Kick Back w-1

by Garry Disher

  Hobba drove with one hand and fished a mint from the tin in his pocket with the other. ‘Will do,’ he said around the mint. He had paled a little.

  Wyatt sat back and closed his eyes. There was nothing more to be said. He was no good at small talk, though he knew how much other people depended on it. Small talk saw them through tension and assured them that they had a place in the scheme of things. But Wyatt wasn’t in the mood for Hobba’s observations about life and fate and God, and he knew that his closed eyes would dissuade the fat man from making any.

  He thought about Pedersen and his habit and the Finn job. Wyatt liked to think that he never tempted fate. If a job didn’t look safe, he wouldn’t do it. But he wondered how true that was. Wasn’t he in fact addicted to a certain type of risk?

  Then he thought about Anna Reid. It was unlike him to be distracted by a woman before a job, or to let himself get in a position where he was distracted. He realised that he enjoyed working with her. She had a role to play in this job, sure, but it was more than that. He wanted to please her, and he found himself thinking about the time after the job.

  Hobba coughed. ‘Wyatt? We’re here.’

  Wyatt opened his eyes. The van was travelling adjacent to a block on Elizabeth Street devoted to cheap car-rental firms. Hobba swung into the kerb.

  ‘You know what to do?’ Wyatt said.

  Hobba nodded. ‘Take over from you at three-thirty.’

  Wyatt got out and crossed the road to Economy Rentals. He heard Hobba put the van in gear and pull out into the traffic again. He pushed open the door of Economy Rentals and went inside. He looked at his watch. Midday. In half an hour he would be taking over from Pedersen.

  Twenty minutes later he was turning into Quiller Place in a brown Falcon sedan.

  ****

  Twenty-Five

  Wyatt stopped at a customer carpark behind the shops that fronted onto Toorak Road, backed in, switched off the engine and opened a newspaper. He looked like a man waiting for his wife.

  At first, Quiller Place seemed to be dead, but bit by bit Wyatt gained an impression of the daily rhythms of the little street. A postwoman came by soon after he started his watch. She wore a slicker, though it was not raining, and pushed her cart with an air of contempt for the street, the postcode. As soon as she had gone, all the elderly people in the houses on either side of Finn’s office came out to check their mail boxes. They greeted one another, or stopped to talk. One disappointed woman looked twice in her box, stepped out to watch the postie’s departing back, looked sourly up and down Quiller Place. An old man in a walking frame crossed to the shops. Five minutes later, a home-care nurse ran out, looking around wildly for him.

  Between twelve-thirty and one, sales assistants and managers straggled into Quiller Place from the Toorak Road shops. They sat in their cars to eat sandwiches or drove somewhere for lunch. Most were back by two.

  Then came a wave of afternoon shoppers. Wyatt watched them above his newspaper, young mothers mostly, creeping down Quiller Place in glossy Range Rovers, Volvos and Mercedes wagons with ski racks. They parked in the street or the customer parking areas and locked their cars, braced for the chilly wind in Italian leather coats or bright ski parkas and high boots and gloves. They were away for long periods, and emerged from the lanes leading to Toorak Road laden with parcels. One or two with small children met lovers, mummy’s friend.

  Five people visited Finn’s office. Wyatt tried and failed to guess whose clients they were. They were well-dressed-two yuppies and three smart, middle-aged women-and if they were distressed or in trouble you’d never know it from looking at them. He checked his watch each time: five minutes to the hour, five minutes to the half hour.

  Did Anna Reid inspire trust in her clients? Suddenly Wyatt wanted to see and touch her. The feeling came so hard and strong that he realised he had been suppressing it. He remembered how it had been last night, her swinging hair and her long throat and the smell of her skin. Within minutes of his arrival she had been wearing nothing under her skirt and was hoisting herself onto the kitchen bench to let him nuzzle her while she held him there in the clamp of her gleaming legs, her back arched. It had been rich and humid and now Wyatt wanted her again. He tried concentrating, willing her to appear. But she did not, and he felt foolish.

  Ten past three. No one paid Wyatt or his shabby car any attention. The people here were too self-absorbed for that. But he knew they were not so self-absorbed as to overlook a car that never moved, or a man who never shopped or picked up his wife or finished reading his newspaper. That’s why the three shifts each day, the three different vehicles.

  At three-fifteen a police car turned in at the top end of Quiller Place. Two young constables, a man and a woman, examined both sides of the street. Wyatt started the Falcon, drove forward at an awkward angle, and, looking behind him, his arm stretched out along the seat, backed up as if to correct the angle.

  He did this three times while the patrol car cruised along and out of the street. Nothing unusual-just someone who has muffed his parking.

