The Heat (2 page)

Wyatt and Vidovic slipped onto the property where the shadows were deepest, then around the edge of a cyclone fence that divided the motel from a block of flats. The lighting was dim, barely illuminating the sea mist. Water dripped. Droplets fell onto Wyatt's sleeves from a couple of miserable shrubs.

Unit 18, a white Camry parked nose-up to it. Wyatt paced around the rear half of the car and, sure enough, there was a rental-company sticker on the window.

He stared at the unit, unwilling to go in. The situation had been dodgy from the start. Still, maybe the Pepper brothers had had the sense to use false names?

Vidovic, reading Wyatt's mind, said, ‘Mate, they know what they're doing.' He walked up to the door and knocked.

So Wyatt slid his hand into his jacket pocket, where his little .32 was almost warm from the heat of his body. Comforting. He stood back in the shadows, seeking more comfort. Instinct. Wyatt might have called it good sense if he'd been pressed to explain himself.

He watched Vidovic. Watched the door open and spill light. Watched Vidovic turn and gesture to him:
It's okay pal, come in.

Vidovic and Wyatt were cut from the same slab—tall, angular, wary—but there was a hint of desperation in Vidovic these days. The Pepper brothers were formed from softer stuff. Barely thirty, with earrings and designer stubble framing pink, inexperienced faces. Sharp suits over open-necked shirts. Young masters of the universe.

Jack Pepper stood in the centre of the room, his younger brother sprawled on the bed. They were consultants when they weren't staging holdups, Vidovic had said on the way down from the hills. He shrugged and grimaced when Wyatt asked consultants in what?

There were no handshakes. Each brother offered a languid wave, then Jack Pepper poured four glasses of scotch—pouring for Wyatt even as Wyatt said no. The man was hyper, the little eyes in his round face shooting sparks of glee.

‘Cheers,' he toasted Wyatt. ‘You come recommended.'

Wyatt's face didn't move.

‘By Stefan here,' Pepper continued, indicating Vidovic, as if Wyatt were a little slow.

Wyatt nodded. He assessed the room: queen-size bed, cabinets on either side of the headboard, a bench with a massive TV on it. Tiny table and two chairs, ensuite bathroom. Apart from a blotch of art on the wall above the bed, that was it. He took one of the chairs, positioned it between the door and the only window, and sat. Facing trouble, backing onto an escape route. Either way. He waited, still and silent.

A snort from the man stretched out on the bed. ‘Get this guy.' Leon Pepper was fatter in the face than his brother, and not immediately the clever one.

‘We're one short,' Wyatt said.

Jack Pepper looked at his watch.

‘Yeah, well, Syed's a bit time-challenged sometimes, right, Lee?'

Leon sniggered. He wriggled until his back was propped against the bedhead, his meaty thighs distorting the fine wool that enclosed them. His shoes had left streaks on the bedspread.

‘Syed?' Wyatt said.

‘Syed Ijaz,' Jack Pepper said. ‘Knows cars and that. How to pinch them, how to drive them.'

And how to take a taxi to a planning session: Wyatt heard the rumble of tyres outside the window, a door slamming. He peered through the glass in time to see the taxi back away from number eighteen, the driver turning on his for-hire light.

A skinhead shuffled past the Avis Camry. Wyatt went immediately to the door and jerked it open before the man named Ijaz could knock.

‘Get in here.'

‘Who the fuck are you?'

Wyatt ran his gaze over the blighted parking lot, the street at the other end, the misty cars passing in the night. A dim, dank, peaceful, hopeless evening. He shut the door and returned to his chair. Watched the newcomer bump fists with the Pepper brothers. Noted the slight amplification of his movements. Ijaz nodded a wary hello to Stefan Vidovic, who eyed Wyatt nervously. Knowing Wyatt.

Jack Pepper said, ‘Wyatt, meet Syed.'

Wyatt said, ‘Where did you hail the taxi?'

Ijaz blinked rapidly. ‘Hail it? I didn't hail it. Phoned for it.'

‘Tell me you used a payphone.'

A smirk. ‘Do they even exist anymore? Mum's phone.'

Wyatt closed and opened his eyes. ‘How did you pay for it?'

‘Cash.'

That was something. ‘The taxi came to your mother's door?'

Ijaz shook his head. ‘End of the street, it's like a cul-de-sac where we live, easier if you tell them to pick you up on the corner. So.' He rubbed his hands together. ‘Where we at?'

