Wyatt - 04 - Cross Kill (4 page)

She watched Wyatt as she said it. A
sexual current seemed to link the two and the others recognised it. Niall tore
up a cigarette butt. Leannes face reddened. She reached across the table for
the crisps and crammed some into her mouth. Rossiter grinned inanely. What can
I do for you? he asked.

Just a quiet word.

In here, Rossiter said, and he
left the room, Wyatt tailing him.

The lounge room was furnished with
pale orange nylon carpet, a floral-patterned suite of two armchairs and couch,
a bar and a massive custom-built entertainment cornertelevision set, stereo
and VCR stacked upon varnished chipboard shelves. Nice place, Wyatt said.

Rossiter stared at him, then
laughed. Mate, its a dump.

Wyatt smiled briefly. Still, you
got nice things.

Well, you know, a bit of this and a
bit of that. Niall chips in, pulls in the occasional quid.

Wyatts voice was suddenly edged
with venom. Hes a storm-trooper, Ross.

Family, mate, you know. No, I guess
you dont. Pull up a pew.

Wyatt sat where he could watch the
street through the window.

So, Rossiter said, when they were
settled. I suppose you know theres a contract out on you? That Sydney crowd?

Wyatt knew Rossiter wanted to chat.
He wanted to chat because he was nervy, but also because it was what people
did. Wyatt never felt nervy and he never made small talk out of habit, but he
was prepared to make an effort when he wanted something from someone. Besides,
he was keen to know the street version of his war with the Outfit. Theyre
offering twenty, he said.

Rossiter shook his head. Forty
thousand to the bloke that knocks you. They reckon you stuffed up their
Melbourne operations. Theyre building up again and wont feel happy till youre
off the scene.

The price was going up. It had been
twenty thousand a few months ago. Wyatt shifted in his chair. The house, the
terribleness of the Rossiters, were starting to get him down. Hed get what he
wanted, then leave, bugger the small talk. I want to knock over the Mesics,
he said.

* * * *

Six

The
thing about a Capri is, its shapely, mean through the corners and not so
expensive that youd want to know how come a cop drove one. Bax slotted his
little car into a gap between the wall and the decent family station wagon that
belonged to Coulthart, his Inspector, a man obsessed with breaking the car
rackets, and got out. He locked the Capria gift from old man Mesic before he
diedand entered the main building.

He gave the nod to a constable on
the front desk and was buzzed through to a nervy zone of two-fingered typing,
snatched smoking and close-mouthed phone calls. His desk was in the corner.
Coulthart had left files on it, all flagged with yellow slips. The name
Mesic
and a question mark had been scrawled on some of the slips.

At eleven oclock Coulthart called
him in for an update. There was a dusty African violet on the Inspectors
windowsill and coffee rings on his blotter. Coulthart closed the door behind
Bax and said, dropping his voice, I put some files on your desk.

Bax nodded.

Well?

Boss, an operation like this, were
steering pretty close to the edge.

Coulthart was a soft, untidy looking
man. He banged his right fist gently into his left palm, the closest he ever
got to passion. But not close to the Mesics.

Baxs elegant suited shoulders
expressed regret. Nothing leads to them, boss. Thats the way it is.

You keeping tabs on everything?
Every motor, every transmission, every outer shell? Every flaming wing mirror?

Sure.

And youre saying the Mesics handle
none of it? Come on, Bax.

Bax checked that there was no gap
above the knot in his tie. Boss, I keep telling you, there dont seem to be
any big fish involved, only a lot of little fish, blokes like that panelbeater we
nailed last month. We caught him cold with a chassis off a Fairmont swiped from
Shopping Town six months ago.

Who swiped it?

Bax stared at Coulthart, saying
nothing. Coulthart knew the rules, hed set up this fuckwitted operation.

Forget I asked, Coulthart said. How
do we know your man isnt selling to the Mesics on the sly? Is the paperwork
tight on this?

Any paperwork that Coulthart needed
to know about was, so Bax said, Yes.

These small operators, Coulthart
went on, blokes like this panelbeater. Hes not working for the Mesics?

No, Bax said. Thats where the
trail ends, every time, with the small fish. But Ill keep digging. As for the
Mesics, they might be diddling the tax man, but thats about it. They seem
clean.

Coulthart clearly wasnt convinced.
Meanwhile he was responsible for an off-colour operation that could bring
Age
Insight reporters down on him like a ton of bricks, so he asked Bax
worriedly, How many vehicles are we up to now?

Forty.

Coulthart looked hard at the top of
his desk. Forty, he said.

He said it slowly, as if doubts were
finally creeping in. Hed devised an operation that could get them all into
trouble. Bax had been ordered to recruit two professional car thieves, promise
them good money and immunity from prosecution, get them to swipe late model
luxury Fords, strip each car, stamp ID numbers on everything, release the parts
on the black market, and follow the trail to the receivers. Clearly Coulthart
hoped hed turn over the Mesics that way, but it was a mad scheme, doomed to
stuff up in a big way.

Well, Bax thought, so long as its
Coultharts neck on the block, not mine. Bax had been working the scam for six
months now. Hed arrested a dozen characters like last months panelbeater, hed
juggled like crazy to keep the Mesics out of the frame, and the whole thing had
him living on a knife edge.

Forty cars, Coulthart said. He
smothered a groan. If what you say is right, were just feeding a habit thats
always been there anyway.

Bax adjusted the back of his suit
coat so that it wouldnt crease in Coultharts office chair. Thats about it,
boss. Therell always be blokes who swipe cars, always be chop-shop cowboys who
flog or use the parts off them. If you want my advice, the only way youre
going to make a killing in this game is to put a cap on the iffy Mercs coming
in from Hong Kong.

