They rang off and Wyatt poured away the scotch he’d been drinking. He would not drink again until after the job. Already he felt calmer and more compact. He did not prefigure the job but went to bed and slept dreamlessly.
Six
This time Wyatt took the train to Melbourne. He didn’t want to be burdened with a car. If the job looked like taking a while, he’d rent himself one.
He got out at Flinders Street, walked through to the Gatehouse on Little Collins, and registered under the name Lake. The room they gave him looked out onto an airshaft, but it was comfortable. Wyatt liked the Gatehouse. It was central, cheap and old-fashioned, a hotel for bemused farmers and their families visiting Melbourne from the country. You didn’t get cops checking faces in the lobby or bars at the Gatehouse.
Now he was leaning his long frame against the window, regarding Robert Hobba with cold interest. ‘Three hundred thousand dollars?’ he said.
Hobba nodded. ‘In cash.’
‘Where?’
‘An office safe.’
Wyatt frowned. ‘Lifts, doors, cameras, security patrols, nightwatchmen… ‘
‘That’s just it,’ Hobba said. ‘It’s in a house.’
Wyatt watched him, wondering if this job was like all the others, no more than someone with an itch and a way in. At first sight, Hobba didn’t inspire confidence. He sat on the edge of the bed, narrow shoulders sloping to a bulky stomach and massive thighs. He had prominent lips in a grey, puffy face. When he was nervous he licked them.
He licked them now. ‘A converted house in South Yarra,’ he said. ‘Quiller Place. Went by it yesterday. Single storey, quiet street. A lawyer’s office. Easy’
Wyatt said nothing, deliberately putting pressure on Hobba. Then he said, ‘Tell me what a suburban law firm is doing with three hundred thou in the safe.’
Hobba wet his lips again and looked at the ceiling. ‘Let’s see if I’ve got this straight. When you want to build a shopping centre, whatever, you apply for a planning permit. If you’re out of luck, some neighbour comes along and lodges an objection. If you go through a tribunal it can take a few months. Then when you’re about to lay the foundations some other geezer objects. Your costs go up, everyone’s being fucked around, so to save hassles you buy off the objectors.’
He frowned, then looked at Wyatt and smiled in satisfaction.
‘So?’ Wyatt said.
‘So this lawyer, Finn, negotiates these things.’
‘Negotiates himself three hundred thousand dollars? That’s some fee,’ Wyatt said.
‘He only gets a percentage,’ Hobba said. ‘There’s a deal going through on Friday and he’s the banker for a few hours. We’ll only have one shot at it.’
Wyatt had not moved from the window. He leaned against the frame, arms folded now, assessing Hobba and his story. He said, ‘How come you know all this?’
It was eleven-thirty. Hobba had arrived at eleven-fifteen and already had smoked three cigarettes. After each one he took a mint from a rattling tin and tossed it into his mouth. Now he shuddered and coughed, and Wyatt, recognising a delaying tactic, said sharply: ‘Where did you hear it?’
Hobba sighed. ‘The horse’s mouth.’
‘Finn?’
‘Not him,’ Hobba said. ‘The partner. A bird called Anna Reid.’
‘Don’t like it,’ Wyatt said. Then, ‘How close are they?’
‘Not close at all. Just partners.’
Hobba wet his lips again, drew violently on his cigarette, and knocked off the ash with three dainty taps of his forefinger. He wore glasses, looked crumpled and gave an impression of incompetence, but Wyatt had worked with him before, had seen the excessive gestures disappear and the shapeless body grow still and efficient.
Wyatt continued to watch him. He waited, saying nothing. Sometimes people found him to be patient beyond reason. Finally Hobba shifted restlessly and said, ‘You know Maxie Pedersen?’
Wyatt remembered a hard, sandy man who specialised in safes when he wasn’t dealing dope on a small scale. ‘Last I heard he was doing five for blowing a TAB safe. He also deals, so no thanks.’
