also need a bed for the night, somewhere safe.

He shrugged, and she put her hand on
his chest as though to shut him up. I dont mind, she said. I know youre in
troubleIm just trusting that none of its going to follow you here, into my
house.

Afterwards, when she fell instantly
asleep in her big bed, he watched her for a while on his elbow and the strain
of his chosen life began to look absurd to him.

She remained asleep when he got up
on Wednesday morning. He showered, dressed, consumed toast and coffee and
touched her neck goodbye, and she remained asleep through all of it, as though
she felt safe. He pocketed her keys and left a note telling her where she could
find her car. Then he heard the front gate scrape open.

Wyatt stiffened. Before he could
act, a key moved in the front door lock and a man pushed a small child ahead of
him into the house. If this was the boys father, he was a sulky-looking
specimen, ginger-haired and sleep-bleary, wearing bright new stretch jeans that
gave the appearance of strangling his genitals and stomach. His hair was
uncombed, he was badly shaven, and he threw a gym bag and a bundle of sodden sheets
onto the floor at his sons feet.

See how your mother likes it for a
change.

Then he saw Wyatt and a look born of
ignorance and vicious poverty soured his face. Oh thats fucking terrific.
Terrific example for my kid.

The man slammed the door and was
gone. Wyatt and the boy stared at one another. Wyatt fitted a smile to his face
but dropped it when he realised that the boy was gulping for breath. No more
than eight years old, his thin chest heaving, his hand struggling to release
the clothing binding his neck, the boy seemed suddenly close to death.

Medicine? Wyatt said.

The boy turned painfully, pointed to
the gym bag. Wyatt zippered it open. Among the tangled shirts and pants he
found an asthma spray, pale blue plastic the size of a mans hooked thumb. The
child snatched it from him, fitted one end to his mouth, sucked greedily. He
stood for a moment, swaying, his eyes closed. Wyatt held him, one big hand on
each side of the boys waist. New sensations swept through him briefly, feelings
close to attachment and affection.

Okay now?

The boy nodded.

Want to get into bed with your mum?

The boy nodded again and Wyatt led
him by the hand down the tilting hallway floor.

* * * *

Thirteen

An
hour later, Wyatt was waiting to catch the Sydney train. There was a risk that
the Outfit would have staked out the Melbourne terminal, so he was waiting at
an outer suburban station where the day train stopped. He would get off at
Wodonga and transfer to a road coach for the remainder of his journey, finishing
at Strathfield, not the central Sydney terminal. He waited near the end of the
platform. If something didnt look right, if something spooked him, he could
lose himself among the sheds, wagons and stacks of rotting equipment in the
shunting yards.