Pay Dirt

THIRTY-ONE

It was the longest afternoon of Raymond Trigg’s life. Four hundred thousand bucks sitting there in the repair shop and it couldn’t be touched until knock-off time.

He spent the hours until then answering his phone, paying bills and biting his nails. He thought the girls in reception looked at him oddly but he couldn’t be sure. Happy was okay, Happy had valves to grind and punctures to mend. The problem-apart from the waiting-was Tobin. Tobin stuck out like a sore thumb in his shorts and singlet and orange shades. The girls knew who he was-the man who delivered or picked up parcels from time to time-but Trigg didn’t want them asking why he was hanging around.

‘I don’t know why we don’t just take the lot and disappear,’ Tobin said. He’d been saying this since they got back. ‘That’s why I told you about the job in the first place.’

‘You don’t know the Mesics, my son. They’d track us down and we’d be found in little pieces. I’m not going to debate about it. Three hundred thousand will get the Mesics off our backs, and we split the rest. Except you still owe me twenty grand for the last few consignments.’

‘Yeah, well, that pisses me off. It should be sale or return. I’m expected to fork out twenty thousand bucks for pills and videos, but no one’s buying, the economy’s too fucked.’

‘Look, I’m busy, okay? Why don’t you take in a movie?’

It took Tobin a moment to absorb this. ‘A movie?’

‘We got a twin cinema,’ Trigg said. He was leafing through the Mid-North Gazette. ‘Cinema One-”Three Men and a Baby”.’

‘Seen it. Heap of shit.’

‘Cinema Two-”Twins”.’

‘Never heard of it.’

Trigg peered at the advertisement. ‘Arnold Schwarzenegger’s in it.’

Tobin scratched his jaw and screwed up his face. ‘Might be all right.’

‘Gets out at five,’ Trigg said. ‘Maybe if you had a beer or two after, by the time you get back here the girls would’ve gone home and we can start cracking the van.’

Tobin’s face narrowed in suspicion. ‘You wouldn’t be pulling a swifty?’

‘Don’t be a moron. We can’t do anything till knock off time.’

Tobin flushed. ‘Yeah, well,’ he said, and he headed off down the street to the mall.

When he was gone, Trigg thought about the Steelgard van and the money. The doors wouldn’t be a problem. The thermal lance and jaws-of-life gear would take care of the doors. After the money was removed, Happy would dismantle the CO cylinder, hose and tap he’d put in place when the van was last serviced.

Venables had been anxious about the gas. He’d wanted to know what sort it was. Trigg told him sleeping gas. Then he’d wanted to know how come it was necessary. We don’t want the guard seeing any faces, hearing any voices, Trigg said. Venables frowned, hunting for holes in the story. When should I turn on the tap? he asked. As soon as you’ve left Vimy Ridge, Trigg told him.

Still Venables hadn’t liked it. Was Trigg sure it would work? Was he sure the cops wouldn’t think it was an inside job?

You trying to chicken out? Trigg had demanded. You want to go on paying me interest for the rest of your life? Do this little thing for me, old son, and all your debts are cancelled.

Stupid prick.

All that remained now was to clear up a few loose ends, get rid of the evidence, deliver the money to Melbourne.

Trigg was looking forward to that part of it. He’d rung to say he was coming over. He had a plane ordered for seven that evening. Goyder Air Service didn’t run to Lear Jets but they’d assured him they had a turbo-prop Beechcraft that was fast and comfortable. Get him to Melbourne before ten o’clock, they said. Well, the local graziers did this sort of thing all the time, flew interstate to the ram sales wearing their moleskins, Akubras and R. M. Williams elastic-sided boots, and Trigg didn’t see why he shouldn’t pose a bit too.

Except your average grazier these days doesn’t carry three hundred grand around with him.

Trigg thought about how it would go at the other end. He could take a taxi to the Mesic compound, but something about that seemed low-class. He reached for the intercom.

‘Liz?’

‘Yes, Mr Trigg.’

‘I want you to get on the blower and see if you can arrange a limo for me.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Doesn’t have to be a stretch limo. An ordinary one will do, like a Jag. So long as it’s black and there’s a chauffeur and he’s waiting when I touch down in Melbourne tonight.’

There was a long pause. Trigg waited. He knew the locals were a bit slow. It took them a while to take on board new notions like stretch limos, even though they saw them on TV all the time. ‘Got that?’ he asked.

‘Yes, Mr Trigg.’

‘Good girl.’

Drive up to the compound gates in the limo, wait while the guy at the gate calls ahead for permission to let him in, then creep slowly through the compound to the main house.

The compound. Trigg had never seen anything like it before. The Mesics had bought up an entire suburban block in Melbourne, knocked down most of the houses except one for the servants, erected two mansions-one for the old man, the other for Leo Mesic and his wife-planted a few trees, built a high fence around it, put in the latest alarm system and a few armed guards, and no one could touch them.

That was the way your top boys did it these days.

This time tomorrow, Trigg thought, the Mesics will be three hundred grand richer. They’ll also be off my frigging back.

At five-thirty he left the office and went through to reception. Marg, as usual, had slipped away early. Liz was staring into space. ‘How did you go?’ he asked her.

‘Sorry?’

It was always the same. He said it again, slowly, carefully. ‘The limo. Were you able to line up a limo for me in Melbourne?’

Liz beamed. ‘Sorry, yes, something called an SEL.’

Mercedes, Trigg thought. Nice.

‘But I couldn’t arrange one this end.’

Now it was Trigg’s turn to look perplexed. ‘Sorry?’

‘I asked around. No one does chauffeur cars in Goyder.’

Trigg counted to ten. ‘That’s okay. I’ll drive myself. You’ve done a good job.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Well, if you’ve finished for the day you might as well toddle off home.’

Liz got into a muddle over that but by five-forty he was alone. He went across to the service bay where Happy was greasing a Volvo. ‘All set?’

Happy didn’t reply. He usually didn’t. He put down the wrench he was using, wiped his hands and together they crossed the lot to the panel-beating shed.

It was crowded in there. When the good folk of Goyder were asleep in their beds on Sunday evening, they intended to dump the truck with the van still aboard it into Hallam Gorge, but until then they had to edge around each other, avoiding the old-fashioned mechanics’ pit in the floor. Next to the pit was a new hydraulic hoist, still in its packing case. Bags of cement were stacked against one wall.

Trigg and Happy dragged cutting equipment to the rear doors of the Steelgard van and started work. They had just cut out the lock on the Steelgard van when Tobin found them. He was beery and flatulent, wavering on his feet as he watched Happy prise open the doors. He burped. ‘Wasn’t your usual Arnie.’

This was too much for Trigg. He turned and snarled, ‘What the hell are you on about?’

‘The movie. Nothing like your usual Schwarzenegger.’

Trigg turned away from him in time to see the doors spring open. The guard lay sprawled on the floor of the van. There were steel cabinets built into the floor and walls. That’s where the money would be.

Trigg thought he might as well do it now. In a single motion he picked up a steel mallet and swung around with it, adjusting for Tobin’s height. The metal head was swinging upwards when it smacked under Tobin’s jaw. Tobin dropped as if all the elasticity had gone out of him. Trigg hit him again to make sure, then tumbled him into the pit. He let Happy do the guard.