Pay Dirt (20 page)

It wasnt the sort of place Trigg
would live in. A guard mechanic or odd job man, Wyatt thought.

It told him to go slow and quiet. He
crossed to the first of the long sheds. There were several windows high off the
ground, and a roller door and a small metal door, both padlocked.

He tried the second shed. It was the
same as the first. He knew both sheds would have a legitimate purposemajor
mechanical repairs, panel-beating, spray paintingbut there were no signs up.

He circled the second shed, looking
at the ground. He rejected the first piece of wire as being too thick. The
second seemed about right. He was fashioning it into a hooked shape when the
sky seemed to fall on him. Strong hands grabbed him by the collar and belt and
ran him head-on into the wall of the shed. He collapsed onto his knees and
toppled over. Someone searched his pockets and found the .38. A boot thudded
hard into his stomach and stamped on his fingers.

Wyatt looked up, feeling pain tug
inside him. Blood ran from his scalp into his eyes. He coughed and focused on
the figure who had hit him.

The man had no neck. His head was
like a knob squeezed from a piece of rock. He was tall and watched Wyatt in a
loose-muscled way. Despite his size he looked fast and flexible. He wore
overalls and had the unhappiest expression Wyatt had ever seen on anybody.

Wyatt wondered about his .38. He
guessed the big man had it tucked away in his overalls. He started to get to
his feet wondering if hed be allowed to get that far. When nothing happened he
realised the big man wanted a bit of sport with him.

The big man had the advantage of
size. Wyatt hoped to make it a disadvantage by getting him tired. He edged away
from the wall and began to circle around, goading him into wasted effort.

The big man was having none of it.
He simply stayed on the spot, turning with small movements as Wyatt wasted
energy on the outer circle.

Wyatt went on the offensive. He
darted in, feinted with his left hand and side-armed with his right. Instead of
crushing the big mans windpipe the flat of his hand glanced off the thick
upper arm. He felt a jabbing blow to the cut on his head.

Wyatt retreated, knowing the big man
would work on that cut if he could. He circled again, skipping from one foot to
the other like a boxer, holding himself tight, looking for an opening. He
darted in, squared up as if to repeat his earlier mistake, then dropped to his
knees and punched his left fist hard under the big mans belt.

Again he stepped back and circled.
He saw that hed hurt the big man. There was a rictus grin of pain. The
breathing sounded forced. Wyatt danced in, landed hard blows to the big mans
eyes, backed off. He did it again. The big man shook his head, baffled, but
never took his eyes off Wyatt. Wyatt watched the massive arms, waiting for them
to drop, a sign of fatigue. Wyatt felt good now, concentrated, his breathing
and movements rhythmic and loose.

He went in a third time, going for
the eyes again. The big man managed a stinging blow to Wyatts ribs, but Wyatt
knew his own punches were beginning to do real damage. This time he stepped
just out of range, then in again before the man realised he wasnt circling out
of reach again. The man blocked with his forearms but Wyatt was expecting that.
He turned side on and lashed the side of his shoe down the big mans shin
bones. It was hard and sharp and caught him by surprise. Wyatt saw him curl and
tighten as if hed bitten into a lemon.

He took advantage of that and went
hard at the mans head, a succession of rapid punches left and right. His aim
was to confusemake the man dizzy, blur his vision, make his head ring. It was
working. Wyatt stepped back out of reach. The big man was soaked with sweat,
swaying, shaking his head as if something were clinging to it. Blood had run
into his eyes. Ribbons of mucus clung to his lips and chin.

Wyatt was going to finish him off
and search for a key when the voice came out of the darkness behind him. It
called him old son and told him that was enough. What convinced Wyatt was the
rifle barrel behind his ear.

* * * *

THIRTY-EIGHT

Hap?
Trigg said. You okay?

