Wyatt - 04 - Cross Kill Read Online Free PDF Page A

a
bit of that. Niall chips in, pulls in the occasional quid.

    Wyatts voice was suddenly edged
with venom. Hes a storm-trooper, Ross.

    Family, mate, you know. No, I guess
you dont. Pull up a pew.

    Wyatt sat where he could watch the
street through the window.

    So, Rossiter said, when they were
settled. I suppose you know theres a contract out on you? That Sydney crowd?

    Wyatt knew Rossiter wanted to chat.
He wanted to chat because he was nervy, but also because it was what people
did. Wyatt never felt nervy and he never made small talk out of habit, but he
was prepared to make an effort when he wanted something from someone. Besides,
he was keen to know the street version of his war with the Outfit. Theyre
offering twenty, he said.

    Rossiter shook his head. Forty
thousand to the bloke that knocks you. They reckon you stuffed up their
Melbourne operations. Theyre building up again and wont feel happy till youre
off the scene.

    The price was going up. It had been
twenty thousand a few months ago. Wyatt shifted in his chair. The house, the
terribleness of the Rossiters, were starting to get him down. Hed get what he
wanted, then leave, bugger the small talk. I want to knock over the Mesics,
he said.

    * * * *

    Six

    The
thing about a Capri is, its shapely, mean through the corners and not so
expensive that youd want to know how come a cop drove one. Bax slotted his
little car into a gap between the wall and the decent family station wagon that
belonged to Coulthart, his Inspector, a man obsessed with breaking the car
rackets, and got out. He locked the Capria gift from old man Mesic before he
diedand entered the main building.

    He gave the nod to a constable on
the front desk and was buzzed through to a nervy zone of two-fingered typing,
snatched smoking and close-mouthed phone calls. His desk was in the corner.
Coulthart had left files on it, all flagged with yellow slips. The name Mesic and a question mark had been scrawled on some of the slips.

    At eleven oclock Coulthart called
him in for an update. There was a dusty African violet on the Inspectors
windowsill and coffee rings on his blotter. Coulthart closed the door behind
Bax and said, dropping his voice, I put some files on your desk.

    Bax nodded.

    Well?

    Boss, an operation like this, were
steering pretty close to the edge.

    Coulthart was a soft, untidy looking
man. He banged his right fist gently into his left palm, the closest he ever
got to passion. But not close to the Mesics.

    Baxs elegant suited shoulders
expressed regret. Nothing leads to them, boss. Thats the way it is.

    You keeping tabs on everything?
Every motor, every transmission, every outer shell? Every flaming wing mirror?

    Sure.

    And youre saying the Mesics handle
none of it? Come on, Bax.

    Bax checked that there was no gap
above the knot in his tie. Boss, I keep telling you, there dont seem to be
any big fish involved, only a lot of little fish, blokes like that panelbeater we
nailed last month. We caught him cold with a chassis off a Fairmont swiped from
Shopping Town six months ago.

    Who swiped it?

    Bax stared at Coulthart, saying
nothing. Coulthart knew the rules, hed set up this fuckwitted operation.

    Forget I asked, Coulthart said. How
do we know your man isnt selling to the Mesics on the sly? Is the paperwork
tight on this?

    Any paperwork that Coulthart needed
to know about was, so Bax said, Yes.

    These small operators, Coulthart
went on, blokes like this panelbeater. Hes not working for the Mesics?

    No, Bax said. Thats where the
trail ends, every time, with the small fish. But Ill keep digging. As for the
Mesics, they might be diddling the tax man, but thats about it. They seem
clean.

    Coulthart clearly wasnt convinced.
Meanwhile he was responsible for an off-colour operation that could bring Age Insight reporters down on him like a ton of bricks, so he asked Bax
worriedly, How many vehicles are we up to now?

    Forty.

    Coulthart looked hard at the top of
his desk. Forty, he