Pay Dirt Read Free

if he owned a sheep station instead of a car yard. But he knew it
wouldnt do to underrate the man, for Trigg also ran the local SP,
loan-sharking and distribution rackets, and with the downturn in the economy hed
become mean and touchy. Hold out on him and hed send in Happy Whelan, his
mechanic, a mindless big thug whod break your neck as soon as look at you.

    You drink too much, Trigg said. You
want to watch it. That and the horses and fast women, Tub, youll keel over
before youre fifty. Ill never get my dough then. He poked the fat man. Joke,
Tub, for Christs sake.

    Venables looked up. All I want is a
bit more time. I dont want fucking Happy knocking on my door.

    Ray Triggs bloodless lips stretched
in a smile. Youre sounding like a cracked record, old son. He looked at his
watch. Shouldnt you get back to work? Your mates going to be pissed off. I
mean, someone could snatch the payroll.

    Never happen, Venables said,
easing his buttocks off the bar stool.

    He stood there, watching Trigg climb
down. He felt a dangerous desire to lift the little man under the arms and
deposit him on the floor. He hated Triggs staved-in face, the neat little
rabbit teeth on his lower lip, the elevator heels.

    Trigg seemed to catch his thoughts.
He looked vicious suddenly. The vans are booked in two weeks from yesterday,
am I right?

    Venables nodded. Triggs garage in
Goyder had the servicing contract for the Steelgard vans.

    Pay me a thousand then, no less,
Trigg said.

    He turned and crossed the room,
nodding at the licensee and the only other customer, a farmer sneaking a quick
beer.

    Somethings going on over the road,
the licensee said.

    Trigg paused. The licensee was
wiping glasses and looking out the window at the camp beyond the vine-covered
pub verandah.

    The farmer turned to look. So did
Trigg and Venables. They watched, fascinated. There were white cars and vans
everywhere and knots of policemen struggling with angry construction workers.

    Its a raid, Trigg said.

    As they watched, a tall figure loped
unnoticed from a corner shed, scaled the fence as if it were nothing, and
dropped this side of it. He seemed to land on the run. There was something
skilled and resolute in the way he moved.

    Venables and Trigg pushed through
the old-fashioned swing doors. The road was empty. Shouts and struggling
continued inside the camp, but the man had disappeared.

    Then they heard a car start up. It
entered the road in a controlled skid, fishtailed in the gravel, and sped past
them, the engine working hard. It was a big, dusty Ford and they had an
impression of intensity and jutting angles in the man behind the wheel.

    Trigg, seeming to swell, stamped his
little heels. Bastard. Hes taken the LTD. He shook his fist at the
receding dust cloud. Youre history, pal.

    * * * *

    FIVE

    The
keys were in the ignition of Triggs LTD so Wyatt took that rather than waste
time hot-wiring one of the rust buckets in the used-car lot. He headed north
from Belcowie, driving the big car punishingly, feeling it bounce and shudder
on the torn-up roads. He lost control at one point, spinning around in gravel
and slamming against a strainer post. It slowed him down. The side panel had
buckled, scraping the front tyre, and he limped into Terowie, a small town on
the Broken Hill road. General MacArthur had stopped there once, in 1942; that
was all Wyatt knew about the place.

    Within five minutes he had stolen
another car. He drove south this time, keeping to the main road. In Riverton he
stole a third car. The closer he got to Adelaide, the more civilised the
landscape seemed to become. The towns were closer together, the farms less
wind- and sun-blighted. But he was afraid of roadblocks. At Tarlee he headed
across to Nuriootpa and wound through the small towns, wineries and sleepy
tourist roads of the Barossa Valley. Then, hoping theyd think he was aiming
for Melbourne, he turned south-east and drove to Murray Bridge. He dumped the
third car there and caught