Bax parked, tapped the horn twice, and watched as a massive steel rolladoor cranked open at the rear of the workshop. He stood back while Axel drove in, then followed on foot, the rolladoor rattling down behind him.
He was in a space the size of a barn. Doors, motors, panels, windscreens and car compliance plates were stacked in orderly rows around the perimeter of the shed. An obstacle course of rear axles took up a quarter of the floor space; lathes, oxyacetylene cutting equipment and mechanics took up the rest. The air was smoky, oily, riven by the screaming tools and hammers. The wrecked Prelude had been delivered and already a couple of men were cutting away the damaged section. Within twenty-four hours the legitimate front half would be welded to the back half of the stolen car, giving the Mesics a Prelude worth $25 000 and untraceable parts worth several thousand dollars on top of that. Not bad for an outlay of $3750, thought Bax.
The Mesic brothers materialised from a makeshift fibro office next to a stack of bumper bars. Bax frowned. He had no wish to see Victor: he just wanted to deal with Leo. If Victor was there, it could only mean bad news. He faced the Mesics stonily as they approached him, nodding once briefly in recognition of the warning look Leo was flashing him.
Victor wasted no time. He held out his hand to Bax. ‘My brother says he gave you five thousand?’
Bax gave him the envelope. ‘Here’s your change. The deal is you give me a finder’s fee, a thousand bucks.’
The grin on Victor’s face was loaded with the little man’s cockiness and malice. ‘Maybe you should have deducted it,’ he said, pocketing the envelope.
Oh lovely, Bax thought. He said nothing.
‘Understand me, Bax. We’re winding up operations here too. You’ve pulled your last car for us.’
Bax reached out a hand. ‘Come on, Vic, give me my thousand.’
Victor Mesic stepped back daintily, as if he were dancing. ‘Uh, uh. Nope. This time you get paid when we’ve actually sold the car.’
Bax shook his head. He felt very tired. For a while then he stared at the floor, shutting out the Mesics, the sounds of tortured metal, trying to find some elusive peace at the core of himself. He didn’t know how he’d ever let himself get caught up in all this. He didn’t know how he was going to get out of it. All he did know was that time was running out and he’d have to find an unaccustomed chip of ice in his heart.
Twenty-one
‘Until now you’ve been an irritation,’ Jardine said. ‘It’s time to hit Kepler where it will hurt his pocket and his pride.’
He paused. He looked at a point beyond Wyatt’s shoulder, putting his thoughts together. Wyatt waited. It was Friday morning and they were in Jardine’s room. Jardine had considered moving out, but Wyatt said no, that would only attract attention if the Outfit got it into its head that he was behind the recent hits on its operations.
‘There’s a floating casino,’ Jardine said finally. ‘It’s how Kepler got started, it’s a good earner for him, and he’s still got a soft spot for it. It’s strictly for the high-flyers. There are plenty of legitimate games for them in Australia. If you’re some bigwig from Hong Kong, say, accustomed to staking six figures at the gambling tables, places like Jupiters and Wrest Point will lay on the air fare, accommodation, all meals, the odd bottle of Dom Perignon, etcetera, for you and the wife.’
He stopped and gulped tea from his mug. Wyatt was also drinking tea. Nothing stronger, nothing that might blur the edges of thought.
‘That’s fine,’ Jardine went on, ‘except there’s always the bloke who wants something a bit different. He wants to play in a place where no one knows his name, where he doesn’t have to dress up, where the risk is greater, the company rougher, the rules aren’t set by the Gaming Commission. That’s where the Outfit comes in.’
Wyatt waited. Jardine generally took his time with the background, but it always turned out to be important. He drank his tea and waited.
‘You’ve noticed there’s a lot of unleased office space in Sydney,’ Jardine said.
‘Melbourne too.’
‘It’s got the real estate boys worried,’ Jardine said, ‘so they offer special deals. One in particular has caught the attention of the Outfit-free rent for the first six months.’
Wyatt inclined his head imperceptibly, guessing what was coming next. ‘Ready-made premises,’ he said.
‘Right. The Outfit sets up a dummy front company to lease a suite of empty offices, generally an entire floor, gets some poor bastard who owes them something to decorate the place, hires a few girls, buys a lot of booze, puts in a few crap tables and stuff, and once a week holds the biggest game in Sydney, only no one knows about it.’
‘Cash?’
‘Too risky. They deal strictly with chips. The players buy their chips at some Outfit joint, taxis take them to the game, they go up in the elevator, and happily shut themselves away for a couple of days. There’s never more than six playing at a time, attended by three or four Outfit heavies and a couple of girls.’
‘Guns?’
‘Not allowed, though the Outfit will be carrying.’
‘Once a week?’
‘All year round. Just before the first rent payment is due, the game moves to new premises somewhere.’
Wyatt grunted absently. He didn’t care about some clever Outfit swindle. He cared only about hitting the Outfit where it hurt. ‘When’s the next game?’
Jardine smiled. ‘Starts tonight.’
The two men fell silent. They had hit the Outfit twice now, quick and hard. The floating crap game was next. The object this time was to throw a scare into the big punters so they’d never play in an Outfit game again no matter how much compensation and shut-up money the Outfit had to fork out to them. If the Outfit refused to talk to Wyatt after that, he’d just go on hitting them.
The agent who met them in the foyer of the Bellcourt Building at one o’clock was young, about twenty-eight, a slight figure overwhelmed by a dark, double-breasted suit. He wore the coat open to display his hand-painted tie, his hair was cropped short on the sides, and he carried a mobile phone. Jardine and Wyatt also wore suits. The agent took one look at the suits and decided these guys weren’t important. ‘A trade magazine?’ he said, trying to work up some enthusiasm.
‘That’s right. Ceramics Quarterly,’ Jardine said.
‘Anything from lavatory bowls to vases,’ Wyatt said.
‘We need plenty of space,’ Jardine said, ‘for desks, layout tables, computers.’
They had come to the doorman’s desk in the centre of the foyer. The doorman was half asleep over a copy of the Daily Telegraph, now and then glancing at security monitors. The agent signed the book and ushered Jardine and Wyatt across to the elevator. ‘Ceramics. Sounds interesting.’
Jardine and Wyatt got into the lift with the agent. They had nothing more to say about ceramics, but they were working, so they stayed in character, not exchanging glances, not winking. Wyatt said, ‘Is there a doorman on duty around the clock?’
‘He goes off at six. For after-hours access you need a swipe card.’
Wyatt nodded. They got off on the sixth floor. Ahead of them was a vast empty room. The air smelt of new carpet.
‘This is it,’ the agent said. He pointed to a cream-painted wall and a solid-looking door further along the corridor. ‘The floor above is empty. The one under us was rented a few weeks ago. Accountants. You won’t hear boo out of them.’
Jardine walked into the vacant suite. Wyatt followed him. They prowled around the perimeter of it, discussing partitions, lighting and airconditioning with one another in low voices. The agent wandered nearby, now and then checking his watch.
Finally Wyatt and Jardine made their way to the windows. The glass was tinted. They could see the spine of the Harbour Bridge in the distance, the glassy spires of downtown Sydney. One window opened onto a balcony. Wyatt pushed at it experimentally.
‘Here, let me show you,’ the agent said.
He unlocked the door and slid it open. There was grit and oiliness in the air outside. Wyatt and Jardine stepped out and pretended to look out over the city. They didn’t stay there long. The fifth-floor suites also had balconies and that’s all they needed to know.