Wyatt - 04 - Cross Kill (8 page)

The Sydney train drew in and he
found his seat. He dozed through the long morning, his collar turned up, his
face turned to the endless flooded plains and farmland outside the window. His
ticket was punched. He didnt look at the conductor but sat, forbidding and
still. No one spoke to him. No one wanted to speak to him.

The coach from Wodonga drew in to
Strathfield at 9.15 pm. Several people alighted with him. He waited for his bag
and then joined the knots of people milling on the footpath. He wasnt stopped
or accosted. No whistles or shouts or hands reaching out to spin him around.

He walked slowly away from the
building, waiting for the cars and passengers to clear. Something about the air
buoyed him up. It was risky, careless, an enlivening Sydney smell. When he
thought the way was clear, he walked back. A lone taxi was waiting at the rank.

Thought Id missed out, the driver
said as Wyatt got in.

Must be your lucky night, Wyatt
said. Luck seemed to be in the air. He could smell it, even if he told himself
that he didnt believe in it. Newtown, he said.

Newtown, the driver said, clearly
baffled as to why Wyatt hadnt taken the coach to the central terminal.

They passed through leafy red-tile
suburbs. The camphor laurels were flowering. A couple of skateboarders, swift
shapes in the moonlight, plunged down the sloping streets and brassy foreign
cars darted through the traffic. Streets twisted, heaping the suburbs over
small, distinct hills, and Wyatt felt invigorated after Melbournes flat
reaches. He breathed in and out and sank into his seat. Anywhere along here,
he said when they got to Newtown. He paid the driver and got out.

He walked through to Broadway. The
footpaths on either side were crowded with people leaving restaurants, pubs and
takeaway joints. A couple of greengrocers and video libraries were open and he
edged past a drunken group bargaining good-naturedly with a doorstep jewellery
vendor, fingering the trinkets laid out on black velvet. The address Rossiter
had given him was a hotel called the Dorset and he could see it a block away.

When he reached the all-night cafe
opposite the Dorset he realised how hungry he was. He went inside and claimed a
stool at the window bench. Foccacia and coffee, he said, and sat down to eat
and watch. The watching was habit. He wasnt expecting trouble in the Dorset.

Thirty minutes later, convinced the
place was clean, he paid his bill and crossed the street. The Dorsets massive
front door opened onto a room the size of a tennis court. At one end a set of
padded armchairs faced an empty fireplace and an ancient television set. The
picture was rolling and the sound was off. At the other end was a highly
polished reception desk next to a broad staircase. There were key tags dangling
from half of the dozen or so pigeonholes behind the desk. The woman on duty was
smoking and flicking through a magazine, like Basil Fawltys wife. Under the
odour of her cigarette Wyatt could smell furniture polish. The place was worn
and old, he noticed, but solid and cared for. The ceiling was low and there
were bulky pillars at intervals through the vast room. Thick paint had been
splashed on the walls. The floor gleamed darkly.

Keeping back so mat he wouldnt be
noticed by the woman at the desk, Wyatt edged around to the public telephones
in the far corner. There were three of them, in roomy, old-fashioned booths
with pneumatic-operated wood and glass doors. He stepped into the first
cubicle, checked the Dorsets number and dialled it.

He saw the woman pick up the phone
and then he heard her voice. Dorset Hotel. Can I help you?

Ive got a message for Frank
Jardine, Wyatt said. Could you tell him the car will be waiting out the front
in about five minutes?

Ill check if hes in, the woman
said. Wyatt saw her turn around and check the pigeon holes.

Yes, hes in. Who shall I say is
calling?

Hes expecting me, Wyatt said, and
hung up.