Anything to get Coulthart off the
track. It wasnt easy for Bax now, earning his five hundred a week from the
Mesics. In the old days it simply meant steering the law away from them. Now,
with the old man dead, it also meant protecting them from opposition firms like
the guy in the Volvo yesterday, and protecting them from dangers within in the
form of Victor Mesic.

Plus which, old Karl Mesic had
agreed to buy complete cars from Bax before he died. All Bax had to do was
steer one car in ten to a Mesic chop-shop and keep it out of the paperwork.
This scam promised to earn him thousands of bucks a year on top of his five
hundred a week, and he badly needed it. But the old man had died before Bax
could get the scheme up and running, the Mesics were falling apart, and if
Coultharts operation came unstuck, he, Bax, could fall with it.

He stared at the African violet
while Coulthart continued to groan. The answer was Stella Mesic. She was the
strong one. If he could help Stella and Leo divert Victor, maybe send Victor
back to the States, the firm could take over where Karl had left off, Leo
providing the muscle, Stella the management, Bax the brains and protection.

Coulthart pushed away from his desk
and lifted out of his chair. He favoured creased, lightweight suits summer and
winter and sometimes Bax glimpsed flesh between the straining buttons of the
mans drip-dry shirts. He avoided Coultharts midriff and stood up too. So,
whats it to be, boss?

Give it another month, Coulthart
said. I want a couple of lightning raids on known Mesic outlets.

Ill need warrants.

No problem.

Suit yourself, Bax said, but Im
telling you, you wont find anything.

Try, okay?

Then, when Bax was opening the door,
Baxy?

Bax stopped. Yes, boss?

Do the blokes, you know, take you
seriously, got up like that?

Jesus Christ, did he mean did the
blokes think he was on the take? Bax looked down, checking his long frame, the
expensive dark suit that shaped it. His shoes gleamed, his shirt was spotless,
thick white cotton. Whats wrong with it?

Coultharts face reddened, the look
of a man caught out in a cheap thought. What I mean is, its a dirty job, youll
ruin your dacks.

To help the poor bastard out, Bax
grinned and winked. I like to set standards, boss. Be on the cutting edge.

Coulthart relaxed. Yeah, well, see
if you can cut your way through to the Mesics.

* * * *

Seven

In
the lounge room of the house in Abbotsford, Rossiter stared at Wyatt. You want
to hit the Mesics?

Wyatt said nothing, waiting for his
words to sink in.

At least your timings right, but
arent you heading a bit off course?

Wyatt knew what he meant. The Wyatt
that Rossiter knew hit banks, armoured cars, not the cash reserves of other
crims.

I mean, theyre ripe for a
takeover. The flash boys are sniffing around, seeing what they can pick up, but
not you, Wyatt.

Thats my business.

Rossiter regarded him for a while. This
wouldnt be personal?

Information, Ross, thats all I
want at this stage.

Youll need a darn sight more than
information.

Let me take care of that.

Wyatt waited, letting the old crim
get used to the idea. Someone passed by the side window. He stiffened, looked
at Rossiter sharply.

Leannes going, Rossiter said, a
grin on his staved-in face. Back in a tick.

He went out the front door. Wyatt
went to the window, saw Rossiter and Eileen kiss and hug Leanne and the
children goodbye. No one else was around. Wyatt returned
to the armchair as Rossiter came back into the
room.

Information, Ross.

Rossiter shrugged. Ill tell you
what I can.

I checked the Mesic place out
yesterday

Rossiter grinned. Wog heaven?

Wyatt made a cutting motion with his
hand. He was not good at this kind of conversation. I need to know about the
people living there.

You heard the old man died?

Ive been on the move, Wyatt said.
I dont know anything.

Old Karl died a couple of weeks
ago, leaving Leo, the youngest boy . . .

Solid? About thirty? Moustache like
a cop?

Thats him.

Who else?

His wife, Stella.

Tell me about her.

Smart, but bottom drawer, if you
know what I mean. Leo brought her back from a Gold Coast holiday one time.
Cluey though, smarter than Leo.

I saw an older bloke, skinny, long
hair, flashy dresser.

That wouldve been Victor, the old
mans favourite. Hes been handling things in the States. They reckon there you
can pay some kid a hundred bucks to hot-wire a Mustang and drive it straight to
the wharf and onto a container ship. Convert it to right-hand drive here and
sell it for twenty grand.

Wyatt didnt care about any of that.
Anyone else?

Thats all I know of.

There were footsteps, then another
shape passed the side window. Wyatt heard noises in the carport. A powerful
motor was run viciously at full throttle for a few seconds, allowed to subside,
punished again. Rossiter shrugged. Hell quit in a minute.

They waited. A short time later
Niall went around to the back of the house again. Wyatt said, So whos the
brains of the show?

Well, there you go, mate. The
Mesics have never been that big or that smart, just lucky. Somehow or other
they managed to end up with a fair old slice of the stolen car racket, plus
some small-scale pushing interstate. The word is, now the old mans dead theyre
losing their grip. Mates of mine seem to think Stella and Leo could run the
firm okay, only Victors got other ideas.

Meaning?

Meaning Victors got big plans for
them. Stolen cars? Forget it. Ive heard he intends to convert everything to
cash so he can be the front man for some funny money coming in from the States
to run the clubs and casinos, caper like that.

This was all speculation. Wyatt was
more interested in the here and now. Tell me about the day-to-day side of
things.

The money side of things?

Wyatt nodded.

Simple. Cash comes in every day
from all their chop-shops, spare parts outlets, car dealerships.

All legitimate businesses?

With two sets of books, one for the
tax man, the other for the black stuff.