{"product_id":"wyatt-isbn-9781616951610","title":"Wyatt","description":"Garry Disher's cool, enigmatic anti-hero Wyatt has a job--a jewel heist. The kind Wyatt likes. Nothing extravagant, nothing greedy. Stake out the international courier, one Alain Le Page, hold up the goods in transit and get away fast.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWyatt prefers to work alone, but this is Eddie Oberin's job. Eddie's very smart ex-wife Lydia has the inside information. Add Wyatt's planning genius and meticulous preparation, and what could possibly go wrong?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePlenty. And when you wrong Wyatt, you don't get to just walk away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTaut plots, brilliant writing and relentless pace; plus an unforgettable cast, including the ever-elusive Wyatt himself: these are the hallmarks of Garry Disher's Wyatt series.\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for W\u003ci\u003eyatt\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eOne of \u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e's \"101 Best Crime Novels of the Last Decade\"\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Like an Australian Bob le Flambeur, Disher’s titular robber is smooth, calm and planning a big heist.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The first U.S. appearance of this series, and it's just brilliant.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSeattle Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Once again Disher takes us back to the golden age of thrillers, a time when they were fast, taut and dependably suspenseful.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e, Starred Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A jewel heist that appears straightforward proves anything but in Australian author Disher's outstanding seventh thriller featuring Melbourne bank robber Wyatt Wareen, last seen in 1997's \u003ci\u003eThe Fallout\u003c\/i\u003e.... The spare, economical prose perfectly suits this tale of mad love and crimes gone wrong ... and should boost the reputation of Disher, winner of Australia's Ned Kelly Award, in the U.S.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, Starred Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Wyatt Wareen has been away for awhile, but he’s back in Melbourne and looking for a score.... Disher also writes the excellent Inspector Hal Challis procedurals (\u003ci\u003eChain of Evidence\u003c\/i\u003e, 2007), but a new Wyatt novel—we’ve described the series as “criminal procedurals” (\u003ci\u003eKick Back\u003c\/i\u003e, 1993)—is cause for celebration. Though the ensemble cast is sharply drawn, the heart of the story is Wyatt, a cool-headed, taciturn, unsentimental thief with a code ... Wyatt may be a man out of time, but crime fiction like this is timeless.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, Starred Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Disher’s depiction of Melbourne’s underworld is a revelation—undeniably lurid and harsh yet humming with a vibrancy that lends a soulful note to the story. In his first Wyatt thriller in 13 years, Disher, author of the Hal Challis police procedurals (\u003ci\u003eThe Dragon Man\u003c\/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003eBlood Moon\u003c\/i\u003e) excels at capturing the complexity and tension of life on the run, and his characters exude a visceral energy as they compete to survive. Highly recommended for readers who enjoy atmospheric, character-driven crime thrillers.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e, Starred Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’ve read my way across the landscape of caper novels. Somehow, though, I missed Australia, particularly Garry Disher’s series with thief Wyatt. Thankfully, that has now been remedied. Although \u003ci\u003eWyatt\u003c\/i\u003e is Disher’s seventh featuring his inscrutable hero, it was a terrific place to start.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eMilwaukee Journal-Sentinel\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The plot is solid, pacing excellent, and the characterization first-rate. Fans of Barry Eisler and Ted Bell should also appreciate Disher.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eForeWord Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“If you want an armchair trip to Australia, try this cool caper.... Readers familiar with Garry Disher's procedural series featuring Hal Challis will recognize the author's straightforward style and his ability to create an ensemble cast of three-dimensional characters with a few deft strokes.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eMystery Scene\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“If you’ve read Ripley you’ll understand...” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eJeff Park\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eFront Row\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e (BBC)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for the Hal Challis series\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This series boasts careful, realistic casework, but there’s enough darkness and ambiguity to suit John Harvey fans and a kind of which-way-is-up sense of the police force that recalls early James Ellroy. Moody, inventive, and extremely hard to put down.