Pay Dirt (5 page)

He showed her the carton of
cigarettes inside the shopping bag in the back of the van. That set her going
again. She climbed over the seat, pulling her pants off, tugging at his hand.
Although he was only with her for fifteen minutes, the atmosphere was so hot
and feverish that he was able to do it twice.

Then he pushed her out with the
cigarettes and a $12.95 necklace. He drove back to the main entrance, keeping his
eyes open for hospital security. As usual, there was none.

By six oclock he was in Eddie Lomans
back room, hearing about a job he was needed for over in South Aussie.

The interesting thing about it was,
Wyatt was behind it.

* * * *

TEN

Snyder
could see that Eddie Loman was hedging. Loman wouldnt meet his eye, and he
kept rubbing his gammy leg. Snyder waited, testing him, then said, Arent you
missing something?

What?

Theres a fucking contract out on
him.

Lomans face twisted. You heard.

Course I fucking heard. Twenty
grand to the guy that fingers him.

Loman continued to rub his leg. The
movement pulled his trousers up, revealing pink plastic skin. Hed lost the leg
ten years ago in a collision between a getaway car and a divisional van. Maybe
he still gets ghost feelings in it, Snyder thought.

I mean, Snyder continued, you
begin to wonder why Wyatts putting an outfit together if it means all these
guys are going to know where he is. Youd have to be mad, right?

He watched Loman pour beer into
their glasses and put the bottles under the coffee table. There were three
bottles there now, Melbourne Bitter, resting on their sides. Loman had neat
habits. His living quarters behind his hardware supply business looked to be
tacked together from mismatching building materials and fire-sale furniture,
but there wasnt a speck of dust or a bad smell in the place.

Loman swallowed beer from his glass.
When he put the glass down again it was fair and square on a coaster with an
Aborigine painted on it. Actually, he said, I dont think Wyatt knows.

We come to the crux of the matter.
You couldve told him when he rang last night, but you didnt.

Loman looked up. Wyatt knows how to
look after himself.

Cut it out, Eddie. You were going
to charge him a finders fee for lining me up for this job of his, then dob him
in for the twenty thousand. Am I right? Bit of a cunt act.

Snyder was enjoying himself. He didnt
care much for Loman. Loman supplied experts and equipment to people who had big
jobs on, and Snyder had got some work that way sometimes, but you couldnt
actually like the bloke. That grey face and smokers cough, the sense of decay
on the inside. Plus, Snyder didnt like being cheated. He didnt like it that
Loman was intending to earn himself an extra twenty thousand without cutting
anyone else in on it.

Eh? Bit of a shitty thing to do to
the old Wyatt? Not to mention the danger to yours truly. What if this hired gun
comes after Wyatt when Im in the firing line, eh? Answer me that.

Lomans face worked in worry. I
wouldve told him. I thought, you know, this job of his is out in the bush
somewhere, hell be safe there till its over. Then Id give him the word, kind
of thing.

Snyder nodded. Oh, right, Im with
you now. Youre not after the twenty grand reward.

Not me. Wyatts Loman struggled well
you dont exactly call Wyatt a mate, do you, but hes a good client, kind of
thing.

Snyders loose face seemed to
tighten and he leaned forward. How much?

Pardon?

Whats he paying you? What am I
worth?

Loman rubbed at his leg. Fifteen
hundred.

Whats the job?

He didnt say, except its big.

And theres a radio he wants
jammed. Did he say what I get paid?

A percentage. Not a fee, a
percentage of the take.

Snyder grinned then. Correct me if
Im wrongyou only get fifteen hundred bucks, I stand to get tens of thousands.
I can see how a bloke might feel a bit put out about that. He might want to
grab a bit more. Not you, though.

A flush showed under Lomans grey
skin. I didnt know you and Wyatt were such good mates.

Were not. Im a professional, hes
a professional. We just do our jobs. We dont get greedy, rock the boat, work
behind another blokes back.

