Pay Dirt

FIFTEEN

The fountain near the Gertrude Street lights, the caller had said, and Letterman was now watching it from behind a tree. He was in the southern area of the parkland attached to the Exhibition Building, on the city’s edge. The time was five minutes to midnight. The caller said twelve-thirty, but Letterman was staking the place out first, looking for anyone who didn’t belong there. A tramp was sleeping on a bench near the duck pond and another was under an elm, swigging from a bottle in a paper bag, but otherwise the area was deserted. Now and then kids and lovers walked through the park, pausing to watch the splashing water before moving on again.

Lights were strung around the Exhibition Building, and if he half-closed his eyes Letterman could see its shape picked out in pinpricks of light. A Japanese tour party had been in the park when he arrived, taking flash photographs of the possums. They were gone now. A pathetic-looking student wearing an old coat had passed by him twice a few minutes ago, but Letterman had growled, ‘Got a problem, pal?’, scaring him away.

At twelve-thirty a man approached the fountain and stood with his back to it. Although the light was poor, Letterman could see him clearly enough to know that this was his man. ‘I’ll be wearing white overalls,’ the voice on the phone had said. Letterman saw a stocky man, standing confident and alert, the light making his long hair glow. There appeared to be rings on the man’s fingers and chunky sneakers on his feet.

Letterman remained where he was. This was a good place for a meeting-the noise of the fountain would provide some cover if the informant was carrying a wire, there were plenty of exits and places to hide, and it was dark. But he knew that darkness was no protection against fancy cameras and telescopic sights. He wore a rudimentary disguise-the horn-rims, his hat brim low, his collar turned up-but knew that wouldn’t stop a bullet in the back. There were plenty of people who’d want to give him one. Yet the set-up looked okay.

He stepped out from the tree. The contact had devised a stupid recognition signal, but he went along with it. ‘Excuse me, I’m looking for the hospital.’

The contact jerked his head around, recovered, and pointed toward a building opposite the city corner of the park. ‘Over there.’

Letterman left the shadows completely and joined the man at the fountain. He said softly, ‘What do I call you?’

‘Snyder will do. You’re Letterman?’

Letterman nodded. ‘What have you got for me?’

‘Not so fast,’ Snyder said. He sat down on the lawn near the base of the fountain and rested his forearms on his knees. ‘Let’s talk this over.’

Letterman looked down at the bushy head for a few seconds, then sat with Snyder. ‘There’s nothing to talk over. You tell me where to find Wyatt and I pay you twenty grand.’

‘It’s not that simple. How do I know you’re good for it? That’s the first thing. Second, I won’t know exactly where Wyatt is until I make contact with him.’

Letterman stared at Snyder. He didn’t like the man. Snyder looked lumbering and dissipated and too pleased with himself. Letterman felt an urge to slide the knife in, or slice off the absurd hair. ‘You’re telling me he wants you for a job?’

Snyder nodded. ‘Over in South Aussie somewhere. I fly out first thing Monday morning.’

‘He’s meeting you?’

‘Eventually. I fly to Adelaide. I take a taxi to the bus station. There’s a ticket waiting. The bus takes me up the bush somewhere. Now, that’s all you’re getting from me, pal, till I see the colour of your money.’

Letterman ignored him. ‘The bush? What sort of job?’

‘Maybe I’m not getting through to you. This isn’t a freebie, you know. I want something up front, and I want it now. The rest you can pay me when you see him, that’s fair.’

Letterman removed the black horn-rims and cleaned them. ‘Look at it from my point of view. I’ve been to South Australia plenty of times, I don’t need to go again. Especially if I’m being set up, the man from Sydney making a fool of himself, walking into a trap, kind of thing. Give me something to go on, something specific’

The last tram rattled by on Nicholson Street, a hundred metres away. Letterman saw the lights go out and on again at the centre of the intersection. He realised that the sound of the traffic was constant, even at this late hour. The air was getting chilly. He felt tired. Killing Pedersen had been a release, but now he felt tense again.

‘All right, look,’ Snyder said. ‘It’s some sort of payroll hit, that’s all I know. He asked Eddie Loman to send him someone who knew about radios and stuff.’

‘When’s the hit?’

‘Next Thursday.’

‘Where’s he meeting you?’

‘Place called Vimy Ridge.’

Letterman took an envelope from his pocket. He didn’t mind paying twenty grand to find Wyatt and he didn’t mind paying an advance on it. What he minded was letting Snyder state the terms. ‘Here’s two thousand,’ he said. ‘Show me Wyatt in the flesh and you get the remainder.’

‘You think you’ve got me, right? You think this way I’ll be sure to get on that plane. Well, I was going anyway. I want a cut of this job. You can pop Wyatt when it’s done, not before, okay?’

‘In other words, I follow you and wait.’

‘Yeah,’ Snyder said, ‘staying out of sight till I give the word.’ He stiffened. ‘Shit, cops.’

Letterman glanced up casually. Two young policemen had entered the park from Nicholson Street and were walking toward them. They were carrying torches.

Letterman made his voice loud and slurred. ‘The goodness is in all of us. The Lord Jesus taught me that. Have you looked inside yourself for the goodness?’

Snyder was reasonably quick. ‘You’re up a gum tree, mate,’ he said, punching Letterman lightly on the upper arm. ‘A flagon’s the only place you’ll find goodness. G’day,’ he said, when the policemen drew near.

Both policemen grinned and continued along the path. Letterman watched them. Now and then they flashed their torches into the shadows. Soon they were out of sight somewhere on the southern flank of the park.

‘Loman,’ he said.

‘What about him? You know him?’

‘We’ve met. The question is, I asked him to pass the word around about Wyatt, so why didn’t he tell me himself?’

‘It’s a mystery, all right,’ Snyder said.