Wyatt - 04 - Cross Kill (3 page)

This wasnt the first time hed been
forced to build up funds again, but for some reason lately hed begun taking a
long view. Did he want to keep doing this for the rest of his life? Would he
always have the nerve for it? If and when he stopped working (he discounted
being jailed, hurt or killed), would he have sufficient funds for a comfortable
life? He shook his head. Im like any man my age, he thought, worrying about
the years until retirement, until death.

* * * *

In
the morning he dressed in dark cotton trousers and shirt. He decided against a
coatcoats get snagged on doorknobs, fences, branchesand put on a woollen
windbreaker. He tucked his .38 into an inside pocket. He combed back his water-darkened
hair. It had the effect of further narrowing his face.

At nine oclock he left the hotel.
Automatically checking for a tail, he crossed the road into the grounds of the
University. The students were well-nourished and seemed very young to him. They
shouted rather than spoke, as if they would eventually leave here with their
heads full but without knowing anything at all.

Wyatt emerged at the Swanston Street
flank of the University and walked through to the bus-stop near Jimmy Watsons
wine bar. Again he looked to see if he was being tailed. He looked back along
the street, looked at his watch, frowned, looked at the timetable. He hunched
his shoulders, zipped up his windbreaker, glanced at the low, muttering clouds
that were blowing in across the city. He wanted to look like an ordinary man on
a busy street, his mind on his bus and the weather.

A Kew bus came by soon after that
and he climbed aboard. When the bus had crossed Hoddle Street into Abbotsford,
he pressed the bell for the stop under the elevated railway line. Four people
stood up with him. He let them get off first. It was something he did
automatically.

He entered the narrow side streets,
passing small shoe factories and cramped fibro and weatherboard houses where
Greek women hosed cement gardens. Five minutes later he came to a tucked-away
corner pub.

It was called The Wheatsheaf and it
had been redecorated since hed last seen it. There were pastel blue canopies
over the doors and windows, a sign saying bistro and geraniums in window boxes.
Wyatt went inside to wait. There were two patrons; both wore Breton fishermans
caps and studded leather belts, boots and jackets. The barman was shirtless
above leather trousers, setting off his biceps and his solarium tan with scarlet
braces. His bare skull gleamed and an earring caught the light. Wyatt ignored
the hothouse atmosphere of the place, the fussy paint job and new carpet. He
ordered a glass of light beer, took it to the window that overlooked Rossiters
front yard, and sat down to wait.

Rossiter had been a small-time
holdup man but hed retired from that to become a small-time go-between and
bagman. He knew more about the local scene than anybody and until a year ago hed
been Wyatts contact. Wyatt had been operating from a secluded farmhouse on the
Victorian coast at the time, emerging every few months to pull a job using
information and contacts provided by Rossiter. If anyone wanted Wyatt for a job
they approached Rossiter, and Rossiter passed the message on. It had been a
sweet life, but the situation had altered forever when a revenge-happy punk
named Sugarfoot Younger had forced Rossiter to reveal where Wyatt was living.
Wyatt had removed the Sugarfoot threat but hed had to abandon the farm. He
could never go back there and that was one of the disappointments of his life.

Now he needed to make use of
Rossiter again. But Sugarfoot had hurt the old holdup man. It was reasonable to
assume that Rossiter blamed Wyatt for it. That was why Wyatt was watching before
he went in. He needed to gauge the place first.

It was a triple-fronted brick house
set among small single-fronted weatherboard cottages. White paint was peeling
from the eaves, window frames and doors. A carport at the side sheltered a
souped-up Valiant Charger and a VW heavily streaked with carbon deposits around
the exhaust pipe. The front lawn needed cutting. Dry grass and dead flowers
choked the pitted stones bordering the path to the front door. A poorly laid
brick wall divided the house from the buckled footpath. The gate was bent and
off its hinges, caught in the strangling grass.

Wyatt sipped his beer. He sipped it
for forty minutes. He saw a tiny grey terrier from a neighbouring house cock
its leg on Rossiters wall and a sparrow add to the slime coating the crumbling
plaster Aborigine on Rossiters front lawn, but thats all he saw.