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Booklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eGarry Disher is one of Australia's best-known novelists. He's published over 40 books in a range of genres, including crime, children's books, and Australian history. His Hal Challis crime series is also published in the US by Soho Crime. He lives on the Mornington Peninsula, southeast of Melbourne.1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWyatt was waiting to rob a man of $75,000.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was a Friday afternoon in spring, and he was parked near\u003cbr\u003ea split-level house in Mount Eliza, forty-five minutes around the\u003cbr\u003ebay from the city. The house belonged to a harbourmaster for the\u003cbr\u003ePort of Melbourne and offered water views but was an architectural\u003cbr\u003enightmare—not that Wyatt cared, he’d always known that wealth\u003cbr\u003eand crassness went together. He was only interested in the\u003cbr\u003emoney.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo far, he was down $500, the brokerage fee he’d paid Eddie\u003cbr\u003eOberin for the harbourmaster tip. The way Eddie explained it,\u003cbr\u003ethe waterside unions were powerful, but so was this harbourmaster.\u003cbr\u003eIt was in everyone’s best interests for ships to moor, unload, load\u003cbr\u003eand depart as swiftly as possible, but some delays were\u003cbr\u003eunavoidable—a Filipino sailor breaking his neck in a fall, for\u003cbr\u003eexample; a customs raid, or a strike. And some delays were of the\u003cbr\u003eharbourmaster’s own making: three or four times a year he would\u003cbr\u003equarantine a ship.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe guy’s salary was pretty good, but he had expenses—\u003cbr\u003egambling debts, child support and the cost of running two\u003cbr\u003edwellings. An apartment near the docks, where he lived five days\u003cbr\u003ea week, and this split-level monstrosity in Mount Eliza. He’d paid\u003cbr\u003ea lot for his view of the bay, the repayments were killing him, and\u003cbr\u003eso from time to time he quarantined ships. Another term for it\u003cbr\u003ewas extortion: give me seventy-five grand, Mr Ship Owner, and\u003cbr\u003eI’ll give your ship a clean bill of health.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTime passed, Wyatt waited, and he thought about Eddie\u003cbr\u003eOberin. Eddie had been a useful gunman and wheelman—a\u003cbr\u003ecouple of credit union robberies, a payroll hit—but now he was\u003cbr\u003emostly a fence and the kind of man who hears whispers and then\u003cbr\u003esells or trades the things he hears. Five hundred bucks for a whisper\u003cbr\u003ein the right ear, thought Wyatt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJust then a Lexus nosed out of the harbourmaster’s steep\u003cbr\u003edriveway, a smooth, silvery car quite unlike the man himself, who\u003cbr\u003ewas pale, sweaty and beer-fed, with small features crammed\u003cbr\u003etogether at the centre of a large, balding head. Wyatt knew all that\u003cbr\u003efrom having shadowed him for several days, and everything said\u003cbr\u003ethe harbourmaster would be no threat. Unless he’d brought a hard\u003cbr\u003eman with him this afternoon, riding shotgun.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe hadn’t. Wyatt turned the key in the ignition of a battered\u003cbr\u003eHolden utility with ‘Pete the Painter’ logoed on both doors and\u003cbr\u003etailed the Lexus out of the street. Eddie Oberin had rented him\u003cbr\u003ethe vehicle. There really was a painter named Pete, currently\u003cbr\u003eserving two years for burglary and unable to enjoy what Wyatt\u003cbr\u003ewas enjoying: the bay waters smooth and shiny as ice, the distant\u003cbr\u003etowers of Melbourne like a dreamscape in the haze, the sun\u003cbr\u003ebeating from the windshields of the vehicles toiling around the\u003cbr\u003edips and folds of Mount Eliza, the opportunity to steal $75,000.\u003cbr\u003eSoon the harbourmaster was heading down Oliver’s Hill to\u003cbr\u003ewhere Frankston lay flat and disappointed beside the bay. Frankston\u003cbr\u003ewas testament to the notion that you couldn’t have too much\u003cbr\u003ecommerce, but it was cheap, noisy, exhausted commerce, for this\u003cbr\u003ewas an area of high unemployment and social distress. Wastedlooking\u003cbr\u003ejunkies lurked around the station, overweight shoppers\u003cbr\u003ecrowded the footpaths and sixteen-year-old mothers slopped along,\u003cbr\u003esnatching mouthfuls of cigarette smoke and urging their kids to\u003cbr\u003edrink Coke laced with downers to keep them docile. The fast-food\u003cbr\u003ejoints did a roaring trade and little girls paid too much for plastic\u003cbr\u003ejewellery in the specialty shops.