Wyatt - 04 - Cross Kill (18 page)

The two men selected black jeans,
T-shirts and windcheaters, trying them on in the changing rooms. The proprietor
said nothing about their choice. He treated them as if they were the first
customers hed ever had. He wrapped the clothing in brown paper, stuck the
flaps down carefully, tried string around each parcel, finished with a plaited
loop. Wyatt watched him, feeling again that he was unconnected to the world in
fundamental ways. He didnt even know how to say thanks or express pleasure and
surprise to the old proprietor. He let Jardine do that.

It was not much past six oclock and
the sky was darkening. They bought takeaway hamburgers, ate them in the car,
then Wyatt threaded the car through to Hoddle Street and onto the freeway. By
seven oclock they were parked at the rear of the Mesic compound.

They didnt speak. There was nothing
to say. Jardine had brought two pairs of infra-red night binoculars with him
from Sydney and each man settled back in his seat and watched the grounds and
the two squat houses.

If we cut the wire we run the risk
of being spotted by neighbours, the alarms will go off, the Mesics will meet us
with guns blazing, Wyatt said.

How about we blow the fence and
drive through? It will be quick, scary

And attract the attention of the
cops as well as the Mesics.

They fell silent, thinking through
all the angles. Wyatt felt swamped with tiredness. This was a new sensation for
him, a glimpse of lifes useless shunting, loose ends and wasted effort. The
waiting, the problem solving, were tedious, and he hadnt felt like that about
a job before. Somehow he couldnt shut down today, couldnt step outside of
himself until the job was over and the money was in his pocket. He looked at the
security fence, the ugly twin houses, and felt that for the past few months hed
been marking time while the money stayed a jump ahead of him. The city itself
seemed fatigued by his existence in it. It was as if hed never pulled a swift,
clean hit and never would. He was trapped in an endless job that was not his
and carried no reward. Christ, he said, low and bitter.

Jardine put down the glasses. He
seemed to know what was going on in Wyatts head. Final stage, old son.

Wyatt said, letting the venom show, Once
this is over, Im staying clear of mobs, amateurs, and jobs with question marks
over them.

Now youre talking, Jardine said. But
were hitting them tomorrow night and the problem still remains, how do we go
in?

Wyatt said nothing. Jardine put the
glasses to his face, observed, said, Here he comes again, regular as
clockwork.

Who?

Victor. Back from the gym.

The skin tingled along Wyatts
forearms. Hed been slumped in the seat but now he sat upright. This gym, he
said, doesnt have a nice dark car park, by any chance?

* * * *

Thirty-one

The
Mesic woman had suggested to Napper that she hand him the ten thousand bucks in
the family compound in Templestowe, but Napper had told her, No way. Hed
been there once, and once was enough. What if the Feds or the CIB had the
Mesics under surveillance? Theyd have his picture by now, plus the
registration of his ute. Just in case, hed constructed a story to cover
himself, half based on fact, about following a lead in his own time concerning
a kid hed arrested for spraypainting used cars in a yard owned by the Mesics
back in Richmond. Hed be pushing his luck trying to justify a
second
visit
to the Mesics in his own time. Not even a constable fresh out of the academy
would believe that.

So, hed suggested his place, maybe
get in a bit of mattress time with Stella Mesic, but shed laughed in his face.
Me in a cops house? No way.

So they settled on somewhere
neutral, the car park next to the boathouse on the river in Fairfield. The
Infectious Diseases Hospital was close by. Napper pictured invisible organisms
floating in the air, hooking themselves to his lungs, showing up as ulcers and
cancers on his dick five years, ten years down the track. He parked the ute and
waited, windows wound up, watching the flowing waters, the avaricious mutating
ducks, the hospital just breathing distance away.

5.15 Wednesday afternoon and Stella
Mesic was late. Maybe shed been caught in traffic. Cyclists and joggers
skirted the edge of the car park. There were other vehicles there, cars, a
couple of vans, but everyone seemed to be interested in his ute for some
reason, he saw their grins in the rear view mirror as they approached from
behind. Sure the ute was old and rough, and the exhaust pipe showed through a
hole in the floor, but it wasnt so bad that youd want to laugh about it. He
shrugged, found some drive-time music on the radio, watched a yuppie towel off
sweat and get into his Porsche and drive off. He snorted. Last night Tina had
told him the one about the difference between a Porsche and a cactus, how with
a Porsche the pricks are on the inside.

5.20. A big XJ6 slid into the car
park, Stella Mesic at the wheel. Napper watched for a while. She was alone. No
one followed her in. He got out, crunched across the gravel, opened the
passenger door and enveloped himself in soft leather.

She didnt smile, say hello, or look
aggrieved, just gave him a formal nod. Napper could smell perfume, something
discreet and expensive. Then the Mesic woman twisted her body in the seat until
she was facing him. He heard the slide of silk along her thighs.

She said lightly, Well, Sergeant
Napper, Fairfield boathouse car park, 5 pm Wednesday, sorry Im a bit late.

No worries.

He waited, but she failed to speak
again, so he said, feeling awkward about it, Did you bring the money?

I want to be clear about this. You
told my husband and me that armed men intend to hit the Mesics soon. You said
if we paid you ten thousand dollars, youd give us the full details, is that
correct?

She was going to play games with
him, and Napper didnt like it. Thats what I said. Are you trying to wriggle
out of it now? Fine. Suit yourself. Im not the one who has to wait around to
be attacked, wondering when, wondering who, wondering the best way to stop it
happening. If you want that kind of grief, thats your business.