Hobba shook his head. ‘He’s given that away. Strictly safes now. Anyhow, he got out a year ago on parole. The Reid woman is his lawyer, Legal Aid. She told him about Finn’s safe.’
Wyatt was liking this less and less. ‘If Pedersen’s fucking her, that’s it, I’m out.’
‘Nothing like that.’
‘But she’s got him excited about three hundred thou that isn’t hers.’
Hobba shrugged. ‘All I’m saying is, according to Max she’s not pulling his dick. The money’s there.’
There was a silence. Wyatt turned on the electric kettle. He tried to go behind Hobba’s story. He wondered about the woman: maybe she was bored, kidding herself she was living on the edge, flirting with hard men and risks.
He made tea with the hotel’s tea bags, waiting for the water to turn a deep reddish-brown. He threw away the bags and handed a cup to Hobba, who sipped from it cautiously and then reached for the sugar.
Wyatt blew on the surface of his tea. ‘Let’s suppose Pedersen’s right. The woman bothers me. She’s got too much to lose. Her share of three hundred thousand dollars isn’t going to be all that much. How do we know she’s not after thrills? Maybe she’s setting us up. “Your Honour, I was helping Mr Pedersen rehabilitate himself-I had no idea he’d fallen in with thieves again”.’
Hobba was losing heart. ‘Talk to her, mate. She convinced Max Pedersen, who’s no mug, and he convinced me.’
Wyatt said, ‘She approached Pedersen because he knows safes?’
Hobba nodded. ‘She defended him on the TAB job. Anyhow, he told her he couldn’t do it alone. She doesn’t like it but she said she’d meet us.’
He looked up. ‘Remember that armoured car? Or that bank in that shopping centre? You’d spend a few days checking out car parking, front and rear access, then strike quickly when it was quiet. This job could be like that, nice and simple.’
‘I’ll check it out,’ Wyatt said.
‘I mean, me and Max need this one, Wyatt, really need it. You know how it’s been lately. No decent jobs around, no cash anymore, everything’s plastic cards or electronic transfer’
Wyatt watched him toss another mint into his mouth. Hobba was broke. He spent it, lost it, forgot it, gave it away to hangers-on and ex-wives. But he’d put his finger on the general malaise.
‘I’m not promising anything,’ Wyatt said, ‘but I want you to tell Pedersen and the woman to keep this evening free for a meeting.’
‘You going to check out Quiller Place?’
Wyatt nodded.
Hobba sighed. His jaws closed on the mint.
Seven
At two-thirty Wyatt alighted from a tram outside a strip of salons, bookshops and designer-wear showrooms on Toorak Road and walked through to Quiller Place. He wore an overcoat over a casual brown- and grey-flecked woollen suit, white shirt and plain tie. His shoes were brown. It was a suit for any purpose. He might be a professional punter, a businessman, a client keeping an appointment with his lawyer.
He had altered the contours of his face. His hair, normally fine and straw-coloured and pushed indifferently to one side, was now oil-darkened and drawn back close and gleaming against his skull. He had applied a small smudge of soot to the edge of his bony jaw. He wore steel-framed glasses with chipped lenses. The frame was crooked. It was a face of false but compelling and contradictory surfaces.
He walked once down to Quiller Place. It was one block long, ending in a T-junction at each end. There were houses along the northern side, one of them converted into the offices of Finn and the Reid woman. Opposite them were the rear entrances, courtyards and customer-parking areas of the shops on Toorak Road. That was good; the street was a backwater, meaning few potential witnesses. Then Wyatt explored one block north and one block south of Quiller Place, checking for laneway access and dead-end or one-way streets.
At five minutes to three he stopped outside number 5. It was a restored Edwardian house like those on either side of it. The stonework was soft and clean, the woodwork painted in period colours. A cobblestone driveway curved round at the front of the house and there was room for two cars at the side. A car was parked there, a pastel-green Mercedes bearing the plates FINN. The words ‘Finn and Reid, Barristers and Solicitors’ were engraved on a brass plate next to the front door. Anna Reid, Wyatt thought. He didn’t know Finn’s first name.