side
room. A transistor radio vibrated on a window shelf, a poorly tuned talkback host
encouraging every vicious prejudice ever thought or uttered. Two guards came
in, made coffee, stared at Chaffey, yelled above the racketing radio, went out
again. Chaffey knew that he was being put in his place. He didnt care. It was
all in their heads, not his.
The officer came back with Steers
file. Apparently Steer was behaving himself. Well, he would be, given that he
intended to escape on the one hand and was looking at long gaol time if that
fell through on the other.
Fifty minutes later, Chaffey was
taken to an interview room. Steer sat on a plastic chair at a plastic table,
blowing smoke rings at the ceiling.
Chaffey turned to the guard. My
client and I would like some privacy, if you dont mind.
The man flushed. No skin off my
nose.
He left. Chaffey said, Are we okay
in here?
Steer nodded. Cost me fifty
smackers. No-ones listening.
Good, Chaffey said.
He made a rapid assessment of his
client. Steer was watchful, careful, apparently relaxed and self-contained. Keeps
to himself, the report said. The hard men of the yard leave him alone.
Chaffey could see why. You sensed the glittering danger in him, just as you
sensed it in certain dogs.
Ive seen Denise, Chaffey began.
Steer nodded. He tipped back his
throat and huffed three smoke rings at the spitting fluorescent tube.
Chaffey saw his teeth then:
gaol-rotted teeth, full of stumps and black cavities. Were ready to roll, our
end, he said. New Zealand passports and drivers licences, a boat from Lakes
Entrance to a freighter, a guy to drive you.
Who?
His name is Ray Wyatt. The police
dont know him. Good nerve, cautious, he wont let you down. Denise has been
working on your shopping list. The rest is up to you.
Things are jake my end, Steer
said. Back up a bit. This guy, you say his name is Wyatt?
Chaffey nodded, adding a chin to the
chins that hung over the knot of his tie. You know him?
Steer shook his head. Has he got a
father, a nasty piece of work, knocks over payroll vans and that?
Chaffey thought that nasty piece of
work pretty well described Steer. The lads uncle. Is that a problem?
Steer smiled. There was no humour or
good will in it. Just asking.
Now, about your money, Chaffey
said.
Two hundred thousand dollars, in a
fireproof steel floor-safe at his house, cemented into a hole in the corner of
his basement. Steers money, and Steer knew the combination, just in case, but
that two hundred grand still burnt a hole in Chaffeys head. He was not mug
enough to touch it, though. Steer would slice him open and whistle Waltzing
Matilda while he did it.
What about my money? You fucking
lost it at the casino?
Keep your shirt on, Chaffey said. Its
in the basement where its always been. As soon as youre settled somewhere, Ill
wire it to you.
That you will, Steer said,
reaching to stub out his cigarette on the table, just millimetres away from
Chaffeys soft, fat, pink, well-tended hand.
* * * *
Sixteen
Wyatt
always kept an emergency bag packed. Within minutes of killing Frank Jardines
brother, hed left another stage of his life behind him.
A new bolthole. He couldnt stay in
Hobart. There was the mainland, but too many people knew him there, too many
wanted him dead. Hed risk short, hit-and-run visits to the capital cities, but
it would be inviting trouble to base himself in one of them.
And so Wyatt drove north, in a Magna
rented using a false set of papers. He took the Midland Highway. Wind gusts
rocked the car in the high country after Hobart, where the road narrowed and
levelled out for the dreary stretch up through the centre of the state. Traffic
was sparse and slow and inclined to be careless. Wyatt found himself tensing at
the wheel. The long hours and the strain of his life brought sharp aches to his
neck and shoulders.
A new bolthole, and a big score to
build up his cash reserves. That meant working with someone again.
room. A transistor radio vibrated on a window shelf, a poorly tuned talkback host
encouraging every vicious prejudice ever thought or uttered. Two guards came
in, made coffee, stared at Chaffey, yelled above the racketing radio, went out
again. Chaffey knew that he was being put in his place. He didnt care. It was
all in their heads, not his.
The officer came back with Steers
file. Apparently Steer was behaving himself. Well, he would be, given that he
intended to escape on the one hand and was looking at long gaol time if that
fell through on the other.
Fifty minutes later, Chaffey was
taken to an interview room. Steer sat on a plastic chair at a plastic table,
blowing smoke rings at the ceiling.
Chaffey turned to the guard. My
client and I would like some privacy, if you dont mind.
The man flushed. No skin off my
nose.
He left. Chaffey said, Are we okay
in here?
Steer nodded. Cost me fifty
smackers. No-ones listening.
Good, Chaffey said.
He made a rapid assessment of his
client. Steer was watchful, careful, apparently relaxed and self-contained. Keeps
to himself, the report said. The hard men of the yard leave him alone.
Chaffey could see why. You sensed the glittering danger in him, just as you
sensed it in certain dogs.
Ive seen Denise, Chaffey began.
Steer nodded. He tipped back his
throat and huffed three smoke rings at the spitting fluorescent tube.
Chaffey saw his teeth then:
gaol-rotted teeth, full of stumps and black cavities. Were ready to roll, our
end, he said. New Zealand passports and drivers licences, a boat from Lakes
Entrance to a freighter, a guy to drive you.
Who?
His name is Ray Wyatt. The police
dont know him. Good nerve, cautious, he wont let you down. Denise has been
working on your shopping list. The rest is up to you.
Things are jake my end, Steer
said. Back up a bit. This guy, you say his name is Wyatt?
Chaffey nodded, adding a chin to the
chins that hung over the knot of his tie. You know him?
Steer shook his head. Has he got a
father, a nasty piece of work, knocks over payroll vans and that?
Chaffey thought that nasty piece of
work pretty well described Steer. The lads uncle. Is that a problem?
Steer smiled. There was no humour or
good will in it. Just asking.
Now, about your money, Chaffey
said.
Two hundred thousand dollars, in a
fireproof steel floor-safe at his house, cemented into a hole in the corner of
his basement. Steers money, and Steer knew the combination, just in case, but
that two hundred grand still burnt a hole in Chaffeys head. He was not mug
enough to touch it, though. Steer would slice him open and whistle Waltzing
Matilda while he did it.
What about my money? You fucking
lost it at the casino?
Keep your shirt on, Chaffey said. Its
in the basement where its always been. As soon as youre settled somewhere, Ill
wire it to you.
That you will, Steer said,
reaching to stub out his cigarette on the table, just millimetres away from
Chaffeys soft, fat, pink, well-tended hand.
* * * *
Sixteen
Wyatt
always kept an emergency bag packed. Within minutes of killing Frank Jardines
brother, hed left another stage of his life behind him.
A new bolthole. He couldnt stay in
Hobart. There was the mainland, but too many people knew him there, too many
wanted him dead. Hed risk short, hit-and-run visits to the capital cities, but
it would be inviting trouble to base himself in one of them.
And so Wyatt drove north, in a Magna
rented using a false set of papers. He took the Midland Highway. Wind gusts
rocked the car in the high country after Hobart, where the road narrowed and
levelled out for the dreary stretch up through the centre of the state. Traffic
was sparse and slow and inclined to be careless. Wyatt found himself tensing at
the wheel. The long hours and the strain of his life brought sharp aches to his
neck and shoulders.
A new bolthole, and a big score to
build up his cash reserves. That meant working with someone again.
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