Garry Disher - Death Deal

The woman grinned so he went around and wiped it off on her chest. She jerked in her rope bindings.

Nothing was said. Phelps didnt chance the sugar pot on the table again but found a packet on a shelf above the refrigerator. He stirred, sipped, pulled his chair back from the table.

Big man, the woman said. Thinks hes tough.

Phelps guessed that size was the reason Wyatt had chosen him for this part of the job. He was built like a fighter across the shoulders. His neck was barely discernible. Hard work and hard living made him seem big, red, abraded. But all that had no effect on the woman.

Phelps checked the girl. Wings of damp hair hung about her cheeks. She was sniffing. He couldnt see her eyes, so he didnt know if she was crying or had a runny nose.

The phone rang. Watching the woman carefully, he picked it up. Wyatt, reporting in. For the next hour that phone sat there, concentrating their attention. Phelps spoke to Wyatt. The woman spoke to her husband. The daughter spoke to her father.

Phelps drained his coffee and scratched his face with both hands. Cheeks, forehead, ears, chinwherever the balaclava touched his skin there was a reaction, an intense itchiness.

Take it off, why dont you? the girl said. She was getting some spirit back.

God, sweetheart, do you really want to see what he looks like?

Sniggers.

None of this fazed Phelps, and to show he didnt care he walked to the sink, unzipped and urinated loud and long over a couple of teaspoons.

The girl pitched about in her chair. Her hair flew about her cheeks. Thats disgusting! Oh, yuck.

The woman said, We should feel sorry for him. He wasnt very bright at school and he comes from the kind of background that doesnt know any better.

But the smell.

I know, dear.

What about when we have to go?

The woman spat her words. Thats quite enough. Pull yourself together. Hes not important. You mustnt let him see you like this.

Phelps hadnt had a better time in years. You tell her, missus. Think shed like to see my old boy?

I would. The woman turned around, making sucking noises. Bring it over. Wipe it first.

Phelps reddened under the balaclava. He turned away and fumbled himself back into his pants. She had a tongue on her like a Fortitude Valley tart. It was stupid, engaging in a conversation with her. She was the sort of woman who came at everything sideways, so you didnt know where you stood. He could knock the grin off her face but all it would prove was that shed got to him.

So he ran through the job in his mind. Wait for Wyatt to report that the time locks were open, then wait fifteen minutes. Smash the phone on the way out, drive the stolen Commodore to the university. Transfer the two millioncop that, two millionto the Commodore and head in a big loop out through Toowoomba and Kingaroy to Noosa on the Sunshine Coast, then down to the Gold Coast, where Wyatt had reserved a Budget motel in Surfers. Dont dump the Commodore where it could be found but get it off the street by booking it in for a valve grind, telling them there was no rush. Divvy the two million and split. Wyatt was staying put for a while. Phelps guessed he had something going with the woman. Riding said he was headed for Europe. Phelps hadnt figured where he was headed yet. Hed told them he was going to Manila, invest in a bar, but that was just to get them off his back. Wyatt insisted on knowing everything. He was the sort to get shitty about loose ends.

Time passed like that and then at close to nine-twenty-five he spoke to Wyatt again. Nurse spoke to the woman and her daughter. Phelps waited.

Were in, Wyatt said, and Phelps smashed the receiver against the edge of the table. The movement was sudden and vicious and both women jumped.

He grinned. Be gone soon. Bet youre sorry.

He left the managers house at nine-forty, glad to be out of there. He drove to the university, keeping to the speed limit, not letting the yellow lights tempt him.

A trend in womens sport that appealed to Phelps was that instead of shorts they now wore things that were more like knickers. He drove slowly, eyeballing women jogging on the river path, stretching their hamstrings on the hockey field. Maybe with his half million hed become a mature-age student.

Hed just parked the Commodore and racked the handbrake on when the car rocked and a voice said behind his ear: Always, always, check the back seat before you get in.

He didnt hear much after that, fingers pressing into his carotid artery, cutting the blood to his brain.

Wyatt freed his. 38 from his belt. The men wore boilersuits and stocking masks and everything about them looked well-oiled and effortless. One man stepped up to the boot lid of the Camira and jemmied it open. The other stood outside the drivers door in a shooters stance, aiming a big. 45 through the glass at Wyatts head. The intention was plain: stay put.

Wyatt didnt want to risk a shot. If he fired through the door the slug would lose itself or be deflected by the lock and window mechanisms. To shoot through the glass hed have to raise his gun arm, but a movement like that would invite a bullet to the brain.

So he shifted into first and planted his foot. The Camira leapt forward and the front tyres hit the low concrete barrier separating the parking strip from the hockey field. One tyre climbed the barrier, slewing the Camira a few degrees to the right. There was a yelp as the flank of the car slammed into the man with the gun, knocking him to the ground. The rear tyres were spinning, looking for purchase in the gravel. Wyatt kept his foot planted. Slowly the other tyre mounted the barrier and the front of the Camira was over. Wyatt heard the bottom of the sump tear away. He wouldnt get far with a seized engine.

Far enough was all he wanted.

He looked back as the back wheels climbed the barrier. The first man reached a hand into the boot, neatly plucking out the strongbox as the Camira finally surged free of the barrier. There was now a squat blue-metal automatic in the mans other hand. Wyatt half turned with his own gun. For a moment the two men locked eyes. A kind of signal passed from the man with the strongbox to Wyatt: I will shoot you from here in the time it takes you to swing around on me. Just go. Then he turned away from the car, straddled the man on the ground, and shot him in the head.

Wyatts jaws snapped as the rear tyres bit in and the Camira accelerated. The distance from the concrete barrier to the white, single rail fence around the hockey field was six metres. He felt a hesitation as the radiator grill tore free a section of the rail. The impact was enough to swing the car to the left. Before Wyatt could correct with the steering wheel, the Camira ploughed into a massive turf roller. The machine was stationary, gathering rust, but it was as big as a boat and heavy enough to flatten kinks in the earth. Wyatt jerked in his seatbelt, the back of his head flipping against the whiplash support.

The engine cut out. Wyatt wasnt going anywhere in the Camira now. He got out. Exactly two minutes had passed and it had been two minutes of screams and gunfire, yet the only witnesses were a groundsman on a tractor far away and a clump of cyclists on the ring road. The cyclists slowed, saw that Wyatt was all right, and sped away again.

But somebody would be calling the university security patrol soon. The groundsman would want to know why someone was churning up the field he was paid to keep close-cropped and flat. Wyatt figured that he had about one minute to get out.

He started to move. The black Range Rover was pulling away, leaving plenty of rubber behind. In the drivers seat of the Commodore, Phelps was waking up, rolling his head on his neck.

He was Wyatts ticket out. Wyatt began to run.