Pay Dirt

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The work was dirty, the little town a joke, but Wyatt was interested only in the advantages-they didn’t know who he was, there were no cops, and no one was expecting a payroll snatch.

He was up to his elbows in grease when the money arrived. The Steelgard security van appeared at the cemetery corner in a cloud of dust, crept past the bowling green clubhouse, and slowed for the gate in the temporary fence that separated the construction camp from the town. He watched the van lurch through the gate into the camp and stop outside Brava Construction’s site office, fifty metres from where he was getting his hands dirty. He checked the time: midday. He saw two men get out. They began to haul cash-boxes into the site office. When one of them glanced in his direction, Wyatt bent over his work again and got some more dirt on himself.

He was in the Brava Construction repair shop, servicing gearboxes. On previous Thursdays he’d been with the crews laying pipes across the wheat flats north of the town, but this time he’d paid one of the Chileans fifty bucks to swap with him and now he was up to his elbows in grease, watching the money arrive.

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