Garry Disher - Pay Dirt

He ignored the administration block. The money might be stashed away there but first he wanted to satisfy himself that he was right about what had happened a day and a half ago.

He started with the buildings at the rear of the block-two corrugated iron sheds, each large enough to hold a truck, and a small prefab hut next to an iron shipping container. The prefab building was raised a foot off the ground. It had aluminium frame doors and windows and two cement steps leading to the front door. The windows were curtained in some frilly domestic material. It puzzled Wyatt until he heard the unmistakable squeak of bedsprings. Someone was asleep in there.

It wasn’t the sort of place Trigg would live in. A guard mechanic or odd job man, Wyatt thought.

It told him to go slow and quiet. He crossed to the first of the long sheds. There were several windows high off the ground, and a roller door and a small metal door, both padlocked.

He tried the second shed. It was the same as the first. He knew both sheds would have a legitimate purpose-major mechanical repairs, panel-beating, spray painting-but there were no signs up.

He circled the second shed, looking at the ground. He rejected the first piece of wire as being too thick. The second seemed about right. He was fashioning it into a hooked shape when the sky seemed to fall on him. Strong hands grabbed him by the collar and belt and ran him head-on into the wall of the shed. He collapsed onto his knees and toppled over. Someone searched his pockets and found the.38. A boot thudded hard into his stomach and stamped on his fingers.

Wyatt looked up, feeling pain tug inside him. Blood ran from his scalp into his eyes. He coughed and focused on the figure who had hit him.

The man had no neck. His head was like a knob squeezed from a piece of rock. He was tall and watched Wyatt in a loose-muscled way. Despite his size he looked fast and flexible. He wore overalls and had the unhappiest expression Wyatt had ever seen on anybody.

Wyatt wondered about his.38. He guessed the big man had it tucked away in his overalls. He started to get to his feet wondering if he’d be allowed to get that far. When nothing happened he realised the big man wanted a bit of sport with him.

The big man had the advantage of size. Wyatt hoped to make it a disadvantage by getting him tired. He edged away from the wall and began to circle around, goading him into wasted effort.

The big man was having none of it. He simply stayed on the spot, turning with small movements as Wyatt wasted energy on the outer circle.

Wyatt went on the offensive. He darted in, feinted with his left hand and side-armed with his right. Instead of crushing the big man’s windpipe the flat of his hand glanced off the thick upper arm. He felt a jabbing blow to the cut on his head.

Wyatt retreated, knowing the big man would work on that cut if he could. He circled again, skipping from one foot to the other like a boxer, holding himself tight, looking for an opening. He darted in, squared up as if to repeat his earlier mistake, then dropped to his knees and punched his left fist hard under the big man’s belt.

Again he stepped back and circled. He saw that he’d hurt the big man. There was a rictus grin of pain. The breathing sounded forced. Wyatt danced in, landed hard blows to the big man’s eyes, backed off. He did it again. The big man shook his head, baffled, but never took his eyes off Wyatt. Wyatt watched the massive arms, waiting for them to drop, a sign of fatigue. Wyatt felt good now, concentrated, his breathing and movements rhythmic and loose.

He went in a third time, going for the eyes again. The big man managed a stinging blow to Wyatt’s ribs, but Wyatt knew his own punches were beginning to do real damage. This time he stepped just out of range, then in again before the man realised he wasn’t circling out of reach again. The man blocked with his forearms but Wyatt was expecting that. He turned side on and lashed the side of his shoe down the big man’s shin bones. It was hard and sharp and caught him by surprise. Wyatt saw him curl and tighten as if he’d bitten into a lemon.

He took advantage of that and went hard at the man’s head, a succession of rapid punches left and right. His aim was to confuse-make the man dizzy, blur his vision, make his head ring. It was working. Wyatt stepped back out of reach. The big man was soaked with sweat, swaying, shaking his head as if something were clinging to it. Blood had run into his eyes. Ribbons of mucus clung to his lips and chin.

Wyatt was going to finish him off and search for a key when the voice came out of the darkness behind him. It called him old son and told him that was enough. What convinced Wyatt was the rifle barrel behind his ear.

‘Hap?’ Trigg said. ‘You okay?’

The man known as Happy spat blood on the ground and wiped his sleeve across his eyes. He seemed to clear his mind quickly. He reached into a pocket of his overalls and pulled out Wyatt’s.38. Wyatt watched him, expecting a pay-back, but Happy simply stood there as if waiting for orders. When Trigg said, ‘Unlock the shed,’ Happy did it as if none of his motivations were his own. He came back and stood next to Trigg and when Trigg told him to take Wyatt into the shed and tie him up, the big hands were firm and efficient, no more than that.

They used nylon rope and propped Wyatt on a scarred wooden chair next to a steel-topped bench that ran against the wall at the back of the shed. Most of the space was taken up by the bogus Brava truck with the Steelgard van still on its tray. The cement floor was spotted with oil and grease. Crash-repair tools were stacked against the walls and a new hydraulic hoist had been bolted to a fresh slab of cement. Pictures of bodybuilders had been clipped from magazines and taped to a chipboard panel above the bench. An outdated Michelin calendar curled from a nail at one end of it.

Trigg propped the rifle against the bench. He put his hands on his hips and looked at Wyatt. The little man resembled a furious sparrow. His hair seemed to puff with frustration. ‘Who the fuck are you? No, let me guess-fucking Wyatt.’

Wyatt hadn’t intended to speak. He wanted to provoke Trigg. But he also wanted information. ‘Where’s Tobin?’

This seemed to encourage Trigg’s frustration. He pointed irritably at the hydraulic hoist bolted to the cement slab. ‘Under there with the guard. If I’d’ve known you were going to show up I’d’ve waited before we filled it in.’ He shook his head. ‘Jesus Christ. Where the fuck am I going to stash you, eh? Answer me that.’

Wyatt studied him bleakly. Thugs like Trigg made it hard for the professionals. They were vicious and stupid and left a trail of unnecessary bodies behind. He counted: Venables, Tobin, the guard-and soon he’d be the fourth.

He looked at the floor where the pit had been. If the bodies were never found he knew what the police line would be: the guard did it and disappeared with the money. He turned back to Trigg. ‘You hijacked my job. That money’s mine.’

Coming from anyone else they would have sounded like playground words. But Wyatt always meant what he said. He also operated under the belief that stealing another man’s job was dangerous. It led to unnecessary resentment and speculation. It meant you couldn’t trust anyone the next time you wanted help, advice or equipment. He wasn’t expecting Trigg to give him back the money-he was simply stating a fact.

Trigg seemed to be distracted by the claim. He said, frowning, ‘I owed some money to the mob,’ and took Happy by the arm. ‘You can have him to play with in a minute, my son, after we check around outside.’

They went out. They would be back when they found the car and nothing else to worry about. That’s when the beating would start.