Finally a thin, sallow, ill-looking
youth approached along the footpath, walking a dog. The youth wore the Action
Front uniform of tight black jeans and T-shirt, Doc Martens, tattoos and a
crewcut, and Wyatt knew by the weak chin, flapping ears and knobbly features
that this was Niall, Rossiters son. The dog was a pitbull, head down,
snuffling and pulling hard as it smelt home.

Then dog and master froze. Theyd
spotted the grey terrier. An expression of cunning and greed settled on Nialls
face. He hunted around, saw no one who mattered, and let go the pitbulls lead.

The slaughter took no more than
fifteen seconds. The big dog streaked away, low and snarling. It snatched up
the smaller dog in its jaws, shook it, breaking its neck, smacked it against
the footpath and wall, then dropped flat to gnaw at the head. Rossiters son
retrieved the terrier, walked back along the footpath, and dropped the body
into a yard several doors down.

Wyatt watched youth and dog enter
their yard together. Niall took the pitbull through the open-ended carport to
the rear of the house. When Niall didnt reappear, Wyatt guessed hed gone in
by the back door.

Wyatt had intended to leave the pub
and cross the road then, but an empty tip-truck pulled up outside Rossiters,
partly obscuring his view. The truck was rust-coloured, the tray sides
massively dented. Wyatt wondered idly if the old holdup man had got himself a
new job or if he was moving in different circles now, but a man hed never seen
before, thickset and wearing overalls, climbed out of the cab and made for the
house next door to Rossiters.

Wyatt watched him through a gap
between the truck and an old Hillman. Just as the man reached down to unlatch
his front gate, Niall Rossiter reappeared on the footpath. He was carrying a
crossbow, the bow pulled back tight. Wyatt could see the bolt sitting there. It
was sharp and lethal-looking, and Niall Rossiter had the appearance of a man
who wanted to let it loose on someone. Wyatt glanced around, saw that no one in
the bar was paying any attention to him, and opened the pub window a crack.

Ive fucking told you, park that
heap of shit outside your own place.

Niall Rossiter was waving the
crossbow around as he said it. He aimed it at the front tyres of the truck. He
swung around and aimed it at the driver.

How can I, Niall? the man said. He
pointed to the Hillman on a lean in the gutter outside his house. This things
parked here. Dont know who owns it.

Ive fucking told you, dont park
outside our place.

Then Niall paused. He prodded the
crossbow against the truck drivers chest. In fact, dont park here at all.
He stepped back, waving his arm at the miserable street. I mean, Jesus, it
spoils the look of the place, let alone blocking the light.

He wheeled around and disappeared.
The man got into his truck and started it. Wyatt shut the window, closing off
the belching exhaust smoke. The man compromised. He shunted back and forth,
turned the truck around and parked it several car lengths away.

Wyatt waited, letting the street
draw poverty and meanness around itself again, then ran lightly across the road
and into the Rossiter place. He didnt go to the front door. He edged between
the Charger and the VW and came to a gate leading to the backyard, an island of
cement with a Hills Hoist in the centre of it. Tracksuits, T-shirts, overalls
and vast black bras and pants were pegged to it. They had been there a while. They
flapped stiffly like cardboard cutouts. A bicycle with trainer wheels lay on
its side at the base of the Hills Hoist.

The pitbull lived in a lean-to
kennel against the side wall of a poky granny flat at the far end of the yard.
A sad-looking wattle dropped small, scaly leaves onto it. Two grimy bowls were
nearby, both empty. The pitbull stiffened as Wyatt came through the gate. It
came at him fast, low and silent. The back wall of the main house consisted of
sagging masonite with two louvred windows and a barred screen door in it. Wyatt
slipped inside and slammed the screen door. The pitbull hit the door, its jaws
lunging at Wyatt through the torn flywire, its shoulders arrested by the bars. The
quick and the dead, Wyatt told it.

