Garry Disher - Pay Dirt

‘We come to the crux of the matter. You could’ve told him when he rang last night, but you didn’t.’

Loman looked up. ‘Wyatt knows how to look after himself.’

‘Cut it out, Eddie. You were going to charge him a finder’s fee for lining me up for this job of his, then dob him in for the twenty thousand. Am I right? Bit of a cunt act.’

Snyder was enjoying himself. He didn’t care much for Loman. Loman supplied experts and equipment to people who had big jobs on, and Snyder had got some work that way sometimes, but you couldn’t actually like the bloke. That grey face and smoker’s cough, the sense of decay on the inside. Plus, Snyder didn’t like being cheated. He didn’t like it that Loman was intending to earn himself an extra twenty thousand without cutting anyone else in on it.

‘Eh? Bit of a shitty thing to do to the old Wyatt? Not to mention the danger to yours truly. What if this hired gun comes after Wyatt when I’m in the firing line, eh? Answer me that.’

Loman’s face worked in worry. ‘I would’ve told him. I thought, you know, this job of his is out in the bush somewhere, he’ll be safe there till it’s over. Then I’d give him the word, kind of thing.’

Snyder nodded. ‘Oh, right, I’m with you now. You’re not after the twenty grand reward.’

‘Not me. Wyatt’s-’ Loman struggled ‘-well you don’t exactly call Wyatt a mate, do you, but he’s a good client, kind of thing.’

Snyder’s loose face seemed to tighten and he leaned forward. ‘How much?’

‘Pardon?’

‘What’s he paying you? What am I worth?’

Loman rubbed at his leg. ‘Fifteen hundred.’

‘What’s the job?’

‘He didn’t say, except it’s big.’

‘And there’s a radio he wants jammed. Did he say what I get paid?’

‘A percentage. Not a fee, a percentage of the take.’

Snyder grinned then. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong-you only get fifteen hundred bucks, I stand to get tens of thousands. I can see how a bloke might feel a bit put out about that. He might want to grab a bit more. Not you, though.’

A flush showed under Loman’s grey skin. ‘I didn’t know you and Wyatt were such good mates.’

‘We’re not. I’m a professional, he’s a professional. We just do our jobs. We don’t get greedy, rock the boat, work behind another bloke’s back.’

‘You’ve made your fucking point,’ Loman said, leaning back in his chair. The fabric was slippery brown vinyl and it seemed to fart under him. He shifted again as if to demonstrate that it was the chair, not him.

‘I mean,’ Snyder went on, ‘Wyatt’s good value. He does the right thing by blokes like you and me. You’d have to be a real bastard to shop him to some hired gun down from Sydney.’

‘All right, okay?’ Loman said. ‘You’ve made your point.’

‘That would be a cunt act,’ Snyder said.

Letterman did contract work for the Sydney Outfit now but he still looked like a cop. There was no need for him to wear grey suits any more, but he felt wrong in anything else. He was tall, solid and punchy-looking, an effect that was ruined if he put on jeans or corduroys and a casual shirt. He felt he looked soft in clothes like that-like a suburban bank manager on a Saturday morning.

He threaded a navy blue tie under his collar and leaned toward the mirror to knot it. He was indifferent to the hairs in his ears and nostrils. They were indicators of his vigour and perpetual anger. So, somehow, was his balding skull. He remained close to the mirror. He was in a motel room in Melbourne that might have been designed for midgets. The mirror was too low, the bed too short, and he always had to duck his head to get it wet in the shower stall.

Although he felt relaxed, his face looked tired and unimpressed. When he was working, it looked alert and unimpressed. He was forty-six, doing what he did best, and had never felt better. The Outfit paid him a retainer that equalled his old detective inspector’s salary, plus a flat fee for each contracted hit. There was $50,000 coming his way when he found Wyatt and knocked him off. The Outfit wanted Wyatt bad. Wyatt had hit them where it hurt, killing their Melbourne head and destroying their biggest Melbourne operation.

Not that he’d be easy to find. Letterman was approaching this as if he were still a cop. For a start, the trail was cold. Most breaks in a case come in the first twenty-four hours, but Wyatt had dropped out of sight six weeks ago. Apparently he was a pro, so he’d avoid his usual haunts; in fact, he was probably interstate somewhere, keeping his head down. But he’d caused so much heat, done so much damage, aroused so much media and police attention, that the Outfit hadn’t dared send Letterman to Melbourne before now.

Other factors were working against him. First, Wyatt didn’t want to be found, meaning he’d cover his tracks, use forged ID or alter his appearance. He wouldn’t be found wandering the streets like some old pensioner who’d lost his marbles. Second, Letterman couldn’t call in favours from other cops any more. Third, the Outfit wasn’t very popular here in Melbourne. In the four days since his arrival, Letterman had been spreading the word around, $20,000 to the one who fingers Wyatt, but so far not a whisper. Wyatt was a Melbourne boy too, so that probably had something to do with it.

But the twenty thousand dollars would work eventually. Letterman knew how it was with police work-ten per cent detection, ninety per cent fluke. He’d arrested crack dealers who’d traded in the VW for a Mercedes sports, wife murderers who’d given themselves up, burglars at the scene, holdup men who’d been dobbed in for the reward. Letterman was patient. Twenty thousand was a lot of bread.

Other things were in his favour. Unless they were incredibly loyal in Melbourne, Wyatt wouldn’t be aware that the Outfit was after him. He’d be expecting cops, not contract hitmen. And crims don’t change their spots. Wyatt would surface sooner or later. He’d want to pull another job. He would need money soon, and he was a big-score crim, the kind who puts together a gang, and you can’t stay out of sight when you do that. Until then Letterman would take it step by step, like a cop. The usual routine: where was Wyatt last seen? Who saw him last? Who are his known associates?

He put on his suit coat and left the motel. The other thing about a suit is, you can hide a gun under the coat and get at it easily, where you can’t if you’re wearing a shirt or a jumper.

His Avis Fairmont was parked outside the motel room, its long snout overhanging the tyre-stop. He made the usual checks before getting in. He noted that there was no one in the space behind the front seats, then opened the boot lid gingerly, checking for wires before opening it fully and searching for a mercury electrode. Finally he examined the driver’s seat for pressure bombs and checked for wires under the bonnet. The car was clean. He put on the black horn-rims he wore for driving, got in and backed the Fairmont out of the motel carpark.

He left St Kilda and drove down the Nepean Highway to Frankston. There he cut across to Shoreham and found the post office. It was attended by an elderly, watery-eyed man. ‘I work for the Courier Mail in Brisbane,’ Letterman said. ‘I’m doing a story on the gangster who lived near here.’

‘You mean Warner?’ the postmaster asked.

Letterman nodded. He’d been reading back issues of the Melbourne newspapers and knew Wyatt had used that name. He’d also obtained photocopies of the police identikit picture. He pulled one out and showed it to the postmaster. ‘This him?’

They both examined it. According to the police artist, Warner had a thin face, loose shortish hair and bleak features.