He settled back to watch what the
woman would do. If she made any phone calls or otherwise indicated that Jardine
was marked in some way, hed be out of there. The woman wrote the message on a
small pad then lifted her head and shouted something. An elderly man came
through a swing door on the other side of the staircase. Wyatt watched him take
the note and labour upstairs with it. Two minutes later he came down again,
spoke to the woman and disappeared through the swing doors. Nothing else
happened. Wyatt imagined Jardine scratching his head over the note, perhaps
warily checking his gun, but hed get over it. Meanwhile Wyatt wanted to make
sure the place was safe before he spoke to him.

After five minutes he stepped out of
the telephone booth. Keeping the columns between himself and the woman at the
desk, he began to edge around to the staircase.

The gun barrel tickled his spine
before he was halfway there. He froze. You havent lost your touch, he said.

No, but you have. Jesus, chum, dont
you know theres a contract out on you?

Wyatt turned slowly and faced a man
who years ago had been his friend. Thats partly why Im here, he said.

* * * *

Fourteen

Theres
a back way out, Jardine explained. I cut through the alley to Broadway,
watched the front for a while, then came in looking.

Havent lost your touch, Wyatt
said again.

Jardine leaned back. A bloke might
start to wonder why youre so interested in my touch.

They were upstairs. Jardine had two
rooms, a lounge with a tiny balcony attached and an adjoining bedroom. Wyatt
bet that Jardine used the bathroom at the end of the hall, washed his clothes
in the basement laundry and ate all his meals in the cafe across the street.
That had been Jardines style twelve years earlier, when hed lived in a hotel
just like this one in North Melbourne. In those days Jardine and Wyatt had
worked together a few timesa gold bullion hijack, three suburban banks, and a
plum job where theyd stripped all the exhibits at a jewellery convention and
negotiated a reward from the insurance company. Wyatts own private life had
been limited and so hed not been interested in Jardines. When Jardine had
left Melbourne suddenly, saying he needed a change, Wyatt had shrugged it off.
Later he discovered that Jardine had had a fiance in Melbourne, and the fiance
had been killed by a kid driving a stolen car.

Now Wyatt accepted a glass of Scotch
and avoided Jardines question. Cheers, he said.

Jardine nodded and both men took
small sips. Wyatt was not a heavy drinker and he hoped that Jardine had not
become one. It didnt seem likely. The grey eyes were cautious and lonely, but
not desperate, and some thought had gone into making the suite of rooms a place
to live in. A bookcase stretched to the ceiling along one wall of the main
room. Apparently Jardine liked to read biographies, modern history, explorers
tales. There were no novels.

Another set of shelves held a stereo
system, VCR and small television set. A few compact discs were scattered
nearby: some classical, some folk, some jazz. A thick Persian rug covered the
worn carpet. The armchairs were cloth-covered and the one Wyatt was sitting in
was firm and comfortable. An Ansel Adams photograph hung on one wall and early
Sydney lithographs on another. A stiff chair was angled against a small
roll-top desk that stood open in the corner. The interior was cluttered with
envelopes, sheets of paper and pens stuffed in a jam jar. There was a framed
head-and-shoulders shot of a hesitantly smiling young woman next to the desk
lamp.

But the focal point of the room was
a small Apple computer on a card table. Wyatt turned back to Jardine. Writing
your memoirs?

The sad-looking face had been
staring at him attentively, as if charting his thoughts and understanding them.
It relaxed into a grin that was natural and unforced and had never failed to
charm people. I follow the ponies. That box of tricks helps me shorten the
odds.

Wyatt didnt try to feign interest.
He said, Is Kepler still running the Outfit?

The smile left Jardines face. Alive
and well.

I need to talk to him.

Jardine had a seamed, fleshless face
like a weathered knot of wood. It didnt change expression. I dont think a
talk is what hes got in mind for you, pal.

Wyatts mouth twisted briefly
without humour. It will be.

Jardine continued to watch him.
Jardine was clear, solid and grave, useful qualities in a man who cracked safes
and held up banks. When he spoke, the words emerged softly from his chest. Im
pretty much a backroom operator these days. He meant that he blueprinted
heists for people who knew how to pull them but not how to plan them. That
could be useful, Wyatt said.