Youve made your fucking point,
Loman said, leaning back in his chair. The fabric was slippery brown vinyl and
it seemed to fart under him. He shifted again as if to demonstrate that it was
the chair, not him.

I mean, Snyder went on, Wyatts
good value. He does the right thing by blokes like you and me. Youd have to be
a real bastard to shop him to some hired gun down from Sydney.

All right, okay? Loman said. Youve
made your point.

That would be a cunt act, Snyder
said.

* * * *

ELEVEN

Letterman
did contract work for the Sydney Outfit now but he still looked like a cop.
There was no need for him to wear grey suits any more, but he felt wrong in
anything else. He was tall, solid and punchy-looking, an effect that was ruined
if he put on jeans or corduroys and a casual shirt. He felt he looked soft in
clothes like thatlike a suburban bank manager on a Saturday morning.

He threaded a navy blue tie under
his collar and leaned toward the mirror to knot it. He was indifferent to the
hairs in his ears and nostrils. They were indicators of his vigour and
perpetual anger. So, somehow, was his balding skull. He remained close to the
mirror. He was in a motel room in Melbourne that might have been designed for
midgets. The mirror was too low, the bed too short, and he always had to duck
his head to get it wet in the shower stall.

Although he felt relaxed, his face looked
tired and unimpressed. When he was working, it looked alert and unimpressed. He
was forty-six, doing what he did best, and had never felt better. The Outfit
paid him a retainer that equalled his old detective inspectors salary, plus a
flat fee for each contracted hit. There was $50,000 coming his way when he
found Wyatt and knocked him off. The Outfit wanted Wyatt bad. Wyatt had hit
them where it hurt, killing their Melbourne head and destroying their biggest
Melbourne operation.

Not that hed be easy to find.
Letterman was approaching this as if he were still a cop. For a start, the
trail was cold. Most breaks in a case come in the first twenty-four hours, but
Wyatt had dropped out of sight six weeks ago. Apparently he was a pro, so hed
avoid his usual haunts; in fact, he was probably interstate somewhere, keeping
his head down. But hed caused so much heat, done so much damage, aroused so
much media and police attention, that the Outfit hadnt dared send Letterman to
Melbourne before now.

Other factors were working against
him. First, Wyatt didnt want to be found, meaning hed cover his tracks, use
forged ID or alter his appearance. He wouldnt be found wandering the streets
like some old pensioner whod lost his marbles. Second, Letterman couldnt call
in favours from other cops any more. Third, the Outfit wasnt very popular here
in Melbourne. In the four days since his arrival, Letterman had been spreading
the word around, $20,000 to the one who fingers Wyatt, but so far not a
whisper. Wyatt was a Melbourne boy too, so that probably had something to do
with it.

But the twenty thousand dollars
would work eventually. Letterman knew how it was with police workten per cent
detection, ninety per cent fluke. Hed arrested crack dealers whod traded in
the VW for a Mercedes sports, wife murderers whod given themselves up,
burglars at the scene, holdup men whod been dobbed in for the reward. Letterman
was patient. Twenty thousand was a lot of bread.

Other things were in his favour.
Unless they were incredibly loyal in Melbourne, Wyatt wouldnt be aware that
the Outfit was after him. Hed be expecting cops, not contract hitmen. And
crims dont change their spots. Wyatt would surface sooner or later. Hed want
to pull another job. He would need money soon, and he was a big-score crim, the
kind who puts together a gang, and you cant stay out of sight when you do
that. Until then Letterman would take it step by step, like a cop. The usual
routine: where was Wyatt last seen? Who saw him last? Who are his known
associates?

He put on his suit coat and left the
motel. The other thing about a suit is, you can hide a gun under the coat and
get at it easily, where you cant if youre wearing a shirt or a jumper.

