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.