‘Just started,' said the brother on the bed genially.

‘Like, guys, I really need this,' Ijaz said.

For Wyatt's benefit, Leon Pepper explained, a smile in his voice, ‘Old Syed owes a bit of money.'

‘Ten grand.' Ijaz grinned. ‘Crime compensation.'

He was about nineteen, dark, underfed, his nostrils raw and his skin crawling. He couldn't keep still. He was having the time of his life, which would be short.

Wyatt lifted his chin at Vidovic. ‘Coming?'

Vidovic nodded wearily. He knew as well as Wyatt this was over. Too many mistakes. Fucked from the start. He joined Wyatt at the door.

‘What the hell? Come on, guys,' said Jack Pepper in disgust.

Wyatt didn't bother to spell it out: the motel, the hire car, the taxi. The idiot speed freak who'd arrived in it. He said, ‘Tell me this: what armoured car, and what route?'

Jack Pepper was encouraged that Wyatt had asked. He gestured at the world a short distance from the motel. ‘A SecureCor van, and it runs past here two mornings a week, collecting the Monday-to-Thursday takings on Friday mornings and the weekend takings on Monday mornings. Every supermarket between Sandringham and Chelsea.' He waited for surprise or greed or at least a flicker of interest.

All he got from the hard man leaving the room was, ‘Moron.'

2

Wyatt led Vidovic the long way back to the car. He paused in the shadows to observe street, pedestrians and the vehicle itself, before emerging into the artificial light and climbing behind the wheel.

Vidovic saying over and over, ‘Sorry, bud,' and ‘Thought they'd be more professional,'
and ‘At least we got out before anything went pear-shaped.'

Wyatt thought it already had gone pear-shaped. He didn't say so. His eyes were on the headlights in the mirrors. Beside him Vidovic glanced alertly at the buildings on either side of the Nepean Highway, and Wyatt wondered if he was looking for the armoured-car pickups. Did he need to explain? Surely Vidovic knew why he'd pulled the pin?

Still, he said, ‘Armoured car gets hit, what's the first thing the cops are going to do?'

‘I know, I know. Check accommodation records in the area,' Vidovic said bitterly. ‘CCTV, car hire records, taxis…'

There was nothing more to say, so Wyatt said nothing. For all he knew, the Pepper brothers' plan was foolproof: the junkie wouldn't let them down, the heist would run smoothly. He wasn't about to take that risk. A regrettable mark of desperation, agreeing to the meeting. Certainly Vidovic had been desperate.

Still was.

Wyatt threaded some steel into his voice. ‘Hope you're not thinking of going back there, Stefan.'

‘Oh, I won't.'

The tone was too light. Wyatt shrugged. It was Stefan's funeral.

The car was stolen. Plates too, from a different car. Wyatt drove around until he was sure there was no tail then headed for the centre of the city. Dropped the car in Queen Street. No need to wipe it: he hadn't removed his gloves.

They nodded goodbye. Vidovic crossed Flinders Street and disappeared into the station. Wyatt walked to his room in the kind of Spencer Street boarding house where questions were rarely asked and never answered.

Stretched out on his back, looking up at the fly-spotted ceiling, Wyatt thought over the risks involved when you worked with others.

Youth. Young men took risks, even if they were clean. They were impatient; they thought they were invincible. Thought they knew how to run a heist better than some old dude like Wyatt. They were always starring in some movie, it seemed to him—or a music clip. Guns, fast cars, cocaine and half-naked women. They'd turn up in their Armani knock-offs as if there were paparazzi waiting. Sad, silly, under-educated boys with long youth records. Considered themselves too smart for research or detailed planning. Send them to rob a place and they'd grab everything: couldn't tell the difference between a Rolex and a thirty-dollar Swatch. Use them in a bank hold-up and they'd go postal—scream, punch, kick, fire off their shotguns—so the tellers would freeze, the customers would panic and the guards would take stupid risks. And if the job
did
come off they'd brag in public or give stolen valuables to their junkie girlfriends, who'd head straight for a pawnshop and smile for the CCTV mounted on the wall.

So: steer clear of young men.

Steer clear of addicts, too. If that native confidence or high energy was chemically induced your driver, lookout or safecracker was nothing but a liability. Usually incapable of weighing consequences or keeping his head. Wyatt thought he'd become skilled at identifying users, but some addicts knew how to hide it.

Of course drugs were not the only addiction; with Vidovic it was gambling.