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd so Wyatt was surprised when the harbourmaster turned\u003cbr\u003eoff the Nepean Highway into the shopping precinct. Perhaps he\u003cbr\u003ewanted a haircut or had run out of bread and milk, and wasn’t\u003cbr\u003ehere to collect an envelope containing $75,000.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Lexus turned and turned again, eventually pulling into\u003cbr\u003ean undercover car park beneath a cinema complex. Wyatt\u003cbr\u003econsidered his unbending first rule: always have an escape route.\u003cbr\u003eHe didn’t want to drive into the car park. He didn’t want to be\u003cbr\u003eboxed in by concrete pillars, people pushing shopping carts, delays\u003cbr\u003eat the boom gates. He parked Pete’s utility in a fifteen-minute\u003cbr\u003ezone, wiped his prints off the wheel, gear knob and door handles,\u003cbr\u003eand entered the car park on foot.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe found the Lexus in a far corner. The harbourmaster was\u003cbr\u003elocking the doors with a remote before pausing to glance around\u003cbr\u003euncertainly. He was carrying a cheap vinyl briefcase. Was this the\u003cbr\u003edrop-off point? Wyatt hung back beside a pillar, where the weak\u003cbr\u003elight from outside and from a handful of overhead fluorescents\u003cbr\u003ebarely penetrated. The air smelt of urine and trapped exhaust\u003cbr\u003efumes. There was something sticky on the underside of his shoe.\u003cbr\u003eHis hands felt grimy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe waited. Waiting was a condition of Wyatt’s life. He didn’t\u003cbr\u003efidget or get impatient but stayed composed and alert. He knew\u003cbr\u003ethat nothing might come of the waiting. He continued to watch\u003cbr\u003ethe harbourmaster, ready for a sound or a smell or a shift in the\u003cbr\u003equality of the air that meant he’d better run or fight. In particular,\u003cbr\u003ehe was watching for certain signs in the people nearby: the way a\u003cbr\u003eman carried himself if he was armed, listening to an earpiece or\u003cbr\u003estaking out the car park; the clothing that didn’t look right for the\u003cbr\u003econditions or the season but was intended to conceal.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSuddenly the harbourmaster was on the move again. Wyatt\u003cbr\u003eheld back as he tailed the man out of the car park and through\u003cbr\u003eheavy glass doors that led to the cinema foyer. The harbourmaster\u003cbr\u003eled him across the vast space and out onto the footpath. Here\u003cbr\u003eFrankston’s extremes were most apparent: the glittery new\u003cbr\u003emultiplex on one side, a strip of miserable two-dollar shops, a\u003cbr\u003ebutcher, a camera store and a chemist on the other. The\u003cbr\u003eharbourmaster crossed the road and went down into a short mall,\u003cbr\u003ewhere a busker tuned his guitar, racks of cheap dresses crowded\u003cbr\u003ethe pavement, and exhausted shoppers sat hunched over coffee at\u003cbr\u003ea few outside tables.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSoon Wyatt knew how the payment would go down. Seated\u003cbr\u003eat an otherwise empty table was a man wearing a suit, an identical\u003cbr\u003evinyl briefcase at his feet. He was young, disgusted-looking, and\u003cbr\u003eWyatt guessed that he worked for the shipping company. The suit\u003cbr\u003eknew why he was there. He watched sourly as the harbourmaster\u003cbr\u003enodded hello, put down his briefcase and pulled out an adjacent\u003cbr\u003echair. No talking: the young man drained his coffee, grabbed the\u003cbr\u003eharbourmaster’s briefcase and walked away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat’s when Wyatt moved. He was counting on swiftness and\u003cbr\u003esurprise. He wore a faded blue towelling hat, sunglasses, jeans and\u003cbr\u003ea roomy Hawaiian shirt worn over a white T-shirt. Clothing that\u003cbr\u003edistracted attention from his face. His features were attractive on\u003cbr\u003ethe rare occasions he smiled or was lifted by some emotion;\u003cbr\u003eotherwise repressive, unimpressed, as if he understood everything.\u003cbr\u003eKnowing this, he always hid his face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe slipped into the vacated chair and his slender fingers\u003cbr\u003eclamped over the harbourmaster’s wrist.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe harbourmaster recoiled. ‘Who the fuck are you?’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWyatt murmured, ‘Look at my belt.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe man did and went white.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘It’s real,’ Wyatt said, and it was. A little .32 automatic.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘What do you want?’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘You know exactly what I want,’ Wyatt said, increasing the\u003cbr\u003epressure and leaning down for the briefcase. ‘I want you to sit here\u003cbr\u003equietly for five minutes and then go home.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis voice was mild, soft, calming. That was the way he worked.