Garry Disher - Pay Dirt

The way into the money itself he’d worry about later. The van’s radio was a different matter. He’d call Melbourne tonight, ask Eddie Loman to send him someone who’d have the equipment and know-how to jam it.

‘Gabe?’

‘Yeah,’ Gabe Snyder said.

‘Eddie Loman here.’

Snyder didn’t reply for a moment. He was braking gently, the car phone at his ear, allowing the moron ahead of him to cut left into Waiora Road instead of Lower Plenty Road. Snyder didn’t want to hit anything. His Toyota van was the latest model and it was full of the latest radio and cellular phone gear. He waited for the moron to get a few car lengths ahead and said, ‘Eddie. Long time no see.’

Eddie Loman’s voice faded in and out. Snyder attributed it to distance and to the hills in this part of Melbourne. ‘Say again?’ he said.

‘Busy tonight?’ Eddie Loman repeated, and this time his voice came through loud and clear.

‘Well, you know, Friday,’ Snyder said. ‘Catch the action at the Cadillac Bar, maybe.’

‘Can you drop in and see us first? I might have something for you.’

It was freaky. Snyder could hear Eddie Loman clearly now. He accelerated through the intersection at the corner of La Trobe University then slowed on the other side. ‘La Salle Park Psychiatric Hospital’ a sign said. Snyder looked at his watch. It was four o’clock, visiting time. There’d be a few cars in the grounds, perfect cover, just as he liked it. ‘Six o’clock all right?’ he asked.

Then the signal faded again. There was a crackle that he hoped was Eddie Loman signing off, and the line went dead. Snyder replaced the handset of the car phone and concentrated on his driving. His mouth dropped open when he did that. It was a large, damp mouth in a loose, pouchy face. The pouchiness helped to conceal the acne a little. The hair helped too. It was curly, salt and pepper coloured, and he wore it to his shoulders. In 1969 he’d been called up for national service in Vietnam. He’d opted for a radio course so he wouldn’t have to fight, but the army barbers had still cut off all his hair. He’d spent the years since then making up for the indignity.

Normally he wore overalls, always dazzling white Yakkas, great-looking against the tan he kept topped up in the Lifestyle solarium. But he’d discovered, the first time he cruised the La Salle grounds, what a drag the overalls were, so today it was green Stubbie shorts, Reeboks and a T-shirt. He also wore Nepalese rings and bracelets, bought cheap from weekend stalls on the Esplanade.

He turned the Toyota into the hospital grounds. Lawns stretched for miles, interrupted by walking paths, seats, flowerbeds and clumps of European trees. Most visitors turned right, taking them to the main buildings. Snyder took the left fork, which circled the hospital perimeter. Staff and visitors rarely ventured where he was going.

He rolled down his window and listened. The Toyota echoed off the bluestone wall on his left and the belt of weeping willows on his right, sounding like a sewing machine. Snyder was disgusted. The trouble with all the greenhouse shit they bolted to engines these days was not only loss of power but also loss of a decent exhaust note.

Then Alice stepped out from the trees and waved. Snyder looked at his watch: four fifteen. When he’d come here on Monday he’d said to her, ‘I’ll be back Friday, okay? Friday, quarter-past- four.’ He’d said each word slowly and clearly, hoping they’d register but knowing they mightn’t. After all, she was in here because her brains were scrambled.

But she had understood him, and here she was, four-fifteen, waiting for him. He stopped the van where it was screened from the hospital administration block by trees and watched her approach. Her hair had been washed this time. It floated free from her head like bits of spider web in a breeze. Her jaws were busy with chewing gum again. He’d smelt it on her breath on Monday, Juicy Fruit or something. She looked doped to the eyeballs again, her skin blotchy, a bit of dribble on her chin.

Forget the face, Snyder thought. Put a bag over it. He smiled at her through the glass and opened the passenger door. Jesus Christ. She was actually blushing and moving her shoulders around as if she was a teenager getting into her boyfriend’s car for the first time. She’d been around, though. She looked to be about thirty. Now and then on Monday she’d almost made sense some of the time.

‘Alice,’ he said.

Alice got in and shut the door and slid across the seat and put her tongue in his ear and her hand inside the leg of his shorts. Snyder was glad he didn’t have the overalls on. ‘Did you bring them?’ she asked.

Snyder played with her. ‘Bring what?’

Instantly her arms went around herself, her mouth turned down and her eyes went ugly with tears. ‘Smokes,’ she said. ‘Nice things.’

‘Oh, that,’ Snyder said.

‘Please.’

‘Smoking’s bad for you.’

The mouth opened again and wailed, ‘You promised.’

‘Settle down,’ Snyder muttered. He managed a smile. ‘You’re not being fair,’ he said. ‘If I give you nice rings and nice smokes, you have to give me something in return. It’s not fair otherwise.’

It was amazing how easy it was to switch her off and on. She’d said on Monday that she’d been in La Salle for fifteen months. Snyder felt the shrinks should have done something for her in that time, but she was still fucked up. As he talked, he watched her face. A flooding look of relief and gratitude passed across it, followed by dismay, followed by a look of lust that was almost enough to turn him right off. Her hands and tongue started to go all over him as they had on Monday, and he told himself again, forget the face.

He showed her the carton of cigarettes inside the shopping bag in the back of the van. That set her going again. She climbed over the seat, pulling her pants off, tugging at his hand. Although he was only with her for fifteen minutes, the atmosphere was so hot and feverish that he was able to do it twice.

Then he pushed her out with the cigarettes and a $12.95 necklace. He drove back to the main entrance, keeping his eyes open for hospital security. As usual, there was none.

By six o’clock he was in Eddie Loman’s back room, hearing about a job he was needed for over in South Aussie.

The interesting thing about it was, Wyatt was behind it.

Snyder could see that Eddie Loman was hedging. Loman wouldn’t meet his eye, and he kept rubbing his gammy leg. Snyder waited, testing him, then said, ‘Aren’t you missing something?’

‘What?’

‘There’s a fucking contract out on him.’

Loman’s face twisted. ‘You heard.’

‘Course I fucking heard. Twenty grand to the guy that fingers him.’

Loman continued to rub his leg. The movement pulled his trousers up, revealing pink plastic skin. He’d lost the leg ten years ago in a collision between a getaway car and a divisional van. Maybe he still gets ghost feelings in it, Snyder thought.

‘I mean,’ Snyder continued, ‘you begin to wonder why Wyatt’s putting an outfit together if it means all these guys are going to know where he is. You’d have to be mad, right?’

He watched Loman pour beer into their glasses and put the bottles under the coffee table. There were three bottles there now, Melbourne Bitter, resting on their sides. Loman had neat habits. His living quarters behind his hardware supply business looked to be tacked together from mismatching building materials and fire-sale furniture, but there wasn’t a speck of dust or a bad smell in the place.

Loman swallowed beer from his glass. When he put the glass down again it was fair and square on a coaster with an Aborigine painted on it. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I don’t think Wyatt knows.’