AMY HOLES UP IN the same place she took Mike, the half-finished skyscraper on the Esplanade. No light on the horizon. Ocean wind sailing through. She stands on the lip of the building, watching and drinking. The streets of the Strip are near on empty. No screaming squad cars. It’s just another day for a hundred thousand people.
But for Amy, there’s a strange future rolling out.
Dead Allan Watts’s duffle bag is full of money.
A lot of money.
Three hundred thousand, give or take.
Bank robbery money.
Has to be.
But it’s also disappear-and-never-come-back money.
Amy looks over the edge of the building. She grips a piece of steel scaffolding and leans out, dropping her empty beer bottle.
It takes seconds to land.
A dull pop.
She walks back through the half-built floor. There’s an enclosed area—a collection of walls in the centre, the first apartment on this level. There are still traces of Mike here: the milk crate he was sitting on, a plastic six-pack ring. Amy lies down on a paint-flecked leather couch and closes her eyes.
The workers wake her as they trundle up the steel-frame stairs outside.
Amy sits up. Bright daylight coming in through the unfinished seams of the walls.
A grizzly old bloke steps into the apartment. Hard hat and beer gut. ‘Who are you?’
‘No one,’ Amy says.
‘Fair enough. You better get out of here, though.’
Amy grabs the duffle bag and walks.
The man whistles, high-pitched.
‘What?’ she says.
‘Jesus, luv. Are you okay?’ The man is holding out a Samsonite suitcase. ‘Found this the other day.’
Amy recognises it. She grabs it, tries to smile.
‘Have a good one,’ says the bloke.
The building is finished from the ground floor down, giving the basement carpark an eerie, empty air. Without a soul in sight, Amy places Mike’s Samsonite suitcase on the bonnet of her car and rifles through. It’s the usual: clothes, toiletries, paperwork from his job. Amy pats down the lid and finds a slot. Inside the slot there’s a notebook. It’s his work diary. There’s all sorts of stuff in there.
The phone numbers of famous people.
Big figures in lists.
A meeting schedule.
Jotted notes.
Amy turns to the last page.
His last day.
Nichols met with Robert Emmery in the morning. Fantasyland bid.
Then bumped into Allan Watts afterwards.
Amy flashes back to Allan’s fading eyes. Blood pumping from a hole in his throat.
She turns the page.
A polaroid of Mike with his dick out.
Then there’s a folded piece of foolscap paper stuffed into a random page towards the back. It’s a rough handwritten ledger. All pencil. Names and dates and numbers. Big players. Legal people, judges and lawyers. Entertainment celebs. Bankers and brokers. Several names have been crossed out. She recognises three.
Wally Stewart.
Walter Pronzini.
Phillip O’Grady.
Amy recognises them because she followed Bill Webber to their houses.
The scrubland of Cedar Creek.
The outskirts of Gaven.
Pohlman Drive, Southport.
But how does Mike Nichols fit into Webber’s mess?
More to the point, how does Colleen?
And her father?
Victor isn’t on the ledger, but he’s on Bill Webber’s route.
It doesn’t matter.
It’s time to cash out, blow town, and let these people destroy each other.
Amy drives past her apartment twice, checking for cops.
She parks and walks up.
Ten minutes tops.
Amy has returned for two things: her negatives, and a photograph. Of all the images she’s taken, this is the one she keeps for herself: a faded holiday snap of Will, Angela and Amy on a beach in Cairns as children. Just three little people without a hint of regret on them. Some strange, vivid snapshot of what could have been. Amy keeps the photo in an old encyclopaedia under the coffee table. Can’t have it on display. Can’t be reminded of all that every day. And yet she can’t leave the coast without it.
On the way out, she leaves the door unlocked. The place can be raided or firebombed for all she cares. Nothing lost. Fuck the landlord.
She takes the internal stairs back down, footfall echoing around the brickwork. Along the ground-floor landing. Out into the front yard and over the hot grass to the driveway.
She’s rounding the back of her car when it happens.
‘Stop!’
A man in the middle of the street. Tracksuit pants. T-shirt. Black balaclava. A rifle pointed at her. ‘Don’t,’ he says, the moment she thinks of running. ‘Don’t move.’
Another man appears further down the street, moving out from between two parked cars. Same get-up. Except there’s something different about him, something that registers despite the adrenaline and shock.
‘Keys,’ screams the first man. ‘Where are the fucking keys?’
The other one is on her immediately, hands patting her down.
Amy’s handgun is yanked loose.
A fist yanks her shirt collar. ‘Where’s the bag?’ says the man behind her.
‘Okay, okay. It’s in the boot.’
‘Open it.’
A police siren squawks.
The man over in the street spins the gun away. ‘Argh, here we go.’
Amy fumbles with the lock.
‘Move your arse.’
The boot swings open.
The man behind her pushes her with one hand and grabs the bag with the other. ‘Go.’
The other man fires his gun, the blast echoing out over the quiet suburbs.
Brakes squeal.
Amy struggles. ‘You don’t need me. That’s everything.’
‘Go.’
The men run, taking Amy with them. The black BMW is waiting, doors open, engine running. Amy is shoved into the rear seat, followed by the duffle bag and one of the men. The other one jumps behind the wheel and peels out, momentarily collecting the side of a parked station wagon, sparks thrashing Amy’s face and shoulder through the open window.