Letterman went into the bus station and stood in line at the ticket counter. He looked around while he waited. The linoleum floors were worn and dirty. There were scuff marks on the walls. The lockers were chipped and dented, the plastic seats spotted with cigarette burns. It was nine in the morning and the place was wall to wall human garbage and they were all eating hotdogs. Letterman pictured it: lock the doors, toss in a Molotov cocktail.
‘Where to?’
‘Vimy Ridge, aisle seat, rear of the bus.’
This seemed to upset the clerk. He stabbed at his keyboard and said, not looking at Letterman: ‘Return?’
‘Yes.’
The clerk told Letterman the cost. He handled Letterman’s money as if it were contaminated. He was a dreary specimen and Letterman wanted this job to be over, wanted to be knocking back oysters and chablis in the sun somewhere.
Letterman was first on the bus. He sat in his seat at the rear, watching the others board. If there was trouble coming, he wanted to be where he could see it. All he saw was Snyder with a paper cup of vinegary chips, a sleepy soldier, a teenager plugged into a Walkman, and half a dozen defeated-looking individuals clutching trashy newspapers and plastic bags.
The bus left at nine-thirty and ran north through farmland. Letterman looked out at the ripening crops and his bleakness grew. He hated it, hated the emptiness, the panicky sheep, the farm kids watching the bus pass with their mouths open. Then he thought he might have to tramp across country like this when he went after Wyatt. He wasn’t dressed for it. His mood grew blacker.
The bus drew into Vimy Ridge just before eleven-thirty. It was a rest stop. Everyone filed out of the bus and looked about, blinking and stretching. Letterman was travelling light, only a weekender bag on the rack above his head. He grabbed it and strode across the street and into a cafe as though he belonged to the place.
The cafe was cluttered with artifacts from the town’s colonial era but Letterman didn’t notice that. He sat where he could watch the bus. He ordered coffee, nursing it for the ten minutes the bus was parked in the street. He continued to watch as the bus passengers filed on board again and the bus departed, leaving Snyder waiting there like a clown.
After a while, Snyder began to look at his watch. He picked his nose and peered both ways along the street. Then Letterman saw an old Holden utility pull away from the kerb a few hundred metres away. It had been there when the bus came in. As Letterman watched, the utility drew alongside Snyder. The driver made no sign to Snyder, just watched him. Snyder picked up his bag and approached the utility. He opened the passenger door and leaned in, apparently to talk to the driver. Then he got in and the utility drove away.
Letterman paid at the cash register and asked about accommodation in the town. His blues had vanished. He’d found Wyatt.
TWENTY
‘Where we’re going there are no shops,’ Wyatt said. ‘If you need anything- toothpaste, work clothes, whatever-get it now.’
‘I could do with some Scotch,’ Snyder said.
Wyatt looked at him. Snyder had the red, creased face and heavy belly of a boozer. ‘Absolutely no way. I don’t care what you do afterwards, the next few days no one drinks.’
‘Suit yourself,’ Snyder said, making a face at the windscreen. Wyatt was driving painfully slowly through the town. So was everyone else, but that didn’t make it any better to Snyder. ‘Where we going, anyway?’
‘Abandoned farmhouse about half an hour away. We stay there till the job’s over.’
‘The whole time?’
Wyatt caught a hint of alarm in the voice. He hoped it didn’t mean that Snyder got the shakes if he was away from the bottle for too long. ‘Ideally, yes. I’ll say it again, if you need anything, get it now.’
‘Well, I mean, what’s this place like? We got beds? Bathroom? Is the power on?’
‘That’s all taken care of. Army cots, sleeping bags, towels, food, gas stove and lanterns…’
‘Who paid for it?’
‘I did.’
‘You’re taking it out of my cut, right?’
‘No.’
‘Mr Generosity,’ Snyder said. He opened the aluminium case. Wyatt had no idea what a jammer looked like, but the radio itself looked impressive. ‘All modes,’ Snyder went on, ‘plus band scanning. I want you to know I paid top dollar for this stuff.’
‘You’ll be reimbursed.’
‘Someone bankrolling this?’
‘I am,’ Wyatt said.
‘From that Melbourne job, right?’
Wyatt stiffened. Loman should have warned him about Snyder. He let it go. There was an agricultural supply place ahead and he slowed the dusty Holden, allowing a farmer to cross the road. The farmer was carrying a small drum of chemical spray in each hand. The drums were heavy, the man bowed down, taking short, laboured steps. He wore khaki work clothes and rubber boots.
‘Do you reckon it’s true what they say?’
Wyatt had been with Snyder for five minutes and it was five minutes too long. Snyder talked too much, all of it inconsequential. But he made an effort. ‘What do they say?’
‘It’s easier to fuck sheep if you’re wearing rubber boots. You just shove the back legs in so they can’t get away.’
Wyatt stopped, let the farmer get across, and moved on again. He didn’t speak. He saw no reason to speak. He was waiting for Snyder to get his mind around the job.
They reached the edge of the town and Wyatt increased speed. They travelled north for several kilometres and then turned onto a major dirt road. Snyder was sitting forward in his seat. He seemed to be taking a close note of where they were going. ‘There are maps at the hideout,’ Wyatt said.
Snyder sat back. After a while he said, ‘Eddie Loman didn’t tell me much.’
‘I didn’t tell Eddie much.’
Snyder waited. When it was clear that Wyatt wouldn’t go on, he said, ‘Eddie told me I’d need plastic explosive and radio jamming gear. If I wasn’t in the fucking outback, I’d say we were going to do a security van.’
‘We are.’
Snyder turned to him. ‘Out here?’
‘The firm’s called Steelgard,’ Wyatt said. ‘It’s a small outfit servicing the local banks, but there’s a big construction firm on their books at the moment.’
‘Weekly payroll?’
Wyatt nodded.
‘Where do we hit?’
‘I’m taking you there now.’
Snyder frowned, looking out at the crops and roadside mailboxes. Here and there cypress trees lined farmhouse driveways like green slashes on the dusty landscape. ‘I don’t like it. It takes too long to cut your way in these days.’
Wyatt explained about the breakdown truck. ‘You set your jammer on, we transport the van to the farm, find a way in at our leisure. No panic, no messing about.’
‘You can’t be serious,’ Snyder said. ‘The cops will get on the blower and there’ll be roadblocks between here and Timbuktu before you know it. I say we go in hard and fast, blow a big hole in it, fuck off straight away.’
It was always like this on a job, Wyatt thought. The soldiers always wanted to be the generals. He said, quietly, coldly, ‘You do it my way or not at all. If you want out, tell me now so I can take you back to the bus stop. I’ll send you a retainer in a few days time, five thousand dollars. But if I hear you’ve been sounding your mouth off about me or the job, I’ll cancel your ticket.’
‘Well, Jesus,’ Snyder protested. ‘I just thought I was making a valid point. You’re telling me we all front up to the roadblocks and hope to Christ the cops don’t ask to look in the glovebox? Jesus Christ.’
‘We stay inside the area,’ Wyatt said. ‘After two or three days they’ll think we got away at the start and the roadblocks will come down. It’s always the same.’
Snyder put his hand on the dashboard as the utility pitched and shuddered over a patch of corrugations in the road. Dust roiled around them, coming through the door seals in choking puffs. ‘How will we know when it’s safe to leave?’