\u003cbr\u003eMost situations demanded it. In most situations it was failsafe. He\u003cbr\u003edidn’t want a panic, a scuffle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe harbourmaster took in the hardness and long muscles of\u003cbr\u003eWyatt’s shoulders, arms and legs. ‘Are you from the shipping\u003cbr\u003ecompany? I’ll just detain your next ship, you stupid prick.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘I’ll be there to intercept that ransom, too,’ Wyatt said\u003cbr\u003eexpressionlessly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe harbourmaster adjusted his impression of the man who\u003cbr\u003ewas robbing him, seeing behind the dark glasses a relaxed,\u003cbr\u003eimmobile face, the face of a man who might have been sitting\u003cbr\u003ealone in a room. He swallowed and said, ‘Go your hardest, pal.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘A wise decision,’ Wyatt said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe got to his feet, mildly irritated for saying too much, playing\u003cbr\u003ethis out for too long. The little mall was thronging with the\u003cbr\u003elunchtime crowd and he began to edge into it when a voice shouted,\u003cbr\u003e‘Police! On the ground! Both of you! Now!’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere were three of them, two hyped-up young guys in suits,\u003cbr\u003eand the busker. Uniformed police were probably guarding each\u003cbr\u003eend of the mall. Wyatt ran at the detectives, windmilling with the\u003cbr\u003ebriefcase, which struck an umbrella stanchion and flew open,\u003cbr\u003etumbling a large, crammed envelope into the air. Wyatt caught it\u003cbr\u003eneatly, a small part of him wondering if in fact it held only paper\u003cbr\u003escraps, the main part telling him to escape or die.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePeople were screaming or struck dumb, seeing the detectives\u003cbr\u003ewith drawn .38s, the broken crockery and now racks of cheap\u003cbr\u003eclothing rolling along the footpath and into the street. A stonedlooking\u003cbr\u003ebikie whooped as Wyatt tipped over tables and chairs and\u003cbr\u003educked into a narrow space between racks of dresses and T-shirts\u003cbr\u003ein the adjoining shop.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was dim inside, cramped, the air percussive. Wyatt didn’t\u003cbr\u003erecognise the music. It wasn’t music. It was loud, that’s all, and\u003cbr\u003esupposed to attract customers. There were no customers, only one\u003cbr\u003eshop assistant avidly watching out of the main window and another\u003cbr\u003esnapping gum behind the cash register in the rear.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Can I help you with anything?’ she asked. She didn’t think\u003cbr\u003eshe could help the man, who was tall and prohibitive and gave off\u003cbr\u003ewaves of coiled energy, but it was her job to ask. He passed her\u003cbr\u003eunhurriedly and her jaws continued to chomp.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWyatt found himself in a short corridor, with a staff washroom\u003cbr\u003eon one side and a storeroom on the other. Peeling floor tiles, a\u003cbr\u003ebroken-wheeled clothing rack, a bin of coat hangers and a wad of\u003cbr\u003ethick plastic shopping bags, deep purple, bearing the store logo.\u003cbr\u003eHe crammed the harbourmaster’s ransom money into one of the\u003cbr\u003eshopping bags and kept going, out into the alley.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e2\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe alley was empty, but Wyatt took no comfort from that. He\u003cbr\u003edidn’t want to shoot it out with the Frankston cops, or be arrested\u003cbr\u003ecarrying the .32, so he wiped it down and tossed it up onto the\u003cbr\u003eroof of the clothing store. He heard it clatter to stillness on\u003cbr\u003ethe galvanised iron. Then he tore off the brightly coloured shirt\u003cbr\u003eand the towelling hat and crammed both into a rusty downpipe\u003cbr\u003efurther along the alley. That left the sunglasses. He wiped them\u003cbr\u003etoo, smashed the lenses under his heel and tossed them into a\u003cbr\u003edump bin. Now he no longer resembled the man who had hijacked\u003cbr\u003ethe harbourmaster’s ransom money.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut he needed to get out of Frankston. Forget about a train,\u003cbr\u003ebus or taxi. Forget about waiting around for the heat to die down,\u003cbr\u003etoo. The police would soon be at saturation strength on the streets\u003cbr\u003eand in and around the station and the bus stops.