Garry Disher - Death Deal

Just then Wyatt became aware of a shift in the rooms atmosphere. He looked across at a table by the door. A woman was talking to the people there, an inmate and her mother, and it was clear that they resented her but could not tell her to shove off. It was a curious tableau, almost like a pimp touching base with whores.

Anna confirmed it. Oh God, not her.

Who is she?

She works here. She put the hard word on me the moment I came inside. Shes convinced I know where the money is and will want to channel some of it her way. You know, in case I want extra cigarettes, a Walkman, silk knickers, an office job instead of peeling vegies, uppers, downers, some marijuana to sprinkle in my roll-your-own tobacco.

Wyatt watched the woman. She wore a mauve suit, the jacket gathered tight at the waist, the skirt slit at the back. A filmy scarf frothed at her throat and she wore big tinted glasses with fussy, angular, gold-speckled frames. Her hair was dark, permed into a cloud around her head. Somewhere under all the frills there was a calculating heart.

What did you say to her?

I said fuck off and the result was Ive been peeling vegies ever since and some inmates tried to heavy me.

The woman looked up, saw Anna, saw the priest with her, and smiled.

Brace yourself.

Wyatt watched as the woman threaded her way among the tables. The inmates and their visitors kept their eyes lowered and stopped talking, relaxing only when it was clear the woman had someone else in her sights.

Anna, how are things with you today?

Anna said stonily, Go away.

Arent you going to introduce me?

Father Kennedy, Anna said.

The woman gushed over Wyatt. An enamelled name-plate on her lapel read Lesley Van Fleet. There was lipstick on her teeth, cracks in her make-up.

Annas settling in very well here, Father. She knows that if I can help her, I will. Anything at all, she only has to ask.

Van Fleet was watching Wyatt but it was all aimed at Anna. He could see the womans love of manipulation and imagined her house, a life surrounded by pampering luxuries paid for with inmates money.

Youre very kind, he said.

When Van Fleet drifted off to another table, he said, Theres your ticket out.

At eight oclock that evening, Van Fleet said immediately, Its not enough.

Wyatt regarded her calmly. Apparently she cast off the veneer when she went home at the end of the day. Her face was free of make-up, giving it a diminished, unprotected look, reinforced by the puffball slippers on her feet and a pair of pink silk pyjamas. She had been smoking when Wyatt found her. Hed picked her back door lock, proceeded noiselessly through the house with his gun out, and come upon her in an armchair reading a book. The cigarette sat unfinished in an ashtray and she picked up a sherry glass.

Nowhere near enough.

Not Get out of my house… Who do you think you are?… No, Ill never do it or Ill tell the police. He had promised her money and she had wanted it at once.

Wordlessly he counted out another five thousand dollars. The first five, crisp twenties and fifties, was neatly stacked in front of her.

I knew you werent a priest. I could tell.

Shed had a few drinks. They hadnt softened her, just increased her sourness. The money and her acceptance of it reminded her that she hated herself, but she also had a kind of sneering contempt for Wyatt and knew the cards were stacked in her favour. People like you, you make me sick.

Wyatt counted out the money a note at a time.

Think youre Bonnie and Clyde. Youre just scum. Give me one of those poor husband-killers any day.

Wyatt looked at her. Theres envy there somewhere, he thought. Shes stuck, thinks shes missed out. He took in the room: soft falls of curtain over the window, fluffy white hearthrug, a pink tinge in the wallpaper and plenty of cold, clean white paint on the skirting boards, doors and mantelpiece. Small porcelain milkmaids and shepherds were grouped on an antique sideboard. The lounge suite was new, stuffed cream leather couch and armchairs. She was listening to a syrupy FM station and reading a fat paperback called Siren Song.

Ten thousand, he said.

She sipped her sherry, staring at the second bundle of banknotes on her coffee table. Her fingernails were like talons, albino pink, and he saw her slip one between stiff, lacquered waves and scratch her scalp. The sound was audible across the room.

She looked up at him. Tell me again.

Wyatt told her.

She folded her arms. Nope. Not enough. Too much risk.

Wyatt bundled the money into one pile and put it in his pocket. He didnt look at her, didnt speak. He was in the doorway when she called out: Wait a minute.

He paused with his back to her.

Fifteen thousand, she said.

Wyatt came back into the room. He sat down, put the ten thousand dollars in front of her and said, Ten.

Make it twelve.

Wyatt had been prepared to go to fifteen. What mattered most was that she wanted the money badly enough whether it was five or fifteen. He waited a while, then counted out another two thousand dollars.

Theres your twelve.

Van Fleet drank greedily and refilled her glass. Wyatt could smell day-old perfume, cigarette smoke and sweet sherry, and hated it. He wanted to get out of there but this was just the beginning.

Van Fleet folded her arms again. Okay. Ill need three days to set it up. Well need a room, notices, the education officers permission. More than anything, the paperwork has to look right, as if I couldnt be blamed for thinking the offer looked genuine so I passed it on to the education officer.

I understand.

Call me tomorrow.

She reached across to pick up the money but he got to it first. It went into his pocket and a wail of loss and privation broke from Van Fleet. No!

Wyatt stood and looked down at her. He took the money out. Ill give you a thousand. The rest you get on the day itself.

He could see her working out the profit and loss. In case you decide to keep the thousand and report to the cops, remember two things: twelve thousand is better than one thousand, and he showed her his gun again I kill people.

Van Fleets mouth went down in a sulk and she snatched the thousand from him. Let yourself out.

Wyatt changed hotels twice in the following three days. He telephoned Van Fleet several times. When she finally said that she was ready, he shaved his head and paid a pharmacist to put a ring in each ear. He bought hundred-dollar jeans, a seventy-dollar shirt, and black lace-up boots stitched with yellow thread. He bought a baseball cap in a surf shop, a scuffed briefcase in a junk shop and a bundle of second-hand books with titles like Style Manual and Plotting Your Way to Success.

Van Fleet picked him up the next day at twelve-thirty. She did not comment on his appearance but held out her hand for the money. Instead, he counted out five thousand dollars and stuffed them into a post office jiffy-bag that had a stamp and her name and address on it. He knew that greed crawled in her and he was stringing it out. Theres a letterbox on the corner.

She stopped the car while he got out and dropped the jiffy-bag in the slot. He got back in the car.

You still owe me six thousand. I want it now.

Think, Wyatt said. Theyll check you out, theyll have to. Do you want them finding six thousand dollars in your bra or in the glovebox of your car? He had a second jiffy-bag, prepaid but unaddressed. He put the money inside it and stuffed it in his briefcase. Weve reached the point where it has to be trust on both sides, all the way. If you try to warn anyone at the prison, Ill tell the cops to check your mail tomorrow. If all goes well, Ill post this as soon as were out.

Think youre so smart.