  Wyatt thought about it. A cop car on a side street in the middle of the afternoon? A regular beat? Just in case, he got out of the Falcon and stood out of sight near the ornamental shrubbery behind a bookshop. He would wait for Hobba there. If the cops came back, he would abandon the car and slip through to Toorak Road.

  Fifteen minutes went by. At three-thirty Finn came out of his office, crossed Quiller Place, and went into the rear entrance of the cafe. His coffee break. Wyatt wrote down the time. The cops would have been back by now, surely.

  When Hobba appeared, passing slowly down the street in the Econovan, Wyatt put away his notebook and got into the Falcon. He didn’t acknowledge Hobba but drove out of the street. He was hungry and thirsty and cold and the day wasn’t over yet.

  ****

  Twenty-Six

  If Ivan wants to drop his bundle, Sugarfoot thought, that’s his problem. No way am I going to just act as if nothing’s happened.

  Once planted, the resolution grew. He could see three clear reasons for going on the offensive. One, settle his personal scores with Wyatt and Hobba. Two, recover Ken Sala’s take so they wouldn’t be out of pocket. Three, hijack Wyatt’s job and make some real money for a change.

  But Ivan had him airing mouldy carpets and collecting small debts all day on Wednesday, so by the time he got to the saloon bar of the Kings Head and put out some feelers, the only thing available was an old.25 pistol with a silencer.

  Even at home he couldn’t get any peace. Rolfe was in the kitchen mixing dried fruit and nuts for a bushwalk next weekend, and Tina was going on about how men never put the seat down afterwards, they always splashed and dribbled, and she for one felt revolted and in future someone else could clean the loo.

  So Sugarfoot shut himself in his room, did a line of coke and turned on the box. He watched the Channel 2 news because (a) there were no ads, and (b) he liked the way Edwin Maher did the weather.

  At seven-thirty he went downstairs. Tina was doing the washing-up. He wanted to say it wouldn’t hurt her to include him in the evening meal sometimes, but remembered it would be lentils, so he said what he’d come down to say: ‘Tina, are you going out tonight?’

  She didn’t turn around. ‘Why?’

  ‘Can I ask a favour?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Can I borrow your Kombi?’

  This time she turned around. ‘What’s wrong with your car?’

  Well they fucking know my car and I don’t want to get ambushed again. ‘Nothing,’ Sugarfoot said. ‘I told this mate of mine I’d help him shift some furniture.’

  ‘You’ve got a mate?’

  He said bitterly, ‘Forget it,’ and turned to leave.

  ‘Come back, Sugar. I didn’t mean it.’ Her face was red, half remorseful. ‘When do you need it?’

  ‘Later tonight.’

  She began shrugging and showing indifference-a typical woman thing, Sugarfoot thought. F
inally she said, ‘I suppose it’s all right.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Couldn’t be a simple matter, though. Couldn’t just hand over the keys. He had to wait while she said, ‘Be careful with it. Plus if you could put some petrol in.’

  Fucking do me a favour sometime. Sugarfoot took the keys from her outstretched hand. Then she seemed to notice him for the first time. ‘There’s something different about you. Have you had a haircut?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  He turned around and left the room. Upstairs he watched a video. At nine o’clock he stuck the silenced.25 in his belt, put on his long coat, went downstairs, and started Tina’s Kombi.

  By nine-thirty he was outside Hobba’s scungy Housing Commission flat on Racecourse Road. He had no clear plan, intending only to rely on surprise. He went up to the eighth floor, knocked, got no answer, and came down again. He didn’t want to miss Hobba, but he was also nervous that the ethnic kids might decide to firebomb Tina’s van.

  Plus there was a lot of action going on. Police and ambulances up and down Racecourse Road, shouts in the darkness, hoons laying rubber in their panel vans, the police helicopter poking about with a searchlight.

  Animals staggering home from the pub, pissing and chucking in the lifts and stairwells.

  When Hobba hadn’t shown by midnight, Sugarfoot thought, maybe the bastards are all at Pedersen’s. Ten minutes later he was negotiating the tidy garden beds and gravel paths around Pedersen’s neat weatherboard house. He got in through the porch at the rear and made his way-flat against the wall, both hands on the.25, barrel next to his ear- through every room in the house.

  Pedersen wasn’t home either.

  He sat on a vinyl couch and thought about that.

  They’ve done the job and Pedersen is out celebrating. He comes in late and tired. He’s just going to turn on the light when a voice comes out of the darkness: ‘Been out, have we? About that job you pulled… ‘

  Pedersen paralysed, mouth open, a sitting target.

  By 2 am Sugarfoot was thinking, bastard, he’s probably in Bali, getting his dick massaged on Kuta Beach.

  He left, using the front door this time.

  And felt his foot kick against something on the welcome mat. He crouched down to look. Just shows you, never jump to hasty conclusions. Two copies of the Herald-Sun, yesterday’s and today’s. Pedersen hasn’t been home at all. Nor has Hobba. They’ve gone to ground somewhere.