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStill carrying the harbourmaster’s cash in the purple bag,\u003cbr\u003eWyatt headed away from the warren of lanes and turned in to the\u003cbr\u003eAussie Disposals on Beach Street. He bought combat pants, purple\u003cbr\u003emirrored sunglasses, a black T-shirt, an Army forage cap and a\u003cbr\u003edaypack, reflecting that women had it easier in this game. Small\u003cbr\u003ealterations—a ribbon, a scarf, hair up or swinging free—could be\u003cbr\u003ean entire makeover. The kid who served him was incurious: she\u003cbr\u003ehad seen it all before, homeless guys who’d come into a few dollars,\u003cbr\u003estudents trying out a new image. Wyatt in his jeans and T-shirt\u003cbr\u003ewas just another guy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBundling his old clothes and the purple bag into the pack,\u003cbr\u003eWyatt thumbed the ugly sunglasses onto his nose and headed\u003cbr\u003edown side streets toward the waters of the bay, a block south-west\u003cbr\u003eof the Nepean Highway. As soon as he reached the sand he\u003cbr\u003eintended to stroll away from danger, bearing north towards the\u003cbr\u003ecity for five or ten kilometres, which would bring him to the\u003cbr\u003ebeachside suburbs of Seaford, Carrum and Chelsea. He could risk\u003cbr\u003ecatching a train or bus from there. But then, as he was crossing\u003cbr\u003ethe Nepean, he saw the service station.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was like every fuel stop on every highway: fill the tank,\u003cbr\u003echeck your tyre pressure, buy a pack of cigarettes or a stale donut,\u003cbr\u003euse the restroom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt this one you could also book your car in for an oil change\u003cbr\u003eand tune. You dropped your car off in the morning, went to work,\u003cbr\u003eand collected it that afternoon. The mechanics were busy: if all\u003cbr\u003eyou wanted was a simple service, they’d do it quickly to free up\u003cbr\u003ethe hoists for more demanding jobs. They’d park your car outside,\u003cbr\u003enext to the rental trailers and the barbecue gas. Sometimes they’d\u003cbr\u003elock your car and hang the keys on a hook in the office. If they\u003cbr\u003eknew you they might leave your car unlocked, keys in the\u003cbr\u003efootwell.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat’s what Wyatt was counting on, and it got him a wellcared-\u003cbr\u003efor Toyota Cressida. He checked behind the rear seats\u003cbr\u003ebecause he always did, and was gone before anyone noticed. As\u003cbr\u003ehe drove, Wyatt visualised the owner, a man of precise habits. A\u003cbr\u003eman like himself in fact, but older and from the other side of the\u003cbr\u003efence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWyatt kept to the Nepean Highway as far as Mentone, where\u003cbr\u003ehe took Warrigal Road and then Centre Road into Bentleigh, an\u003cbr\u003eendless tract of small brick veneer houses and modest, easily\u003cbr\u003edashed expectations. The people of these suburbs were the\u003cbr\u003ebackbone of governments that taxed them dry and sent their sons\u003cbr\u003eto die in foreign wars. Wyatt found Lithgow Street, looking for a\u003cbr\u003eparticular house. Especially the granny flat in the backyard, where\u003cbr\u003esix years ago he’d secreted a .38 Smith \u0026amp; Wesson, $5000 in cash\u003cbr\u003eand papers in the name of Tierney.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe house no longer existed. In its place was a block of flats\u003cbr\u003ein a carpet of concrete. He turned around and drove out of there,\u003cbr\u003ewondering if they’d found his stash. Maybe it was buried in a\u003cbr\u003elandfill somewhere.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe headed across the city to Footscray and another house,\u003cbr\u003eweatherboard this time. The house was still there. It hadn’t been\u003cbr\u003ealtered. The street hadn’t been altered. But the residents had.\u003cbr\u003eThere were two police cars out the front, another in the driveway,\u003cbr\u003elights flashing, and surging around them were a dozen Somali\u003cbr\u003eteenagers, abusing the cops who were arresting their friends.\u003cbr\u003eWyatt drove by.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBattling heavy traffic, he pulled into the car park at the rear\u003cbr\u003eof a Sydney Road pub, where he checked the harbourmaster’s\u003cbr\u003epay-off. He’d been partly right about the contents of the envelope.\u003cbr\u003eThere were eight tight wads of cash in it, green-toned hundreddollar\u003cbr\u003ebills showing top and bottom, so that at a glance the\u003cbr\u003eharbourmaster would have counted seven bundles of ten grand\u003cbr\u003eeach and one of five, buying the police time to move in and arrest\u003cbr\u003ehim. But between the genuine bills it was all scrap paper. So Wyatt\u003cbr\u003ewas wealthier by only $1600 and poorer by one handgun.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe gun mattered. It was an essential tool in his line of work.\u003cbr\u003eDitching the car, Wyatt caught a tram back into the city. It was\u003cbr\u003ealmost 5 p.m. He didn’t want to miss Ma.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf she was still alive.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf she was still in the game.","brand":"Soho Crime","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300973957349,"sku":"NP9781616951610","price":16.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781616951610.jpg?v=1767744627","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/wyatt-isbn-9781616951610","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}