* * * *

Five

He
found himself in a gloomy region of dustballs, mould and feathery webs. Toys
and rags were scattered on the cement floor. There were three doors. All were
open. The first led to a bathroom with a dripping shower, the second to a
laundry dominated by an expensive washing machine. Wyatt stopped at the third
doorway and looked in.

It was a large kitchen. Everything
was on a large scale and none of it was cheapthe table, the built-in
cupboards, the gleaming refrigerator, freezer, dishwasher, microwave oven and
gas range.

The women were large. Rossiters
wife, Eileen, was in her fifties but looked younger. There were no lines on her
round face. Her lips were very red, her chopped short hair had no grey in it,
the flesh on her robust bones hadnt started to sag yet. But there was a lot of
it, concealed under a flower-patterned sack-like dress. She was the healthiest,
most unlikely looking grandmother Wyatt had ever seen. She watched him from the
chair at the head of the table and didnt flicker an eyelid.

Next to her was the daughter,
Leanne. Shed got married at seventeen and the expression on her face said she
hadnt been ready for the kids that came with it. She was short and dark, and
looked cheap and sullen. On her, the fat looked grease-fed and unhealthy. She
had black hair on the crown of her head, shaved to a stubble above each ear.
Her singlet top was holed and grimy. A couple of dozen thin silver bangles
clinked together on one thick arm. She moved suddenly, striking out blindly,
clipping the ear of a grubby child whod been whining for a biscuit. The child
started screaming. Two other children, under the table, joined in. Then Leanne
saw Wyatt in the doorway and her jaw dropped open.

The men saw him too. Niall had a
beer can raised to his mouth. He put the can back on the table. There were
several other cans there, together with bowls of potato crisps, salted nuts and
biscuits. This was morning tea. Leanne was visiting with the grandchildren, so
theyd got out the nibbles.

Who the hell are you? Niall said.

Wyatt ignored him. He nodded at the
other man carefully. Ross, he said.

Rossiter was ten years older than
his wife but looked twenty years older. He was jockey-sized, with the sunken
chest, narrow face and knobbly features that his son had inherited, but not
Nialls viciousness. Hed cut himself shaving. He didnt seem to know whether
or not he should be pleased to see Wyatt in his kitchen doorway. He grew wary
and still. Wyatt, he said.

The response was immediate. Niall
stood up, looking punchy, pushing back his chair. The expression on Eileens
face went from neutral to hard and she said, Well, well, softly. Leanne
looked confused. Wyatt watched them carefully. Rossiter had both hands on the
edge of the table. He wasnt a hard man, or bad or unpredictable, but that didnt
make him a safe bet. The hard one was Eileen, the bad and unpredictable one was
Niall, Leanne was nothing.

There was only one way to get
through to these people. Wyatt held up his hand placatingly, said, Take it
easy, and took an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. It contained
the few thousand dollars hed been able to make from small heists up and down
the eastern seaboard in the past ten months. He counted out a thousand dollars.
He sensed tension and anticipation in the room. He put the money on the table
and said, Ross, I want to apologise.

Niall looked at the money and then
at Wyatt. Apologise? Some guy comes along and knocks my old man around on
account of you, and you want to apologise? Ill give you apologise, and he
started to move around the table.

Rossiter blocked him with his chair.
Keep your shirt on, son. Im still alive. Hear him out.

Niall had the face of a rodent and
was driven by nameless grievances. He didnt want to stop, so Wyatt pulled out
his .38. Niall saw it. He backed up, said, Hey, putting plenty of hurt in his
voice, and sat down.

The others saw the gun too. Eileen
continued to watch Wyatt across the table. Leanne slapped one of her children
again and went back to staring in fascination at it. Rossiter shook his head
wearily. Cut it out, you lot. Wyatts a friend. He looked up at Wyatt. Put
the gun away, pal, you wont need it here. When the tension ebbed he said, I
hear you shot him.

Wyatt nodded.

A look of drowsy appreciation
settled on Leannes face. You shot Sugarfoot?

Wyatt was tired of all this. It was
wasting time. He had to force the words out. Ross, can I come in?

Eileen stood, her movements saying
she liked her large body and got pleasure from it. Id say youre already in.