Garry Disher - Cross Kill

Coulthart pushed away from his desk and lifted out of his chair. He favoured creased, lightweight suits summer and winter and sometimes Bax glimpsed flesh between the straining buttons of the man’s drip-dry shirts. He avoided Coulthart’s midriff and stood up too. ‘So, what’s it to be, boss?’

‘Give it another month,’ Coulthart said. ‘I want a couple of lightning raids on known Mesic outlets.’

‘I’ll need warrants.’

‘No problem.’

‘Suit yourself,’ Bax said, ‘but I’m telling you, you won’t find anything.’

‘Try, okay?’

Then, when Bax was opening the door, ‘Baxy?’

Bax stopped. ‘Yes, boss?’

‘Do the blokes, you know, take you seriously, got up like that?’

Jesus Christ, did he mean did the blokes think he was on the take? Bax looked down, checking his long frame, the expensive dark suit that shaped it. His shoes gleamed, his shirt was spotless, thick white cotton. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

Coulthart’s face reddened, the look of a man caught out in a cheap thought. ‘What I mean is, it’s a dirty job, you’ll ruin your dacks.’

To help the poor bastard out, Bax grinned and winked. ‘I like to set standards, boss. Be on the cutting edge.’

Coulthart relaxed. ‘Yeah, well, see if you can cut your way through to the Mesics.’

In the lounge room of the house in Abbotsford, Rossiter stared at Wyatt. ‘You want to hit the Mesics?’

Wyatt said nothing, waiting for his words to sink in.

‘At least your timing’s right, but aren’t you heading a bit off course?’

Wyatt knew what he meant. The Wyatt that Rossiter knew hit banks, armoured cars, not the cash reserves of other crims.

‘I mean, they’re ripe for a takeover. The flash boys are sniffing around, seeing what they can pick up, but not you, Wyatt.’

‘That’s my business.’

Rossiter regarded him for a while. ‘This wouldn’t be personal?’

‘Information, Ross, that’s all I want at this stage.’

‘You’ll need a darn sight more than information.’

‘Let me take care of that.’

Wyatt waited, letting the old crim get used to the idea. Someone passed by the side window. He stiffened, looked at Rossiter sharply.

‘Leanne’s going,’ Rossiter said, a grin on his staved-in face. ‘Back in a tick.’

He went out the front door. Wyatt went to the window, saw Rossiter and Eileen kiss and hug Leanne and the children goodbye. No one else was around. Wyatt returned to the armchair as Rossiter came back into the room.

’Information, Ross.’

Rossiter shrugged. ‘I’ll tell you what I can.’

’I checked the Mesic place out yesterday-’

Rossiter grinned. ‘Wog heaven?’

Wyatt made a cutting motion with his hand. He was not good at this kind of conversation. ‘I need to know about the people living there.’

‘You heard the old man died?’

‘I’ve been on the move,’ Wyatt said. ‘I don’t know anything.’

‘Old Karl died a couple of weeks ago, leaving Leo, the youngest boy…’

‘Solid? About thirty? Moustache like a cop?’

‘That’s him.’

’Who else?’

‘His wife, Stella.’

‘Tell me about her.’

‘Smart, but bottom drawer, if you know what I mean. Leo brought her back from a Gold Coast holiday one time. Cluey though, smarter than Leo.’

‘I saw an older bloke, skinny, long hair, flashy dresser.’

‘That would’ve been Victor, the old man’s favourite. He’s been handling things in the States. They reckon there you can pay some kid a hundred bucks to hot-wire a Mustang and drive it straight to the wharf and onto a container ship. Convert it to right-hand drive here and sell it for twenty grand.’

Wyatt didn’t care about any of that. ‘Anyone else?’

‘That’s all I know of.’

There were footsteps, then another shape passed the side window. Wyatt heard noises in the carport. A powerful motor was run viciously at full throttle for a few seconds, allowed to subside, punished again. Rossiter shrugged. ‘He’ll quit in a minute.’

They waited. A short time later Niall went around to the back of the house again. Wyatt said, ‘So who’s the brains of the show?’

‘Well, there you go, mate. The Mesics have never been that big or that smart, just lucky. Somehow or other they managed to end up with a fair old slice of the stolen car racket, plus some small-scale pushing interstate. The word is, now the old man’s dead they’re losing their grip. Mates of mine seem to think Stella and Leo could run the firm okay, only Victor’s got other ideas.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning Victor’s got big plans for them. Stolen cars? Forget it. I’ve heard he intends to convert everything to cash so he can be the front man for some funny money coming in from the States to run the clubs and casinos, caper like that.’

This was all speculation. Wyatt was more interested in the here and now. ‘Tell me about the day-to-day side of things.’

‘The money side of things?’

Wyatt nodded.

‘Simple. Cash comes in every day from all their chop-shops, spare parts outlets, car dealerships.’

‘All legitimate businesses?’

‘With two sets of books, one for the tax man, the other for the black stuff.’

‘What happens to the cash?’

‘Once a week, on a Friday, everyone gets paid and the rest gets laundered.’

Wyatt liked that. The strictly cash heists had been drying up for him. It seemed no one used cash anymore. ‘So I need to hit on a Thursday night.’

‘Better make it soon, or it could all be gone,’ Rossiter said. ‘Thursday week should give you time to set it up. I wish you luck.’

Wyatt didn’t believe in luck, good or bad. He believed in people who had skills and nerve. He wandered to the window again, mentally putting a team together.

Behind him Rossiter said, ‘Anything else you want to know?’

‘You ever hear from Frank Jardine?’

‘He lives in Sydney now. I can give you the address.’

Wyatt waited while Rossiter scribbled on the back of an envelope. ‘I’ll be in touch later with a shopping list. Plastic explosive, drills, radios, stuff like that.’

‘Easier said than done,’ Rossiter said sharply. ‘Last time I helped you I almost got killed.’

Wyatt turned around. He focused on Rossiter without blinking, unemotional and remote: ‘How much?’

Rossiter met his look for as long as he could, then glanced away. ‘Another thousand?’

Wyatt counted out ten one-hundred dollar notes. ‘There could be more later.’

‘Call it a retainer.’

‘There could be more later,’ Wyatt said, still hard and dispassionate, ‘so long as no one gets wind of what I’m doing.’

‘Reading you loud and clear,’ Rossiter said, buttoning the notes into his shirt pocket.

Wyatt was still standing. Otherwise he might not have noticed the Laser parked beyond the pub. In the daylight it was blue, last night it had looked black. There was a dent on the rear panel, three registration stickers on the windscreen.

He didn’t say anything. He turned away from the window and left the room. He passed through the kitchen, ignoring Eileen, who was dipping a wet finger into a packet of crisps. He couldn’t see Niall anywhere. He kicked a wheel-less fire engine out of his path, and paused at the screen door. In front of him was the grey yard, guarded by a high paling fence. The stiff clothes creaked in the breeze. Apparently the dog was asleep.

Wyatt slipped outside, ran lightly to the kennel, used it as a step, and vaulted over the side fence into the truck driver’s backyard. In his wake the dog growled, the door opened in the granny flat, and Niall said, ‘What the fuck…?’