Garry Disher - Cross Kill

‘There’s a floating casino,’ Jardine said finally. ‘It’s how Kepler got started, it’s a good earner for him, and he’s still got a soft spot for it. It’s strictly for the high-flyers. There are plenty of legitimate games for them in Australia. If you’re some bigwig from Hong Kong, say, accustomed to staking six figures at the gambling tables, places like Jupiters and Wrest Point will lay on the air fare, accommodation, all meals, the odd bottle of Dom Perignon, etcetera, for you and the wife.’

He stopped and gulped tea from his mug. Wyatt was also drinking tea. Nothing stronger, nothing that might blur the edges of thought.

‘That’s fine,’ Jardine went on, ‘except there’s always the bloke who wants something a bit different. He wants to play in a place where no one knows his name, where he doesn’t have to dress up, where the risk is greater, the company rougher, the rules aren’t set by the Gaming Commission. That’s where the Outfit comes in.’

Wyatt waited. Jardine generally took his time with the background, but it always turned out to be important. He drank his tea and waited.

‘You’ve noticed there’s a lot of unleased office space in Sydney,’ Jardine said.

‘Melbourne too.’

‘It’s got the real estate boys worried,’ Jardine said, ‘so they offer special deals. One in particular has caught the attention of the Outfit-free rent for the first six months.’

Wyatt inclined his head imperceptibly, guessing what was coming next. ‘Ready-made premises,’ he said.

‘Right. The Outfit sets up a dummy front company to lease a suite of empty offices, generally an entire floor, gets some poor bastard who owes them something to decorate the place, hires a few girls, buys a lot of booze, puts in a few crap tables and stuff, and once a week holds the biggest game in Sydney, only no one knows about it.’

‘Cash?’

‘Too risky. They deal strictly with chips. The players buy their chips at some Outfit joint, taxis take them to the game, they go up in the elevator, and happily shut themselves away for a couple of days. There’s never more than six playing at a time, attended by three or four Outfit heavies and a couple of girls.’

‘Guns?’

‘Not allowed, though the Outfit will be carrying.’

‘Once a week?’

‘All year round. Just before the first rent payment is due, the game moves to new premises somewhere.’

Wyatt grunted absently. He didn’t care about some clever Outfit swindle. He cared only about hitting the Outfit where it hurt. ‘When’s the next game?’

Jardine smiled. ‘Starts tonight.’

The two men fell silent. They had hit the Outfit twice now, quick and hard. The floating crap game was next. The object this time was to throw a scare into the big punters so they’d never play in an Outfit game again no matter how much compensation and shut-up money the Outfit had to fork out to them. If the Outfit refused to talk to Wyatt after that, he’d just go on hitting them.

The agent who met them in the foyer of the Bellcourt Building at one o’clock was young, about twenty-eight, a slight figure overwhelmed by a dark, double-breasted suit. He wore the coat open to display his hand-painted tie, his hair was cropped short on the sides, and he carried a mobile phone. Jardine and Wyatt also wore suits. The agent took one look at the suits and decided these guys weren’t important. ‘A trade magazine?’ he said, trying to work up some enthusiasm.

‘That’s right. Ceramics Quarterly,’ Jardine said.

‘Anything from lavatory bowls to vases,’ Wyatt said.

‘We need plenty of space,’ Jardine said, ‘for desks, layout tables, computers.’

They had come to the doorman’s desk in the centre of the foyer. The doorman was half asleep over a copy of the Daily Telegraph, now and then glancing at security monitors. The agent signed the book and ushered Jardine and Wyatt across to the elevator. ‘Ceramics. Sounds interesting.’

Jardine and Wyatt got into the lift with the agent. They had nothing more to say about ceramics, but they were working, so they stayed in character, not exchanging glances, not winking. Wyatt said, ‘Is there a doorman on duty around the clock?’

‘He goes off at six. For after-hours access you need a swipe card.’

Wyatt nodded. They got off on the sixth floor. Ahead of them was a vast empty room. The air smelt of new carpet.

‘This is it,’ the agent said. He pointed to a cream-painted wall and a solid-looking door further along the corridor. ‘The floor above is empty. The one under us was rented a few weeks ago. Accountants. You won’t hear boo out of them.’

Jardine walked into the vacant suite. Wyatt followed him. They prowled around the perimeter of it, discussing partitions, lighting and airconditioning with one another in low voices. The agent wandered nearby, now and then checking his watch.

Finally Wyatt and Jardine made their way to the windows. The glass was tinted. They could see the spine of the Harbour Bridge in the distance, the glassy spires of downtown Sydney. One window opened onto a balcony. Wyatt pushed at it experimentally.

‘Here, let me show you,’ the agent said.

He unlocked the door and slid it open. There was grit and oiliness in the air outside. Wyatt and Jardine stepped out and pretended to look out over the city. They didn’t stay there long. The fifth-floor suites also had balconies and that’s all they needed to know.

The agent looked at his watch. ‘Just about perfect for what you gents are after.’

Wyatt and Jardine weren’t so sure. They asked to see suites on the fourth and seventh floors. The agent let it be known that there were also empty suites on the second and ninth floors, but Wyatt said thanks, they’d had enough to be going on with, they’d decide this weekend and be in touch.

‘Just remember,’ the agent said on the footpath outside, ‘sign a long lease and you’ll get the first six months free.’

They came back just before six o’clock. This time they wore dark overalls, balaclavas and latex gloves. Wyatt carried a gym bag, Jardine an aluminium extension ladder. The doorman didn’t recognise the two men. As they came in from the footpath and advanced across the marble floor, he put down his paper and asked, ‘Help you blokes?’

The lobby was empty. Jardine rested the ladder against the high edge of the doorman’s desk and joined Wyatt in leaning his forearms on the top. Then he reached over and pushed the doorman’s chest. The man’s chair was fitted with castors. It shot back, too quickly for him to push the alarm button. By the time the chair had stopped moving and the man had come out of his chair, Wyatt was behind the desk with him, tickling his throat with the barrel of his.38. The doorman said what everyone says: ‘What do you want?’ His voice was shaky.

Wyatt took the gun away. The doorman could still see it, he knew the threat was still there, but the cruel black hole was pointing at the floor now. He gulped and tried to gather himself. ‘What do you fellows want?’

Part of Wyatt’s job was to read men like the doorman. He knew the doorman felt humiliation under the fear. The doorman had a job to do, he’d failed to do it, so maybe he’d do something foolish unless Wyatt eased the fear and the humiliation. He said gently, ‘What’s your name?’

The doorman’s hair had worked free, oily ropes of it like spaghetti over his left ear. He pushed it back across his bald scalp and said, wanting to do the right thing, ‘First name? Or both my names?’

‘First name will do fine.’

The man worked some moisture into his mouth. ‘Bill.’

‘Bill,’ Wyatt said. ‘Well, Bill, we want your help.’

‘What kind of help?’

‘Is the wife expecting you home?’