Garry Disher - Death Deal

A kind of fury welled in Wyatt. He choked off a curse, stood up, kicked the body. Then he forced himself to be still and think. He took out a handkerchief, wiped his prints from the sandwich bag, put the ruined money back in Finns pocket. He cleaned his fingers and used the handkerchief to retrieve Finns car keys.

He thought about the gun. He needed it but the Colt was dangerous to him now: if he were ever caught with it in his possession, a ballistics check would tie him to Finns murder. The guns definition had to be altered. Wyatt knelt at the base of the pump again, reached further under it, dragged out a small wooden box. It was a service kit for the Colt: gun oil, cleaning rods and brushes, spare seven-shot clip, spare barrel and firing pin. Wyatt took the gun apart and replaced the barrel and the firing pin. Neither had been used before, except in the factory. In effect, it was a new gun, and the only killings a forensic expert could tie it to hadnt happened yet.

Finally, still protecting his hands with the handkerchief, he searched Stolle. A wallet in the mans jacket yielded one hundred and eighty dollars. Wyatt pocketed the money. He poked through the wallet: credit cards, drivers licence, PI licence in the name Macarthur Stolle, and a couple of cards admitting Stolle to exclusive gaming rooms at Jupiters, Wrest Point and Monte Carlo casinos.

Stolle groaned and stirred. Wyatt kicked him upright. You mentioned five thousand dollars. Where is it?

Garry Disher

Wyatt — 03 — Death Deal

Stolle grimaced, both hands over his face. That was a cunt of a thing to do.

Five thousand. Where is it?

Stolle concentrated finally. You get it when we get on the plane to Brisbane, not before.

Wyatt walked to the door and out. Forget it.

He didnt have his two thousand but he did have close to two hundred and a gun and the keys to Finns car. By three oclock he was in Sorrento, on Port Phillip Bay. When the ferry to Queenscliff left at four, he was the first aboard. At the other end he didnt drive to Geelong but stayed where he was, in a rental van at the edge of a small oval a short walk from the beach.

That evening he called Harbutt again.

They met in a docklands pub called the Prince Patrick. It was Harbutts choice, a squat corner pub with dirty stucco above cold blue tiles on the outside walls. Inside, the carpets were scorched and worn; an oily film of smoke and alcohol and urine vapour clung to the mirrors and shelves. The threadbare towelling on the bar was ashy and beer-soaked. At ten oclock in the morning there were plenty of drinkers, shift workers clocking on and off work or merely evading it. The air was heavy and malty. It was an old smell, surly and male.

Harbutts hand was shaking. He hadnt shaved and his eyes were red-rimmed.

Been on a bender? Wyatt asked him.

Harbutt drained his beer and lit a cigarette. Wyatt was drinking coffee.

Wyatt tried again. Not working today?

Harbutt looked at him. Mate, they gave me the push. Me and two hundred others. Another two hundred by the end of the year.

Wyatt watched Harbutt carefully, saying nothing. An edge of hunger was a useful quality in the man you were pulling a job with. Desperation or the shakes werent.

Hair of the dog, Harbutt said, ordering another beer. Ill be right. Its the shock, thats all.

Yeah, it would be.

Harbutt laughed. It turned into a cough. Mate, youve never done a days work for someone else in your life, except maybe when you were a kid. Never pulled in a fortnightly pay packet. No wife and kids to provide for.

You havent got a wife and kids.

You know what I mean. Never had to think about the future. Never faced retrenchment.

Wyatt didnt argue with him. His life was precarious in its own way but he didnt intend to moan to Harbutt about it. He changed the subject. Hows Dern?

Havent seen him.

Thea?

All Harbutts attention was directed at his cigarette. He rolled the burning tip on the edge of the ashtray, examined the hot cone. I think Dern told her to get lost.

Wyatt said, Ive been thinking about those jobs he proposed.

Harbutt looked at him then. I didnt exactly think youd come back for old times sake. Which one?

The warehouse sale this weekend.

Why that one?

Because we walk away with cash in our pockets. With the other two jobs theres only the promise of it from some insurance company. Plus the wait. The longer we wait, the greater the chance theyll track us down.

But you said the place was too open, too many angles to figure.

It could work if we hide on the premises at closing time. Disable the nightwatchman, blow the safe at our leisure.

Harbutt nodded. Some of his old form was returning. His cigarette burnt itself out, his beer went flat. Last day of the sale is on Monday, he said at last. We do it on Sunday night?

Yes.

Could be a goer.

What can you tell me about the place itself?

They call it The Barn because thats what its like, a huge barn. They sell liquidation gearfurniture, clothes, electrical gear, tools, records and tapes, laid out on these long benches.

Wheres the safe likely to be?

Theres a mezzanine level, offices and that. Up there, Id say.

You think we could hide in the place unnoticed?

Plenty of places, Harbutt said. Toilets, storage rooms, under a bench, even in one of them rubbish bins on wheels.

Where does Thea work?

Harbutt patted his pockets for his cigarettes. Nine to five at their head office in town. She wont be there.

Wyatt watched his friend. I dont want Dern or Thea to know about this.

Harbutt straightened in his chair. Got you.

They fell silent.

Which leaves the safe, Wyatt said. Are you up to it?

Harbutt splayed his fingers. They were more or less steady. Give me a combination, a drill, a stick of gelignite, whatever you like.

I want you to lay off the booze till after the job.

Harbutt nodded.

Good. Well make a dry run. The sale opens tomorrow, so it has to be tonight.

Youre mad, Harbutt said. The nightwatchman.

Its a risk we have to take. There wont be any money on the premises, so hes not likely to be too jumpy. We need to know where to hide when the time comes, what kind of safe it is, the best way out. We can keep out of his way easily enough. If he spots us, well run, thats all.

They separated and met again at The Barn late that afternoon. It sat alone on an immense asphalted field outside Geelong. At one time it had been a supermarket called Super City; the old name was still discernible, painted over on the facia board. The front was all glass, two storeys high and running the length of the building. The glass curved inwards from a shallow channel choked with pansies. A sign said: The Longest Curved Glass Window in the Southern Hemisphere. It was five oclock and several vans and lorries were backed up at the side of the building. A dozen men were carting sofas, refrigerators, sealed cartons and racks of dresses through the side doors.

Wyatt and Harbutt approached the front door. They each carried a clipboard and wore a dustcoat with the word Inspector stitched across the top pocket.

Workplace safety check, Wyatt told the security man at the door.

The man shrugged. It meant nothing to him. The world was full of grey men in dustcoats writing things on clipboards.

Wyatt and Harbutt went inside. Wooden trestle tables groaned under the weight of Taiwanese calculators, Korean batteries, Chinese shoes. Refrigerators and toasters were stacked around the walls. Armchairs and sofa beds littered an area the size of a tennis court in one corner. Sales staff hurried around, pricing goods and pasting large SALE signs on the walls.

At the rear of the building a broad staircase led to a narrow mezzanine level that extended halfway down the length of the building on each side. There were a number of frosted glass doors leading to plasterboard petitioned offices. Under the stairs were toilets and a storeroom.