Garry Disher - Pay Dirt

‘Immigration?’

She nodded. ‘They detained eight of Jorge’s Chileans.’

‘Anything about me?’

‘Only that one man had escaped in a stolen car,’ Leah said.

Then she looked bitter. ‘I had to tell my girls to pull out. The feds were getting nosy.’ She shook her head. ‘It was a goldmine while it lasted.’

She was getting depressed. Wyatt knew her well enough to read the signs. She’d sometimes fall into a fatalistic blackness of spirit that might be triggered by some reversal but was never entirely absent from her makeup. She thought of her past as a yoke. She’d been on the game for years, and now she ran girls who’d once been like her. She believed that she’d be happy when she broke out of that pattern. She needed luck, she’d say sometimes. Luck and money.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Wyatt said.

‘That’s what you’re good at, Wyatt.’

He let it go. He said, ‘I want another crack at the payroll. I need your help.’

He knew that she welcomed action when she got the blues. He watched her. Normally he thought of her as having the kind of grave beauty that didn’t need a smile or other signs of life, but now she grinned. Her nose wrinkled. It altered her entire face.

The day started badly for Trigg and it got worse. First there was an article in Cosmopolitan. He’d gone into ‘Cut and Dried’ for a body-wave, add a few centimetres to his height, and he was under the dryer, flipping pages, when he came to ‘Short Men-Are They Sexy?’ Raelene had yanked him out before he finished the article but not before he’d read that because Alan Ladd was so short, Hollywood had shot all his love scenes with him standing on a box.

Then when Trigg walked back down the main street of Goyder, two people made cracks about the LTD getting stolen in Belcowie the day before, and his reflection in the shop windows showed that his body-wave was full of air, standing up from his head like it was in shock. His cuban-heeled elastic-sided boots seemed to expand to the size of footballs on his feet. He had the feeling the whole of Goyder was laughing at him. It got so bad that he stopped and bought a tub of Brylcreem, and back at Trigg Motors he plastered his hair down and saw clients without getting up from behind his desk.

But he’d asked the mayor to drop by after lunch. He’d have to stand up then- there was a lot at stake. She arrived at two-fifty, twenty minutes late, and he took her on a tour of the showrooms, service bays and car lots of Trigg Motors, calling her ‘your worship’.

Then he took her back to his office. ‘Coffee?’ he said. ‘Tea? Something stronger? I got sherry, gin and tonic, rum and coke?’

The mayor’s cat’s-arse mouth tightened. She seemed to sniff. ‘I’m afraid I have to get back to chambers,’ she said.

Trigg knew then that he’d lost, but still, he grew businesslike and clapped his hands together. ‘I’ll be brief,’ he said. ‘I’ve been in this city ten years. Trigg Motors is a pretty big concern, I employ a lot of people, plus there’s all the other spin-offs for the local economy. The city’s done a lot for me, now I want to give something back.’

‘Mr Trigg-’

‘Liberal endorsement for Central Ward next month,’ Trigg cut in. ‘As a Councillor I could do a lot for this city.’

The mayor had started to back towards the door. She was a neat little package in her formal spring suit, stiff hair and handbag, and Trigg wanted to push her over. ‘Oh, I am sorry,’ the mayor said. ‘The Party’s already got someone in mind for Central.’

‘That was quick,’ Trigg said, before he could stop himself.

‘Mr Trigg, there are procedures. Long service to the Liberal Party, and so forth.’

Trigg wanted to say, And old money. And brown-nosing. He held it back and kept his voice even. ‘Perhaps if I could address the local branch?’

The mayor stopped backing away from him and seemed to come to a decision. Her chin up, her back straight, she said, ‘I think it only fair to tell you we can’t afford to do anything, well, open to interpretation.’

Trigg’s face changed. ‘Spit it out,’ he snarled.

The mayor flushed. ‘The rumours,… I’m sorry, Mr Trigg,’ she said.

This time she reached the door and opened it and disappeared through it.

Trigg’s right hand went up to shape and pat his hair. It came away slicked with Brylcreem. He checked in his desk drawer mirror and saw a gleam of oil on the tops of his ears. He wiped them with his handkerchief. He was churning inside. His debts were crippling him; business was non-existent. But try and expand, make the necessary contacts, and see where it got you. The old money had this town sewn up tight.

The call on his private line came soon after that. He heard the STD beeps and then Leo Mesic in Melbourne was saying, ‘You were down this month.’

Trigg went pale. Panic settled in him. He hated and feared the Mesics.

‘Well?’ the voice said.

Trigg tried to rally. After all, Melbourne was six hundred and fifty kilometres away. ‘I was down last month and I’ll be down next month. There’s a recession on.’

The voice went on as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘You know how it works-every time you miss a payment or part thereof, you’re deeper in shit.’

Trigg wanted to say, Watch my lips. ‘What do you people expect over there?’ he said. ‘You tie me up with cars no one here can afford, they’re using the farm ute till wheat and wool prices come good again. The guy subcontracting the pills, booze and the videos owes me twenty thousand. The kids have switched to sniffing Clag or something because they can’t afford speed. I mean, what do you expect? You must be getting the same story from all your other mugs.’

While Leo Mesic responded to him, Trigg reflected that there wasn’t much difference between an upright citizen cunt and a gangster cunt. They both squeezed you out. Neither gave you a break.

‘…which comes to three hundred thousand you owe us,’ the man in Melbourne said.

‘Look, no offence, but when people here pay me what they owe me, I’ll pay you what I owe you.’

People like Tub Venables, he thought. It was ironical-the Mesics had him paying interest on the interest, and he had Venables paying interest on the interest, and neither of them could pay. The only way I’ll get anything out of Venables, he thought, is payment in kind.

Out of the hum on the line Leo Mesic said doubtfully, ‘Maybe we can discount the cars.’

‘That would help,’ Trigg said, keeping it light.

Underneath it he felt sour and anxious. The Mesics had him where they wanted him-by the balls. Now that they’d got him to invest, they weren’t about to let him buy his way out. The booze, videos and drugs were cheap, but he still had to pay up front. The stolen cars all had ‘legitimate’ paperwork but they were Mercs and Volvos and top of the range Toyotas that no one could afford any more. Would they let him sell on consignment? No way. He could run, but they’d track him down sooner or later.

‘Three hundred thousand,’ Leo Mesic said. ‘See what you can do to reduce it.’

The line went dead, but the day didn’t improve. Trigg’s intercom buzzed a few minutes later and Liz in reception said, ‘Sergeant King to see you. Shall I send him in?’

Jesus Christ, Trigg thought. ‘Did he say what he wants?’

‘Something about yesterday.’

‘Has he found the LTD?’

‘He didn’t say. He just said can he have a word about yesterday.’

‘Tell him to come in,’ Trigg said.

At first Trigg thought he’d remain behind his desk, but then he thought you can’t do that to a cop who’s maybe doing you a favour, so he was standing at the window, looking out at acres of Volvos, Mercs and Toyotas, all unsold, all stolen, when King came in.