Now Wyatt accepted a glass of Scotch and avoided Jardine’s question. ‘Cheers,’ he said.
Jardine nodded and both men took small sips. Wyatt was not a heavy drinker and he hoped that Jardine had not become one. It didn’t seem likely. The grey eyes were cautious and lonely, but not desperate, and some thought had gone into making the suite of rooms a place to live in. A bookcase stretched to the ceiling along one wall of the main room. Apparently Jardine liked to read biographies, modern history, explorers’ tales. There were no novels.
Another set of shelves held a stereo system, VCR and small television set. A few compact discs were scattered nearby: some classical, some folk, some jazz. A thick Persian rug covered the worn carpet. The armchairs were cloth-covered and the one Wyatt was sitting in was firm and comfortable. An Ansel Adams photograph hung on one wall and early Sydney lithographs on another. A stiff chair was angled against a small roll-top desk that stood open in the corner. The interior was cluttered with envelopes, sheets of paper and pens stuffed in a jam jar. There was a framed head-and-shoulders shot of a hesitantly smiling young woman next to the desk lamp.
But the focal point of the room was a small Apple computer on a card table. Wyatt turned back to Jardine. ‘Writing your memoirs?’
The sad-looking face had been staring at him attentively, as if charting his thoughts and understanding them. It relaxed into a grin that was natural and unforced and had never failed to charm people. ‘I follow the ponies. That box of tricks helps me shorten the odds.’
Wyatt didn’t try to feign interest. He said, ‘Is Kepler still running the Outfit?’
The smile left Jardine’s face. ‘Alive and well.’
‘I need to talk to him.’
Jardine had a seamed, fleshless face like a weathered knot of wood. It didn’t change expression. ‘I don’t think a talk is what he’s got in mind for you, pal.’
Wyatt’s mouth twisted briefly without humour. ‘It will be.’
Jardine continued to watch him. Jardine was clear, solid and grave, useful qualities in a man who cracked safes and held up banks. When he spoke, the words emerged softly from his chest. ‘I’m pretty much a backroom operator these days.’ He meant that he blueprinted heists for people who knew how to pull them but not how to plan them. ‘That could be useful,’ Wyatt said.
‘You’re going to hit him a few times first?’
‘Yes.’
‘Meanwhile you’re pleased to know I haven’t lost my touch.’
‘Right again,’ Wyatt said.
Jardine sipped his Scotch once more, put the half-full glass down and pushed it away. ‘I have to live in this town.’
‘Maybe just information will be enough.’
‘On the other hand,’ Jardine went on, ‘sometimes I miss the old days.’
There was something approaching a gleam in his eye. Wyatt remembered it from twelve years ago, a look that said Jardine knew a sweet job when he saw one. He didn’t follow it up-he’d let Jardine declare if and how he’d be involved. ‘Tell me more about the Outfit.’
‘This is Sydney, mate. Things are organised here, not like down south. The cops are paid and you don’t have bunches of amateurs muscling in on each other’s territory or expertise. One arm of the Outfit controls bent cars in the western suburbs, another sells coke to street dealers. They’ve also got something going with diamonds.’
‘Tell me about Kepler.’
‘He’s a north shore darling,’ Jardine said. He started counting on his fingers. ‘He’s got his own law firm, a big house right on the water, a society wife. He belongs to the night clubs, knows the right people-including the attorney-general, the police commissioner and a few headkickers on the ALP Right-and he generally behaves like old money. He’s charming, he’s clever, he knows what knife and fork to use, and over on the north shore they go all weak-kneed about this refined gangster in their midst.’
‘I’m not interested in all that. I want to know what’s underneath.’
‘Underneath, he’s a thug. He bumps people off if they get in the way or maybe just because he’s got a sinus headache that day. He knocks his wife around so it doesn’t show on the surface and spends most of his time running the Outfit from the penthouse suite of a Darling Harbour apartment building.’
‘How old is he?’
Jardine thought about it. ‘Sixty odd. He’ll be around for a while yet. He’s ambitious, he’s trying to move his people into Victoria.’
‘I’ve met some of them.’
Both men lapsed into silence. Wyatt began to build a mental picture of Kepler and the Outfit, looking for holes in the armour. Jardine, he noticed, looked anticipatory. Wyatt needed him. Jardine knew the local scene, knew the Outfit, but he also knew Melbourne. On top of that he was good at what he did and he could be trusted-as much as Wyatt trusted anyone. Then Jardine said something that told Wyatt they were on the same track. ‘In some ways, the Outfit is easier to knock over than the local Seven-Eleven.’
‘How’s that?’
‘They never expect trouble from freelancers,’ Jardine explained. ‘Blokes like you rob the banks, the organised boys run the rackets, it’s all nicely balanced. The enemy as far as the Outfit’s concerned is the law, and they’ve taken care of that. A few thousand here and there in a few pockets and they feel safe.’
‘Yes,’ Wyatt said.
Jardine picked up his Scotch, looked at it, pushed it away. ‘Two things. One, my name stays out of it. Two, when you finally tackle Kepler himself, you’re on your own.’
Wyatt also pushed his glass away. ‘Agreed.’
‘As to the rest,’ Jardine said, ‘I know two or three Outfit operations we can start with.’
‘I don’t have much time,’ Wyatt said. ‘I also don’t have the money to bankroll anything major.’
‘Mate,’ Jardine said, ‘I’ve had these particular hits on the drawing board for years.’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘You know, out of academic interest, to keep my hand in. The point is, they’re simple, cheap, nothing to set up-’
‘When?’
‘We start tomorrow morning.’
Fifteen
On Wednesday evening a woman from Corrective Services came around and told Eileen and Ross that their son had been remanded for trial in the Bolte Remand Centre. She snapped open the gold catches on a new tan briefcase. ‘For about six weeks,’ she said.
The briefcase didn’t go with the rest of the get-up. Eileen took in the woman’s skirt. It was made from some crumpled-look summery fabric that had been washed and worn too often. There was a white T-shirt with a rainforest message on it, and a faded denim jacket over that. No jewellery. Espadrilles showed horny, hooked toes. Forty thousand a year, probably, dealing with the public every day, it wouldn’t have hurt the woman to have made a bit of an effort. Eileen folded her arms on her vast and comfortable chest. ‘Bolte?’
The woman slid a pamphlet across the kitchen table. ‘Private prison. Only been open three months.’
Eileen looked to Ross for a clue. Her husband had one arm hooked over the back of the kitchen chair, the other outstretched to an ashtray on the table. He tapped off a centimetre of ash, raised the cigarette, drew on it, blew a ring to the ceiling. He wasn’t going to help her. He’d listen while the woman talked, but she was government, meaning that was all he’d do. Plus which, he’d been black and brooding since the arrest, ready to wash his hands of their son.