His Avis Fairmont was parked outside
the motel room, its long snout overhanging the tyre-stop. He made the usual
checks before getting in. He noted that there was no one in the space behind
the front seats, then opened the boot lid gingerly, checking for wires before
opening it fully and searching for a mercury electrode. Finally he examined the
drivers seat for pressure bombs and checked for wires under the bonnet. The
car was clean. He put on the black horn-rims he wore for driving, got in and
backed the Fairmont out of the motel carpark.

He left St Kilda and drove down the
Nepean Highway to Frankston. There he cut across to Shoreham and found the post
office. It was attended by an elderly, watery-eyed man. I work for the
Courier
Mail
in Brisbane, Letterman said. Im doing a story on the gangster who
lived near here.

You mean Warner? the postmaster
asked.

Letterman nodded. Hed been reading
back issues of the Melbourne newspapers and knew Wyatt had used that name. Hed
also obtained photocopies of the police identikit picture. He pulled one out
and showed it to the postmaster. This him?

They both examined it. According to
the police artist, Warner had a thin face, loose shortish hair and bleak
features.

Not a bad likeness, the postmaster
said. I tell you what, we were flabbergasted. Seemed a nice sort of a bloke,
kept to himself, kind of thing. No one here had a clue.

Letterman put the picture away.
Everyone had a clue now, though. It was quite a story, front-page stuff. Gang
warfare, the headlines said. Organised crime elements from Sydney battling it
out with local criminals, several of whom had been shot dead. Police were
looking for a man who called himself variously Warner, Lake and Wyatt, last
seen at his farm on the Mornington Peninsula.

Im putting together a story about
the hidden lives of people like him, Letterman said.

The postmaster pursed his lips and
looked out of the window. Letterman wasnt perturbed. The guy was trying to say
he was canny, you couldnt put anything over on him. A Brisbane paper, you
say?

Thats right, Letterman said.

You heard about it up there?

The way to this blokes heart was
pride. Ill say, Letterman said. It was a bloody big story.

The postmaster beamed, then looked
regretful. Theres not much I can tell you, though.

For starters, did he get any mail?
Readers like to know about that kind of thing. You know, letters from
girlfriends, letters from overseas, letters from interstate, stuff like that.

The postmaster shook his head. Like
I told the police, he mightve posted letters, but he never received any.
People dont write like they used to. They use the phone these days.

Letterman thanked him and got
directions to Wyatts farm. The house was sealed up. All the grass needed
cutting. The dirt track showed no sign that vehicles had been along it
recently. Wyatt is long gone, Letterman thought, and he wont be coming back.
Letterman said as much to a neighbour, an angry-looking farmer. Youd be mad,
wouldnt you, the man demanded, to try coming back? We were pretty upset
about the whole thing. If he
did
show himself now, no one would give him
the time of day.

Letterman got back into the
Fairmont. It had been a wasted trip, a long shot that hadnt paid off, and hed
stepped in cow shit and pulled a thread of his suit on a barbed wire fence. He
hated the bush, didnt know why anyone would want to live there.

Frustration brought on his
indigestion, and during the long drive back to Melbourne he let himself reflect
upon the past couple of years. Theyd said he could make Commissioner one day.
Hed come up through the ranks, and hed done law and accounting part-time in
his younger days. Hed had his own detail in the vice squad, and been second in
command in the drug squad.

But you dont get anywhere waiting
for information, so hed built himself a good network of snouts, turned a blind
eye where necessary, picked up the odd suitcase from a station locker.

Then came the whispers; that hed
corrupted junior officers, made deals with underworld figures, assaulted
witnesses. He faced them all down. Then he was charged: conspiracy to murder,
conspiracy to pervert the course of justice, attempted bribery. They didnt
have a shred of evidence, their witnesses suddenly got cold feet or went on
holiday, and Letterman had walked, but eighteen months ago the police tribunal
had sustained five out of eight misconduct charges against him and he was given
the boot.

Hed cleaned out his desk and gone
home. That evening the phone had rung. It was the Outfit. You scratched our
back in the past, they said, so we scratched yours, dropped a few quiet words
in a few ears. So how about it? Want to continue doing what youre good at?