Wyatt - 04 - Cross Kill by Garry Disher

his
tracksuit hadnt got in the way, he would have been too late. He didnt see the
quick, neat spin behind him. He didnt see Max go down, disabled by a kick to
the knee. He heard it, but by then it was too late, for the dero was grinding a
gun into the base of his spine and a masked man was coming through the door.

    What unnerved Max and Lester during
the three minutes that followed was that the two men didnt speak and they didnt
want the cocaine. The man in the mask trained a gun on them, the man with the
bandaged head carried the cocaine into the bathroom and flushed it away. He
seemed to smile. There was no sense of loss or regret about him.

    When it was over, Max risked raising
his head from the carpet. Have you any idea, the faintest trace of an idea,
whose toes youre stepping on here?

    The man with the bandage looked at
him appraisingly. The face was almost pleasant now, animated by intelligence
and irony, the bandage rakish looking on the narrow head. Maybe hes some kind
of anti-drugs vigilante, Max thought. Someone whod welcome the chance to have
his say. If you could tell us where youre coming from, Max said reasonably, maybe
we could work something out.

    But the face grew hard by degrees,
and a chill crept along Maxs spine. The voice when it came was flat and
distinct. Tell Kepler it could happen any time, any place.

    * * * *

    Twenty

    At
least half of the men milling around in Prestige Auto Auctions on Friday knew
that Bax was working motor vehicle theft, so he couldnt very well do his own
bidding. He was spotting. He strolled through the place twice, glancing idly at
the ranks of glossy, top of the range Hondas, BMWs, Saabs, Audis, Toyotas, for
all the world as if hed dropped in especially to be a pain in the neck to the
men there who knew he was a cop.

    It amused him the way four bent
dealers slipped out through the side doors and another handful stopped
muttering into mobile phones or to each other in the shadowy corners of the
vast auction hall. It amused him to saunter past them, sharp as a tack in his
iron-grey tailored suit, as out of place among the stretch jeans and blow-waved
heads as a Piaget watch in a tray of Pizza Hut giveaways. The remaining men in
the place were your ordinary suburban punters after a bargain and they paid Bax
no attention at all. He circled the hall a third time, listened to some
half-hearted bidding for a late sixties E-Type in need of a complete
restoration, and went out onto the street.

    Axle was waiting for him in a
Japanese rustbucket. The body was canary yellow, the drivers door white, the
boot lid pale green. Not for the first time did Bax wonder how it was that a
professional car thief like Axle, who specialised in lifting Porsches from
South Yarra driveways in the time it took you to blow your nose, would want to
drive around in a heap of shit.

    He slid into the passenger seat.
Axle was listening to a cassette, a world-weary American voice filling the car
with a string of one-liners. Bax opened his mouth to speak but Axle chopped the
air with the flat of his hand. Check this.

    Bax listened. The comedians voice
wound on, utterly tired of life: I went to a restaurant, it said breakfast
any time, so I ordered French toast in the Renaissance. Despite himself, Bax
sniggered.

    Axle shut off the tape machine. His
ravaged face was pink with appreciation, his eyes moist. Steve Wright. Kills
me every time. Well, what you got?

    Lot nineteen, Bax said. White
Honda Prelude with bad rear-end damage. He took an envelope from his pocket
and gave it to Axle. Theres five grand. The car might go above five, but I
very much doubt it.

    Axle tucked the envelope inside the
denim jacket he wore over a black T-shirt, summer and winter. No worries.

    Get a receipt, do all the
paperwork, and arrange to have it delivered to that body shop the Mesics run in
Flemington.

    Axle was surprised. Not their
Richmond place?

    Bax shared some of the irritation hed
been feeling lately. No, fuck it