Wyatt - 05 - Port Vila Blues Read Free

ear. Wyatt had paid
Jardine his fee, taken him to a doctor who didnt ask questions, and gone to
ground in Tasmania, a base where the wrong people would never find him.

    Hed assumed that Jardine had gone
back into peaceful retirement, but the Jardine hed seen in Sydney a few weeks
later was partly paralysed along one side, kilos lighter, a few IQ points
slower and duller. Jardine tended to forget things. He owed two months rent.
Pizza cartons and styrofoam coffee cups littered his pair of rooms at the
Dorset Hotel in Newtown, and it was clear that he wore the same clothing for
days at a time.

    Wyatt had hauled his old partner off
to a 24-hour clinic, fabricating a cover story to account for the wound which
still showed as a raw slice in Jardines scalp. Stroke, the doctor diagnosed.
Probably brought on by the injury. Jardine needed professional care. Was there
someone who could look after him for the next few months? A friend? Family? A
live-in nurse, if that could be afforded?

    Wyatt contacted the family in
Melbourne. For two days he let himself be tongue-lashed by them. Finally Nettie
said shed take Jardine in. Wyatt had known someone would. All hed wanted was
for them to say so. Ill pay the bills, he told them.

    Nettie had never married. Shed had
a job in the Kodak factory but lost it a year ago and didnt like her chances
of getting another. She found the Coburg house, a dump with enough room for two
adults at a monthly rent that wouldnt cripple Wyatt, and Jardine moved in with
her. All their needsmedical, domesticWyatt paid for.

    He knew it was temporary and he
looked forward to the time when he could score big and set Jardine and Nettie
up for life.

    Get that unwanted weight off his
mind, his back.

    I promise not to upset him, he
told Nettie now.

    Nettie had made her point. She
turned away from Wyatt in the hallway and opened the door to one of the front
rooms. She jerked her head: Hes out the back.

    Wyatt clasped her arm gently and
gave her a package. To keep you going, he said. Twenty-five thousand.

    Nettie didnt look at the money,
didnt count it. The money disappeared with her into the front room and Wyatts
final contact with her that morning was the sensation of her thin arm in his
fingers and a sound that might have been a muttered thanks hanging in the air
between them.

    He walked through to me back of the
house, a fibro extension with a low, buckled ceiling and dust-clogged louvred
windows. The only good thing about it was the morning sun striking it through a
fig tree in the yard outside. The air was warm, a little streaked and blurry
owing to the dust motes stirring in the angled sunlight, and smelling only
faintly of illness, privation and cut-short dreams.

    Jardine clawed a hand over the old
bakelite smoking stand next to his lumpish armchair. His mouth worked: Mate,
he said at last, smiling lopsidedly. Where did you spring from?

    The Double Bay job, remember?

    Wyatt spoke harshly. He hated to see
the weakness in Jardine. Jardine seemed to exist in a fog a lot of the time now
and he wanted to cut through it. The MP on the take, Wintergreen.

    Jardine looked across at him,
wavering, trying to draw back the spittle glistening on his lips. His left hand
rested palm up in the threadbare brown blanket in his lap. The left half of his
face was immobile. A strange, inappropriate expression formed on his face and Wyatt
realised that his old friend was frowning, trying to recall the briefing
session, the job itself. Then Jardines face cleared. A smile of great
sweetness settled on it, and his voice was clear: Got you now. No hassles?

    Wyatt shook his head. I gave your
share to Nettie.

    Jardine shook his head. Mate, I dont
know how to thank you. Me and Net

    A lashing quality entered Wyatts
voice. Forget it.

    Jardine straightened in the
armchair. His right hand fished a handkerchief from the pocket of his cardigan
and he wiped his chin defiantly. Okay, okay, suit yourself.

    Wyatt unbuckled his overnight