or local councillor he couldn’t bribe or blackmail. Even so, few people knew who he was. He operated at several removes from the men and women in the public eye.
Behind the respectable face, Minto also brokered high-end robberies and heists to men like Wyatt. He might hear of a closet safe holding $100,000 in Krugerrands, or a racehorse good for a $50,000 ransom, or a $250,000 Ferrari being shipped overseas ahead of a bankruptcy seizure order. He didn’t pull these robberies himself. He proposed them to men like Wyatt. If necessary, he would advance a few thousand dollars for expenses. At the end, he took a percentage. He did not get his hands dirty.
Minto could, and would, buy and sell anything. When Wyatt had returned from France with all that was left of a sheaf of treasury bonds originally stolen from a London courier, Minto converted them into cash for him. Wyatt hadn’t the means to handle large sums of money, complicated transactions and tricky questions, but Minto did. First founding a corporation, Minto obtained a business loan with the stolen bonds as collateral, then let the corporation vanish. He pocketed a few million dollars for himself and gave Wyatt a hundred grand. Now most of that was gone, and Wyatt needed work again. If Minto had a job in mind, Wyatt was listening—just as he shouldn’t have considered listening to Stefan Vidovic and the Pepper brothers.
He alighted outside the Gold Coast Hilton, crossed the road and strolled for a while. Checked reflections in the plate glass. He had no interest in bikinis on display dummies, Pandora bracelets or glossy shots of the Maldives: he needed to know that no one had shadowed him, either on the bus or by car.
Satisfied, he crossed again and entered the Hilton by a side door. In shorts, sandals and sunglasses, he excited no interest and his walk across the lobby to the men’s room was the walk of a guest who could afford to stay there.
He changed into trousers, shirt and shoes and exited by the front door where he let a teenager loaded with gold stitching hail him a taxi. Wyatt gave the kid five dollars, settled into the back seat of the cab and said, ‘Palm Springs Golf Club.’
He didn’t expect the driver to know it. In his experience, taxi drivers knew less about the cities they served than most of the people who lived there, but Wyatt’s driver was a lumpish grey-haired woman of sixty who grunted and planted her foot before he’d fastened his seatbelt. She said nothing. The radio murmured. There were no-smoking signs on the dash, but she was a smoker, her skin seamed by years of sun and nicotine. Wyatt guessed she was a battler. She would assume he was some snotty tourist off to play golf with his rich buddies. There was therefore nothing to say, for either of them.
Presently she grunted again and he saw a set of gates, a driveway, palm trees on either side. She dropped him at the shaded main doors of the clubhouse. Other cars were pulling in, pulling out, taxis and chauffeured BMWs and Jaguars: no one took the slightest interest in Wyatt. He strolled out again, along the driveway to the main gate, where he turned left. Away from the Pacific, a broad ribbon of blue and grey in the distance.
Turning left took him along the main flank of the golf course: a palette of different greens with bright splashes of pink and yellow marking the golfers. Adult men and women who liked to chase little white balls and bounce around in toy cars.
At the far end the road branched. To the left was a nest of roundabouts and watered lawns leading to a formless mass of retail outlets besieged by vast car parks. The sun beat down on the glass; the air swam with oily intensity.
The other fork ran downhill through manicured parkland to a clutch of fifty or sixty houses inside a perimeter wall the colour of sand. Big houses, all striving for an original touch; ultimately all alike. Two storeys, off-white or grey walls, terracotta tiled roofs, swimming pools behind
Behind the respectable face, Minto also brokered high-end robberies and heists to men like Wyatt. He might hear of a closet safe holding $100,000 in Krugerrands, or a racehorse good for a $50,000 ransom, or a $250,000 Ferrari being shipped overseas ahead of a bankruptcy seizure order. He didn’t pull these robberies himself. He proposed them to men like Wyatt. If necessary, he would advance a few thousand dollars for expenses. At the end, he took a percentage. He did not get his hands dirty.
Minto could, and would, buy and sell anything. When Wyatt had returned from France with all that was left of a sheaf of treasury bonds originally stolen from a London courier, Minto converted them into cash for him. Wyatt hadn’t the means to handle large sums of money, complicated transactions and tricky questions, but Minto did. First founding a corporation, Minto obtained a business loan with the stolen bonds as collateral, then let the corporation vanish. He pocketed a few million dollars for himself and gave Wyatt a hundred grand. Now most of that was gone, and Wyatt needed work again. If Minto had a job in mind, Wyatt was listening—just as he shouldn’t have considered listening to Stefan Vidovic and the Pepper brothers.
He alighted outside the Gold Coast Hilton, crossed the road and strolled for a while. Checked reflections in the plate glass. He had no interest in bikinis on display dummies, Pandora bracelets or glossy shots of the Maldives: he needed to know that no one had shadowed him, either on the bus or by car.
Satisfied, he crossed again and entered the Hilton by a side door. In shorts, sandals and sunglasses, he excited no interest and his walk across the lobby to the men’s room was the walk of a guest who could afford to stay there.
He changed into trousers, shirt and shoes and exited by the front door where he let a teenager loaded with gold stitching hail him a taxi. Wyatt gave the kid five dollars, settled into the back seat of the cab and said, ‘Palm Springs Golf Club.’
He didn’t expect the driver to know it. In his experience, taxi drivers knew less about the cities they served than most of the people who lived there, but Wyatt’s driver was a lumpish grey-haired woman of sixty who grunted and planted her foot before he’d fastened his seatbelt. She said nothing. The radio murmured. There were no-smoking signs on the dash, but she was a smoker, her skin seamed by years of sun and nicotine. Wyatt guessed she was a battler. She would assume he was some snotty tourist off to play golf with his rich buddies. There was therefore nothing to say, for either of them.
Presently she grunted again and he saw a set of gates, a driveway, palm trees on either side. She dropped him at the shaded main doors of the clubhouse. Other cars were pulling in, pulling out, taxis and chauffeured BMWs and Jaguars: no one took the slightest interest in Wyatt. He strolled out again, along the driveway to the main gate, where he turned left. Away from the Pacific, a broad ribbon of blue and grey in the distance.
Turning left took him along the main flank of the golf course: a palette of different greens with bright splashes of pink and yellow marking the golfers. Adult men and women who liked to chase little white balls and bounce around in toy cars.
At the far end the road branched. To the left was a nest of roundabouts and watered lawns leading to a formless mass of retail outlets besieged by vast car parks. The sun beat down on the glass; the air swam with oily intensity.
The other fork ran downhill through manicured parkland to a clutch of fifty or sixty houses inside a perimeter wall the colour of sand. Big houses, all striving for an original touch; ultimately all alike. Two storeys, off-white or grey walls, terracotta tiled roofs, swimming pools behind
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