She seemed to think about it,
frowning now, looking uncertain. She began to touch herself, something Napper
had seen her do before. He pressed on, sensing his advantage. If, on the other
hand, you want to protect yourself against these hoods, and if you want someone
on the force who can do you some good now and then, well, Id say that was
worth ten thousand bucks, wouldnt you? Another way of looking at it, if I was
in your position I wouldnt like knowing I had a cop as an enemy, causing all
sorts of grief for me all the time, kind of thing, just because Id reneged on
a deal.

Stella Mesic looked rueful and
nodded, taking his point. I just wanted to be clear, thats all. Im scared, I
admit it. The thought of armed men coming into the house scares me.
You
scare
me.

She swallowed, her eyes wide with
what he might do to her, and it stirred in Nappers groin. His hand crept out,
found her knee, the minute gridweave of her stocking. I wont hurt you so long
as you dont cross me, he said. His chunky fingers tightened, her face went
white. Cross me, Ill ruin your day.

She was breathless. I understand.

Napper released his grip, gave her
leg a quick slide and pat a short distance under her skirt. See? Simple. Now,
did you bring the money?

I did.

She was wearing a waist-length black
suede jacket, padded as if shed strapped a fence post across her shoulders.
She reached inside it, brought out an envelope, tossed it in his lap.

The money was in hundreds, so it
wasnt long before he looked up at her and said, Theres only two and a half
thousand here. That wont buy you shit. Youre short seven and a half thousand
grand.

She was hard and sharp, her thick
hair tossing. How do I know this isnt some scam youre pulling? After all,
you havent told us anything new. We
know
the firm is vulnerable at the
moment. We
know
different people have been thinking of hitting us.

Napper blinked. You do?

So thats why at this stage you
only get two and a half thousand. Thats all your information is worth. Give us
a name, a date, the time and method, and youll get your seven and a half.

Napper had more or less expected
this anyway, so he said, Fair enough.

Names first.

Wyatt and Jardine, no first names.
The one to worry about is Wyatt, but theyre both pros, both hard, never been
arrested.

Are they violent?

Depends on how brave youre
feeling. What theyll do is tie everyone up, rob the place, and disappear. If
you give them a hard time, theyll bang you around a bit. If you pull a gun on
them, theyll kill you.

When do they intend to do it?

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow? Doesnt give us much
time. When tomorrow?

Theyre not likely to go in during
daylight hours. Itll be some time in the evening.

How do you know all this, Napper?
Have you worked with them before, set jobs up for them?

Napper was affronted. You get that
sort of thing happening up in Sydney, not here. No, I got a contact.

Can I speak to this contact?

No way. A good cop protects his
sources, you know that.

One thing puzzles me, Stella said,
getting comfortable in the drivers seat, giving him a flash of inside upper
leg. You say theyre going to rob us, yet I keep hearing whispers about rival
firms who want to take us over, steal our records. So, are you sure that
robbery is all theyve got in mind?

All I know is what Ive told you,
Napper said. These boys are not mob, they work alone, they dont want to be
businessmen. Now, how about the other seven and a half?

He saw Stella Mesic reach forward
and do something with the array of switches on the dash. What happened then
told Napper that he could wave goodbye to the seven and a half. The rear doors
of a nearby van opened and the womans husband stepped out, a video camera in
his fist, a Nikon fitted with a telephoto lens around his neck. He looked big
and fit and sure of himself.

Stella said, Napper? Look at me.

Napper looked. She was waving a
microrecorder at him. Youre on tape, Sergeant. Sure, you can make things hard
for us, but think of the grief we can cause you. Derryn Hinch,
Truth,
not
to mention the cops whose job it is to investigate other cops. I know whos
going to come off worse. The thing is, youve got nothing to offer us. Youre
strictly small time.

Fucking slag, Napper said.

Stella Mesic turned the ignition
key. Well, I wont keep you. The two and a half thousand is yours, by the way.
Fairs fair.

Fairs fair. Napper got out of the
Jaguar. He got into his ute and started it. Fairs fair. He inched into the
peak-hour traffic on Heidelberg Road and the words kept repeating themselves.
Fairs fair. He felt dazed. Everything had turned around on him and he hadnt
been ready for it.

The traffic was worse on Hoddle
Street, bumper to bumper. Napper rode the clutch. He was low on fuel. Trouble
was, the gauge was broken and he was in an inside lane. Heat shimmers disturbed
the oily atmosphere outside, and hot air, smoky from the exhaust pipe, reached
him from the hole in the floor. The cars in his lane were stalled for some
reason. The other lanes moved, but his didnt. There was a wog car next to him,
all thick duco, chrome and full-volume stereo. Napper longed to turn the wheel
hard, knock the little shit into a bus.

The thing was, people seemed to be
looking at him. The wog car crept past, then a Silver Top cab, a furniture van,
two or three of your average family rustbuckets, a couple of flat-faced Asians
in a brand-new Volvo, all those faces peering at him in the ute, a suggestion
of a snigger on their faces.

He wound down his window, leaned out
and waved his fist at an elderly woman in the back seat of a taxi. What are
you staring at, you old slag?

The woman shrank away from her door.
She looked straight ahead. Soon the taxi was gone and he had a Renault-load of
dykes next to him. Cropped hair. Singlet tops. Underarm hair. This bunch was
actually laughing and pointing. Napper waited for the Renault to pass, but it
didnt. He craned his headan ambulance was backing into the traffic ahead. All
lanes were stalled now.

He half-opened his door and leaned
out. Help you molls with anything?

The women in the Renault wound up
their windows, locked their doors, but even though they were huddling together,
leaning into one another, Napper knew he hadnt won a victory over them.

So he opened his door and got out.
He kicked the side of the Renault and tried to tell the women all the things
that were crowding his head. But the words refused to come out clearly. There
was only flooding hate and rage. He felt he could tear through the metal and
glass. People around him were locking their doors, saying, Dont look . . .
ignore him, to one another.