Youre going to hit him a few times
first?

Yes.

Meanwhile youre pleased to know I
havent lost my touch.

Right again, Wyatt said.

Jardine sipped his Scotch once more,
put the half-full glass down and pushed it away. I have to live in this town.

Maybe just information will be
enough.

On the other hand, Jardine went
on, sometimes I miss the old days.

There was something approaching a
gleam in his eye. Wyatt remembered it from twelve years ago, a look that said
Jardine knew a sweet job when he saw one. He didnt follow it uphed let
Jardine declare if and how hed be involved. Tell me more about the Outfit.

This is Sydney, mate. Things are
organised here, not like down south. The cops are paid and you dont have
bunches of amateurs muscling in on each others territory or expertise. One arm
of the Outfit controls bent cars in the western suburbs, another sells coke to
street dealers. Theyve also got something going with diamonds.

Tell me about Kepler.

Hes a north shore darling,
Jardine said. He started counting on his fingers. Hes got his own law firm, a
big house right on the water, a society wife. He belongs to the night clubs,
knows the right peopleincluding the attorney-general, the police commissioner
and a few headkickers on the ALP Rightand he generally behaves like old money.
Hes charming, hes clever, he knows what knife and fork to use, and over on
the north shore they go all weak-kneed about this refined gangster in their
midst.

Im not interested in all that. I
want to know whats underneath.

Underneath, hes a thug. He bumps
people off if they get in the way or maybe just because hes got a sinus
headache that day. He knocks his wife around so it doesnt show on the surface
and spends most of his time running the Outfit from the penthouse suite of a
Darling Harbour apartment building.

How old is he?

Jardine thought about it. Sixty
odd. Hell be around for a while yet. Hes ambitious, hes trying to move his
people into Victoria.

Ive met some of them.

Both men lapsed into silence. Wyatt
began to build a mental picture of Kepler and the Outfit, looking for holes in
the armour. Jardine, he noticed, looked anticipatory. Wyatt needed him. Jardine
knew the local scene, knew the Outfit, but he also knew Melbourne. On top of
that he was good at what he did and he could be trustedas much as Wyatt
trusted anyone. Then Jardine said something that told Wyatt they were on the
same track. In some ways, the Outfit is easier to knock over than the local
Seven-Eleven.

Hows that?

They never expect trouble from
freelancers, Jardine explained. Blokes like you rob the banks, the organised
boys run the rackets, its all nicely balanced. The enemy as far as the Outfits
concerned is the law, and theyve taken care of that. A few thousand here and
there in a few pockets and they feel safe.

Yes, Wyatt said.

Jardine picked up his Scotch, looked
at it, pushed it away. Two things. One, my name stays out of it. Two, when you
finally tackle Kepler himself, youre on your own.

Wyatt also pushed his glass away. Agreed.

As to the rest, Jardine said, I
know two or three Outfit operations we can start with.

I dont have much time, Wyatt
said. I also dont have the money to bankroll anything major.

Mate, Jardine said, Ive had
these particular hits on the drawing board for years. He shrugged
apologetically. You know, out of academic interest, to keep my hand in. The
point is, theyre simple, cheap, nothing to set up

When?

We start tomorrow morning.

* * * *

Fifteen

On
Wednesday evening a woman from Corrective Services came around and told Eileen
and Ross that their son had been remanded for trial in the Bolte Remand Centre.
She snapped open the gold catches on a new tan briefcase. For about six weeks,
she said.

The briefcase didnt go with the
rest of the get-up. Eileen took in the womans skirt. It was made from some
crumpled-look summery fabric that had been washed and worn too often. There was
a white T-shirt with a rainforest message on it, and a faded denim jacket over
that. No jewellery. Espadrilles showed horny, hooked toes. Forty thousand a
year, probably, dealing with the public every day, it wouldnt have hurt the
woman to have made a bit of an effort. Eileen folded her arms on her vast and
comfortable chest. Bolte?