What Wyatt needed was a solo job.

He wandered across to the station on Spencer Street and eventually found a payphone. When David Minto answered, Wyatt said his name was Warner and he was after a property.

Minto didn't hesitate. ‘A big property, Mr Warner?'

Meaning a big score. Bank, payroll van…Involving a crew and start-up costs. Careful planning over days or even weeks.

‘Not necessarily,' Wyatt said.

‘All right. But big enough for you and the family?'

‘Just me.'

‘I understand.'

‘Not too hefty a deposit,' Wyatt said.

Meaning an easy job and a modest take; minimal expenses. Minto might think he was desperate but that was irrelevant. Wyatt was never desperate.

He was broke, though.

‘I quite understand,' said the smooth voice. It sounded like it was coming from a big house in a gated community on the Gold Coast. As indeed it was. Minto said, ‘I do have some auction opportunities that might interest you.'

Meaning homes or businesses he
thought
would be worth robbing but, until he had better intel, he couldn't say what the take would be.

‘Perhaps I could fly up and have a look?' said Wyatt.

The broker wasn't finished. ‘I was hoping you'd call, in fact. A property just came in,' he said. ‘Buy-it-now price of a hundred thousand would put your name on the dotted line.'

Minto was offering him a fee? To do what?

‘I could be interested.'

‘This one's pretty as a picture,' Minto said.

A hundred grand to steal a painting. Okay. Wyatt had stolen paintings before.

‘The property will be available for inspection three weeks from now,' Minto said.

Wyatt had worked the Gold Coast in recent years. Cairns and Brisbane too. There was a chance his face was recorded on a tape or a hard drive somewhere. Or had been remembered by someone. Or would be recalled if seen again. So going in with a new face made sense. What made even more sense was giving himself a new face now, while he was still in Melbourne. He hadn't felt eyes on his back since leaving the Highett motel, but there was a chance the Pepper brothers were under surveillance. If so there'd be a note of the meeting, his and Vidovic's photographs circulated. In which case you wouldn't bet the house on a turned-up collar.

So—broad gestures first. In the morning he ran the number three clippers over his head. He looked gaunt now, like a monk. Then he made for a department-store bargain basement. Bought two baseball caps and two jackets, changed into one set and took a lift to the top floor, where he walked around. Then he took the corner stairs to each of the lower levels, having a wander for the cameras. Went to the men's room, changed into the second cap and the bulkier jacket. Walked out of the store a different and slightly bigger man. He altered his gait a little, too, channelling a construction worker with an old injury. He didn't return to the boarding house. He rode trams, trains and taxis for a couple of hours until he felt safe, then checked into a Sydney Road motel.

Next he set about acquiring a new identity. In the old days he'd scoured graveyards for the names of boys who'd be about his age if they'd lived. The authorities had acquired decent systems since then and were now able to check birth and death dates against applications for passports and other ID. These days Wyatt used a Flinders Lane jeweller who sold cheap rings from the front of her shop and names from out the back. Wyatt bought the name John Sandford and set about applying for a birth certificate, Medicare card, drivers licence, bank account and credit cards. The real Sandford was incarcerated in a long-term residential-care institution. Unlikely to die any time soon but equally unlikely to apply for the kinds of plastic that proved he existed.

Meanwhile, a different face. The haircut and the puffed-up jacket had been temporary measures while he found his new bolthole. He needed a more subtle new face for his passport and drivers licence, and for that you needed a pro kit: mixing dish, hand mirror, scissors, cotton swabs, tweezers, spirit gum. Makeup and brushes.

Freshly showered and shaved, he went to work. Using a six-millimetre sable brush, he applied foundation that suggested gauntness of the cheeks while emphasising the underlying bones. A dark brown pencil intensified the shadow beneath his lower lip;
a fine brush, applying a light colour to his eyebrow and temples, suggested grey streaks and a hint of middle-aged tiredness and experience. An educated man, perhaps. Faintly startled, essentially harmless.

Armed with ID photos, he started on the paperwork. Each document made the next easier to obtain; none would be approved if he couldn't supply a bona fide street address. A post office box was no good. Wyatt gave the motel's street address. The manager didn't mind his premises being a mail drop; minded even less when Wyatt slipped him
$100. The bureaucrats didn't insist on a landline number, fortunately. They'd be happy with the number of the prepaid mobile Wyatt had purchased from an arcade kiosk.