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and
it seemed to fart under him. He shifted again as if to demonstrate that it was
the chair, not him.

    I mean, Snyder went on, Wyatts
good value. He does the right thing by blokes like you and me. Youd have to be
a real bastard to shop him to some hired gun down from Sydney.

    All right, okay? Loman said. Youve
made your point.

    That would be a cunt act, Snyder
said.

    * * * *

    ELEVEN

    Letterman
did contract work for the Sydney Outfit now but he still looked like a cop.
There was no need for him to wear grey suits any more, but he felt wrong in
anything else. He was tall, solid and punchy-looking, an effect that was ruined
if he put on jeans or corduroys and a casual shirt. He felt he looked soft in
clothes like thatlike a suburban bank manager on a Saturday morning.

    He threaded a navy blue tie under
his collar and leaned toward the mirror to knot it. He was indifferent to the
hairs in his ears and nostrils. They were indicators of his vigour and
perpetual anger. So, somehow, was his balding skull. He remained close to the
mirror. He was in a motel room in Melbourne that might have been designed for
midgets. The mirror was too low, the bed too short, and he always had to duck
his head to get it wet in the shower stall.

    Although he felt relaxed, his face looked
tired and unimpressed. When he was working, it looked alert and unimpressed. He
was forty-six, doing what he did best, and had never felt better. The Outfit
paid him a retainer that equalled his old detective inspectors salary, plus a
flat fee for each contracted hit. There was $50,000 coming his way when he
found Wyatt and knocked him off. The Outfit wanted Wyatt bad. Wyatt had hit
them where it hurt, killing their Melbourne head and destroying their biggest
Melbourne operation.

    Not that hed be easy to find.
Letterman was approaching this as if he were still a cop. For a start, the
trail was cold. Most breaks in a case come in the first twenty-four hours, but
Wyatt had dropped out of sight six weeks ago. Apparently he was a pro, so hed
avoid his usual haunts; in fact, he was probably interstate somewhere, keeping
his head down. But hed caused so much heat, done so much damage, aroused so
much media and police attention, that the Outfit hadnt dared send Letterman to
Melbourne before now.

    Other factors were working against
him. First, Wyatt didnt want to be found, meaning hed cover his tracks, use
forged ID or alter his appearance. He wouldnt be found wandering the streets
like some old pensioner whod lost his marbles. Second, Letterman couldnt call
in favours from other cops any more. Third, the Outfit wasnt very popular here
in Melbourne. In the four days since his arrival, Letterman had been spreading
the word around, $20,000 to the one who fingers Wyatt, but so far not a
whisper. Wyatt was a Melbourne boy too, so that probably had something to do
with it.

    But the twenty thousand dollars
would work eventually. Letterman knew how it was with police workten per cent
detection, ninety per cent fluke. Hed arrested crack dealers whod traded in
the VW for a Mercedes sports, wife murderers whod given themselves up,
burglars at the scene, holdup men whod been dobbed in for the reward. Letterman
was patient. Twenty thousand was a lot of bread.

    Other things were in his favour.
Unless they were incredibly loyal in Melbourne, Wyatt wouldnt be aware that
the Outfit was after him. Hed be expecting cops, not contract hitmen. And
crims dont change their spots. Wyatt would surface sooner or later. Hed want
to pull another job. He would need money soon, and he was a big-score crim, the
kind who puts together a gang, and you cant stay out of sight when you do
that. Until then Letterman would take it step by step, like a cop. The usual
routine: where was Wyatt last seen? Who saw him last? Who are his known
associates?

    He put on his suit coat and left the
motel. The other thing about a suit is, you can hide a gun under the coat and
get at it easily, where you cant if