Wyatt said nothing. He changed the subject. What did the cops tell you about the character who tried to jump us at the bank?
They asked, did I do coke? Did I smoke the dreaded weed? His name was Ian Lovell and he was a dealer.
Stolle wouldnt have sent him into the bank, not when he intended to grab everything at the university.
Some kind of wild card?
Wyatt played back the fiasco at the bank. He remembered the pointed way in which Nurse had emptied the banks revolver into Lovell, as if something very, very personal was going on. I guess so. It doesnt matter.
Wyatt, Im sorry.
Wyatt gave a short head jerk of irritation. You didnt apologise for stuff-ups you hadnt caused. And the stuff-ups you did cause should always have good reasons behind them. He said, We have to get you out.
Again that frown, looking for his motives. I hope this isnt just so you can silence me for good.
You want to stay in here?
Dejection showed in her face. He realised that she was losing her natural colour, gaining a prison greyness. Her voice soul-sick and low, she said, Ill wither up and die in here. Its privately-run, but that doesnt mean much. Ive got friends but I cant watch my back all the time. She looked fully at him. I cant bear it, Wyatt.
Careful. Father Kennedy.
They both glanced around the room. No-one was paying them any attention. It brought back her humour. Some priest.
Wyatt looked too weather-beaten and rough around the edges to be a scholarly priest or an ambitious one or an ingrate in a wealthy diocese. The effect he had aimed at was prison visitor, a long-faced, stoop-shouldered man who probably grew vegetables and devoted his time to the kind of heartache cases that no-one else would touch. There had been priests like that around in his childhood.
Just then Wyatt became aware of a shift in the rooms atmosphere. He looked across at a table by the door. A woman was talking to the people there, an inmate and her mother, and it was clear that they resented her but could not tell her to shove off. It was a curious tableau, almost like a pimp touching base with whores.
Anna confirmed it. Oh God, not her.
Who is she?
She works here. She put the hard word on me the moment I came inside. Shes convinced I know where the money is and will want to channel some of it her way. You know, in case I want extra cigarettes, a Walkman, silk knickers, an office job instead of peeling vegies, uppers, downers, some marijuana to sprinkle in my roll-your-own tobacco.
Wyatt watched the woman. She wore a mauve suit, the jacket gathered tight at the waist, the skirt slit at the back. A filmy scarf frothed at her throat and she wore big tinted glasses with fussy, angular, gold-speckled frames. Her hair was dark, permed into a cloud around her head. Somewhere under all the frills there was a calculating heart.
What did you say to her?
I said fuck off and the result was Ive been peeling vegies ever since and some inmates tried to heavy me.
The woman looked up, saw Anna, saw the priest with her, and smiled.
Brace yourself.
Wyatt watched as the woman threaded her way among the tables. The inmates and their visitors kept their eyes lowered and stopped talking, relaxing only when it was clear the woman had someone else in her sights.
Anna, how are things with you today?
Anna said stonily, Go away.
Arent you going to introduce me?
Father Kennedy, Anna said.
The woman gushed over Wyatt. An enamelled name-plate on her lapel read Lesley Van Fleet. There was lipstick on her teeth, cracks in her make-up.
Annas settling in very well here, Father. She knows that if I can help her, I will. Anything at all, she only has to ask.
Van Fleet was watching Wyatt but it was all aimed at Anna. He could see the womans love of manipulation and imagined her house, a life surrounded by pampering luxuries paid for with inmates money.
Youre very kind, he said.
When Van Fleet drifted off to another table, he said, Theres your ticket out.
Forty-one
At eight oclock that evening, Van Fleet said immediately, Its not enough.
Wyatt regarded her calmly. Apparently she cast off the veneer when she went home at the end of the day. Her face was free of make-up, giving it a diminished, unprotected look, reinforced by the puffball slippers on her feet and a pair of pink silk pyjamas. She had been smoking when Wyatt found her. Hed picked her back door lock, proceeded noiselessly through the house with his gun out, and come upon her in an armchair reading a book. The cigarette sat unfinished in an ashtray and she picked up a sherry glass.
Nowhere near enough.
Not Get out of my house… Who do you think you are?… No, Ill never do it or Ill tell the police. He had promised her money and she had wanted it at once.
Wordlessly he counted out another five thousand dollars. The first five, crisp twenties and fifties, was neatly stacked in front of her.
I knew you werent a priest. I could tell.
Shed had a few drinks. They hadnt softened her, just increased her sourness. The money and her acceptance of it reminded her that she hated herself, but she also had a kind of sneering contempt for Wyatt and knew the cards were stacked in her favour. People like you, you make me sick.
Wyatt counted out the money a note at a time.
Think youre Bonnie and Clyde. Youre just scum. Give me one of those poor husband-killers any day.
Wyatt looked at her. Theres envy there somewhere, he thought. Shes stuck, thinks shes missed out. He took in the room: soft falls of curtain over the window, fluffy white hearthrug, a pink tinge in the wallpaper and plenty of cold, clean white paint on the skirting boards, doors and mantelpiece. Small porcelain milkmaids and shepherds were grouped on an antique sideboard. The lounge suite was new, stuffed cream leather couch and armchairs. She was listening to a syrupy FM station and reading a fat paperback called Siren Song.
Ten thousand, he said.
She sipped her sherry, staring at the second bundle of banknotes on her coffee table. Her fingernails were like talons, albino pink, and he saw her slip one between stiff, lacquered waves and scratch her scalp. The sound was audible across the room.
She looked up at him. Tell me again.
Wyatt told her.
She folded her arms. Nope. Not enough. Too much risk.
Wyatt bundled the money into one pile and put it in his pocket. He didnt look at her, didnt speak. He was in the doorway when she called out: Wait a minute.
He paused with his back to her.
Fifteen thousand, she said.
Wyatt came back into the room. He sat down, put the ten thousand dollars in front of her and said, Ten.
Make it twelve.
Wyatt had been prepared to go to fifteen. What mattered most was that she wanted the money badly enough whether it was five or fifteen. He waited a while, then counted out another two thousand dollars.
Theres your twelve.
Van Fleet drank greedily and refilled her glass. Wyatt could smell day-old perfume, cigarette smoke and sweet sherry, and hated it. He wanted to get out of there but this was just the beginning.
Van Fleet folded her arms again. Okay. Ill need three days to set it up. Well need a room, notices, the education officers permission. More than anything, the paperwork has to look right, as if I couldnt be blamed for thinking the offer looked genuine so I passed it on to the education officer.
I understand.
Call me tomorrow.
She reached across to pick up the money but he got to it first. It went into his pocket and a wail of loss and privation broke from Van Fleet. No!
Wyatt stood and looked down at her. He took the money out. Ill give you a thousand. The rest you get on the day itself.