Cross Kill

Twenty-five

Wyatt knew it was no good dangling big bucks under Jardine’s nose, or appealing to old times, or promising anything at all. Jardine didn’t need to work at his old trade again. He did all right, his computer beating the bookies’ odds most of the time and there was always someone who wanted to buy the heists he planned. He had books to read, music, memories, a life of stylish quietness and solitude. Still, a sharkish look of hunger had appeared on Jardine’s face in the past few days, sharpening as he’d helped Wyatt hit the Outfit operations one after the other. There was only one way of approaching Jardine. Wyatt said simply, ‘I’ll need your help in Melbourne.’

There might have been a grin on Jardine’s face. ‘Uh huh.’

It was Sunday morning. They were in Jardine’s rooms at the Dorset and the balcony window was open, letting in a morning breeze. Wyatt had slept on the couch. He felt stiff and cranky, impatient to start work.

Just then a trick of the atmosphere brought a voice clearly into the room from the street below: ‘Oppose the third runway. Sign this petition now.’

Jardine jerked his head at the window and this time he did smile. ‘I donated twenty bucks to the cause yesterday.’

Wyatt suddenly felt an unease close to melancholy. Now and then he glimpsed inside a normal life, a normal person’s engagement with the wider world. Certainly there were things in the world that he hated-stupidity, viciousness, ostentation-but he’d never voted, joined a cause, had a pub debate with anyone about anything. If forced to think about it he might argue that life muddled along only because people compromised, but he rarely gave a thought to what made the world tick. It was as though the things other people did had nothing to do with him. And while he was perceptive enough to understand what some people in some situations were thinking- other crims, for example, or hostages and holdup victims-he realised he knew very little about the inner lives of ordinary people. He said helplessly, ‘What third runway?’

Jardine laughed. ‘Next time you read the paper, check out the news for a change.’ He knew Wyatt. He knew that Wyatt read newspapers solely for the purpose of the tingle in his nerve endings that told him here was a sweet job: a payroll, a bank, a ticket office.

Wyatt hadn’t sat around like this with a friend for a long time. He hadn’t felt embarrassed for a long time. But this was small talk and he wasn’t comfortable with it. ‘I can offer you a fee, or a percentage.’

Jardine was drinking coffee. He’d gone down for croissants earlier and he dabbed at the pastry flakes on his chest with a wet forefinger. ‘Are you trusting your instincts, or do the facts fit?’

‘Both. The place feels right, there’s no security to speak of, and internally the Mesics are in a mess. I need to hit them this coming Thursday, when the money’s there, before someone else moves in on them.’

‘And Kepler’s agreed to bankroll you?’

Wyatt nodded. ‘We meet his people in Melbourne tomorrow morning to work out the details.’

‘We do the hit, they come in after us and mop up?’

Wyatt nodded again.

‘Are you sure the Mesics will be at home when we hit the place?’

‘They feel vulnerable at present. Some cowboys have hit a couple of their operations. Also, they’re not likely to go out and leave the money unattended.’

‘Will two of us be enough? Can’t Kepler send in his hard boys as well?’

‘Kepler’s people are there for backup before the job. I don’t like the idea of too many guns on the ground, especially Outfit guns. Also, Kepler’s not keen on his people getting hurt, or being there if the cops come in. If there is any flack, we cop it. I can live with that.’

Jardine looked across the room at his computer. The face of the monitor was milky grey under the dust sheet. ‘Of course, it would help if the bloke you took with you on this job had worked with you before.’

Wyatt said, ‘Yes.’

‘And he knew Melbourne.’

‘That too.’

‘Plus he hadn’t forgotten his old skills and wouldn’t rob you.’

Wyatt stood up. ‘Come on, Jardine. Yes or no?’

‘I want a flat fee.’

‘I’ll pay you fifty thousand. If there’s nothing in the house, if it all goes wrong, I’ll have to owe you.’

‘Coming from anyone else,’ Jardine said, ‘that wouldn’t bring me any comfort.’

Wyatt put ticket wallets on the coffee table. ‘Ansett at four o’clock.’