The man known as Happy spat blood on
the ground and wiped his sleeve across his eyes. He seemed to clear his mind
quickly. He reached into a pocket of his overalls and pulled out Wyatts .38.
Wyatt watched him, expecting a pay-back, but Happy simply stood there as if
waiting for orders. When Trigg said, Unlock the shed, Happy did it as if none
of his motivations were his own. He came back and stood next to Trigg and when
Trigg told him to take Wyatt into the shed and tie him up, the big hands were
firm and efficient, no more than that.

They used nylon rope and propped
Wyatt on a scarred wooden chair next to a steel-topped bench that ran against the
wall at the back of the shed. Most of the space was taken up by the bogus Brava
truck with the Steelgard van still on its tray. The cement floor was spotted
with oil and grease. Crash-repair tools were stacked against the walls and a
new hydraulic hoist had been bolted to a fresh slab of cement. Pictures of
bodybuilders had been clipped from magazines and taped to a chipboard panel
above the bench. An outdated Michelin calendar curled from a nail at one end of
it.

Trigg propped the rifle against the
bench. He put his hands on his hips and looked at Wyatt. The little man
resembled a furious sparrow. His hair seemed to puff with frustration. Who the
fuck are you? No, let me guessfucking Wyatt.

Wyatt hadnt intended to speak. He
wanted to provoke Trigg. But he also wanted information. Wheres Tobin?

This seemed to encourage Triggs frustration.
He pointed irritably at the hydraulic hoist bolted to the cement slab. Under
there with the guard. If Idve known you were going to show up Idve waited
before we filled it in. He shook his head. Jesus Christ. Where the fuck am I
going to stash you, eh? Answer me that.

Wyatt studied him bleakly. Thugs
like Trigg made it hard for the professionals. They were vicious and stupid and
left a trail of unnecessary bodies behind. He counted: Venables, Tobin, the
guardand soon hed be the fourth.

He looked at the floor where the pit
had been. If the bodies were never found he knew what the police line would be:
the guard did it and disappeared with the money. He turned back to Trigg. You
hijacked my job. That moneys mine.

Coming from anyone else they would
have sounded like playground words. But Wyatt always meant what he said. He
also operated under the belief that stealing another mans job was dangerous.
It led to unnecessary resentment and speculation. It meant you couldnt trust
anyone the next time you wanted help, advice or equipment. He wasnt expecting
Trigg to give him back the moneyhe was simply stating a fact.

Trigg seemed to be distracted by the
claim. He said, frowning, I owed some money to the mob, and took Happy by the
arm. You can have him to play with in a minute, my son, after we check around
outside.

They went out. They would be back
when they found the car and nothing else to worry about. Thats when the
beating would start.

Wyatt stood and hopped two steps to
the bench. He rejected the oily invoices and the horse-racing liftout from the
Adelaide
News.
The box of matches would be better for what he had in
mind. For a moment he considered burning the rope, but rejected it as painful
and time-consuming. Instead he turned his back, lifted his hands and grabbed
the matchbox. By bending over slightly he was able to keep his hands raised
while he tipped the matches on to the floor and tore the matchbox into small
strips. Then he turned around again, kicked the matches under the bench and
bent his mouth to the bench top. With his tongue he drew the strips of
cardboard into his mouth. He chewed them a little until they were moist and
malleable, then manoeuvred separate pieces under his top and bottom lips and
inside each cheek. He knew that Happy would go for the head first. The
cardboard wads would save his teeth for a while, minimise the damage to the
inside of his mouth.

Wyatt hopped back to the chair and
sat down in it. Trigg and the big man came back a few minutes later. Trigg
started with questions. Where are the others? How much do they know?

Wyatt stared at him dully.

Okay, Hap, Trigg said.

