The gum-chewing assistant in Kampworld looked meaningfully at the sun-drenched street outside, the heat shimmers and toxins in the air, the soft tar, then down at the T-shirt, shorts and thongs she was wearing, then at the balaclava, black wool. Sure this is what you want?
Im sure, Wyatt said.
She shrugged. She tucked the balaclava into a plastic bag. Nine ninety-five.
Wyatt handed her ten dollars, got five cents change. There was a guide-dogs charity tin next to the cash register but if the girl remembered him, told the cops hed put money in the tin, theyd run a check on every print on every coin. Bushwalking, he explained. Tasmania.
That seemed to explain it to the girl. Oh, Tasmania, she said, as though the word meant sleet and winds off the Antarctic. Already she was grinding her jaws again, grinning Can I help you? to a kid clutching a pair of Doc Martens.
Wyatt joined Phelps and Riding in the car. They were silent, professional men. It was Saturday morning, two days before the hit, and this was a shopping trip. Phelps drove to Toowong next, waiting in the car with Wyatt while Riding bought a balaclava in a disposals store. Then he drove to Buranda. Every second shop was a clothing discounter. The three men separated. Phelps came back with running shoes, jeans and a nylon jacket of the kind worn by athletes. Riding and Wyatt bought cheap black shoes and cheap business suits. The money would be transported in a couple of roomy pink and blue striped shopping bags. Anna Reid had supplied them with latex gloves bought from a department store pharmacy. Everything was capable of leaving a trace for the forensic experts, so everything except the money would be burnt later.
The guns were already taken care of. Riding had supplied them, a sawnoff shotgun for himself, a. 38 each for Wyatt and Phelps.
The three men spent Saturday afternoon scouting around. They started in Logan City, Wyatt pointing out the bank, the small courtyard behind it. After five minutes of exploring the adjacent streets they settled on a place to stash the first getaway car overnight on Sunday. It was a busy twenty-four hour service station at the bottom of an exit ramp on the Gold Coast freeway. It would not be noticed there and the area was too open, too well lit to attract vandals or car thieves.
Where now?
Wyatt indicated a spot in the street directory. East Brisbane.
The managers house was a Queenslander, prettified with savagely pruned flame trees and pastelly colours on the external trim. The street itself was short and narrow but a bus ran along it, there were a handful of shops at the end, and plenty of cars used it. That was useful to know. Wyatt preferred activity to a cul-de-sac where nothing happened all day except the probing sweep of eyeballs behind the neighbours curtains.
Phelps cruised past slowly a second time then took them along the side and back streets until Wyatt was satisfied that he would know if the manager, Nurse, took a wrong turn on Monday morning.
After East Brisbane they drove to the grounds of the university in St Lucia. The road curved slowly around to the right, the river on one side, tennis courts and playing fields on the other. Phelps rode the brake, avoiding speed humps, joggers and kids on roller blades. With the windows down they could hear the whok of racquets slamming tennis balls. They came to a sharp bend in the river with fewer people about and more open space. According to a sign, they were behind the residential colleges. Students cars, small Japanese sedans with roofracks and bumper stickers, were nosed into concrete barriers next to sloping lawns and hockey fields. Trees hid the colleges from view. Music pounded from a window somewhere above them. Otherwise the area was deserted.
Here? Phelps said.
It was Ridings idea. He had been a student here, fifteen years ago. At ten on Monday morning, he said, theyll be in lectures or still in bed. If were seen making the final switch, no-one will think twice about it. Theres always someone loading and unloading stuff around here.
Sure, Phelps said. What was the course again?
I did computer science.
Computer science, Phelps said, trying the words out with his tired mouth. You could be making big bucks legitimately if youd stuck to it.
I was expelled, Riding said. They caught me tapping into NASA files.
Huh, Phelps said.
Wyatt listened to them. He didnt claim to understand what made them tick. All he knew was, there were people like Riding and Phelps, who would always slip out of concentration, and there were people like himself.