The Heat Read Free

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.