Wyatt looked up. There was no moral
light in the big mans gloomy eyes. Happy stepped forward and smashed his fist
into Wyatts face. He did it again. The battering was skilful and hard. To help
withstand the pain Wyatt made himself neutral, separate from the fists and the
damage. He made eye contact with Trigg and didnt let go of it. He said nothing
and tried to avoid involuntary sounds. He let his body go loose and yielding,
knowing the pain would be worse if he were stiff and tense. Unnoticed by Happy
he was breathing deeply and evenly. This helped him turn inwards, turn off from
the fists and pain. He was also helped by what was happening to Happy. The big
man no longer seemed uninvolved. The pressure and rhythm of his blows grew
uneven, telling Wyatt that he was beginning to unhinge. It was becoming a
personal thing to Happy. If hed been punching regularly and systematically,
Wyatt would have found the punishment more damaging.

The beating went on even after he
toppled onto the floor. After a while Happy stood back, breathing heavily.
Wyatt felt himself slipping in and out of consciousness. He coughed bloodied
cardboard out of his mouth and heard the roar of the sea in his head. He could
feel grit and grease where his cheek touched the floor. He knew that Trigg was saying
something, but the voice was far away.

When he woke up he knew hed been
out for a few hours. Theyd taken the ropes off and he was lying on a foam
rubber mattress. The air was stuffy. He tried to sit up but the pain tore
through him and he blacked out. When he woke again the pain was still there,
like a bird diving its beak into his body. In films the hero always gets up.
Wyatt knew about real pain, how it stays with you. Taking it very slowly, he
sat up.

The absolute lack of light puzzled
him until he realised hed been locked in the shipping container. He reached
out a hand and touched the nearest wall. It had been insulated on the
insidefrom the heat, he supposed, but he also knew it meant he could make all
the noise he wanted and no one would hear him. He didnt risk standing yet. He
slid along the perimeter of the container. At the back he found a stack of
plastic boxes the size of Gideon Bibles. Videos. There was also a refrigerator
with a lock on it.

Some time later they came to check on
him. Blinding sunlight came through the door and Happy was there, holding a
torch, the .38 and a glass of water. He turned on the torch and closed the door
behind him. Drink, he said, placing the glass on the floor.

Wyatt took small sips of the water.
His mouth was dry and he had a raging thirst but he knew hed vomit if he
gulped the water. Happy, he noticed, was staring at him curiously, as if last
nights fight and beating had bonded them in some way.

Wyatt tried to speak, coughed, tried
again. Is it Saturday?

Happy nodded.

Why dont you just kill me?

Happy considered the question
carefully. Too many people. Sunday.

Wyatt deciphered this. They were
waiting for when it was quiet, no customers, no one shopping in the main
street. It could also mean they intended to move him. Happy? Wyatt said. Wheres
the money?

The voice rumbled like sludge
sliding off a shovel. Ive got my share.

I know. Where did the boss take the
rest of it?

Mesic, the big man said.

Wyatt knew that name. It was a name
in the Melbourne papers and it meant rackets and killings. The cops had given
up on the street crimes to concentrate on tax evasion. They werent getting far
there, either. Not that Wyatt cared about any of that. Now that he knew who to
go after and what to expect, he was starting to work out how to get his money
back.

It didnt strike him as unrealistic
to be thinking like this. The Mesics had his money and he wanted it back, thats
all he cared about. It didnt occur to him to think that he wouldnt succeed,
that he wouldnt be alive to do it.

Hap? he said. Trigg got a lot of
money from that van, but you did most of the dirty work. I bet he paid you
peanuts.

I know what youre trying to do,
Happy said. It wont work.

It was the longest speech Wyatt had
heard the big man make. He closed his eyes, shutting him out. A few minutes
later Trigg came in. Wyatt looked up. Muscles were working around Triggs mouth
and eyes. His colour was high. Bloody tyre-kickers, thats all I get these
days. Come on, Hap, weve got work to do. He grinned at Wyatt. Plenty of fuck-tapes
here, my son, a fridge full of pills. Pity theyre no good to you.

Stay away from holes in the ground,
Hap, Wyatt said. Dont turn your back on the little turd.

Shut up, moron, Trigg said.

When they were gone Wyatt checked
the door. As he expected, it was a waste of time. He lay back and wondered if
psychology would get him out of this.

* * * *