  The trouble with being a loner is, you can’t have guys watching until someone, somewhere, shows himself. Sugarfoot drove the Kombi back to Collingwood, feeling tired and depressed. Another big day tomorrow.

  ****

  Twenty-seven

  On Thursday morning, Hobba took the eight-thirty to twelve-thirty shift, Pedersen went out to buy the two-way radios, and Wyatt picked up the transfers. They were fancy transfers, the bogus company name in futuristic black lettering. He was applying them to the sides and back of the van, smoothing out the wrinkles and air pockets, when Pedersen returned with the radios.

  ‘We’ll test,’ Wyatt said.

  He closed the steel garage door on Pedersen and walked up to the street level. He let a taxi pass, then pressed the transmit button. ‘How’s that?’

  Pedersen’s voice erupted, sharp and distorted: ‘Loud and clear’

  ‘Okay.’

  In the lock-up again, Wyatt helped Pedersen remove their prints from the van. From now on they would wear gloves. The van’s papers were untraceable, but both Pedersen and Hobba had served time, so their prints were on record.

  They worked in silence. It didn’t seem to suit Pedersen. Wyatt could feel the sideways looks. Eventually Pedersen said, ‘Know the first thing I’m going to do with my cut?’

  Wyatt felt no curiosity about Pedersen. He was interested only in how solid Pedersen was. But he said, keeping it light, knowing Pedersen wouldn’t matter after tomorrow, ‘New wardrobe?’

  Pedersen scowled, brushing his hands on his japara. ‘Four-wheel-drive, something with a bit of style, like a Range Rover.’

  ‘Then you’ll need a different hat,’ Wyatt said. ‘Nice Akubra with a broad brim. Plus moleskins and riding boots.’

  ‘What am I, a fucking mountain cattleman?’ Pedersen waved his John Deere cap and might have stepped out of a film about a small town in Texas. ‘What about you?’ he said.

  This was meaningless small talk and Wyatt hated it. He could never think of things to say or reasons to say them. ‘This and that,’ he said.

  Pedersen’s face tightened. He stared at Wyatt. ‘You’re a close bastard, good at all this-’ he gestured at the van, the job ahead of them ‘-but a cunt to work with. Try unwinding. A bloke likes to know who he’s working with.’

  Wyatt spoke quietly, the words flat and cold. ‘Let me down and I’ll kill you. You’d do the same to me. That’s all we need to know about each other.’

  Pedersen watched Wyatt, nodding knowingly. It was a way of saying that Wyatt didn’t have all the answers.

  Wyatt swung into the van’s driver’s seat. ‘We’ve got work to do.’

  Pedersen locked the garage door behind them and got into the passenger seat, sitting close to the door. He didn’t speak. He opened the street directory and began noting alternative routes between Finn’s office and the safe house.

  Wyatt said, ‘If possible, avoid major intersections, right-hand turns, pedestrian crossings, road works.’

  Pedersen did not look up. ‘I done this before.’

  ‘Make a note of times: for each leg, duration of traffic lights, anything.’

  Pedersen pulled back his sleeve, revealing a Timex on his broad, corded wrist. He wrote down the time, ten o’clock.

  The traffic was medium to heavy. Wyatt drove along St Kilda Road and then into Toorak Road. He crossed Punt Road and Chapel Street, turned right into the side street connecting with Quiller Place, and parked adjacent to the T-junction.

  ‘We can do it two main ways,’ Pedersen said. ‘Either go back the way we came, or go via Commercial Road. Both mean lights and trams. There would be a right turn to get onto Commercial, and a right turn if we went back on St Kilda Road.’

  ‘Side streets?’

  Pedersen looked at the map. ‘They’re mainly one-way. We’ll have to choose the right ones.’

  Wyatt didn’t like side streets. They meant stop signs, roundabouts, speed humps, people reversing out of driveways. He said, ‘We’ll try the main roads first.’

  During the next two hours they timed the main routes twice, first at a cautious speed and then pushing it, Wyatt anticipating lights, trams, gaps in the traffic. Pedersen read the map, looked out for cops-and for Sugarfoot Younger.

  They were beaten by the trams, the constant picking up and letting down of passengers. Frustrated, they watched small cars slip past while their big van idled uselessly, waiting for the trams to move on. In Toorak Road, matrons in furs manoeuvred Rolls Royces in front of them, and there were delivery vans double-parked outside the boutiques. In Chapel Street council workers were digging trenches.

  ‘No choice,’ Wyatt said. ‘Has to be side streets.’

  Pedersen looked at the map and they tried again. By midday they had their route. It was a compromise, making use of the main streets and a system of narrow residential streets. After three runs, Wyatt had the trip down to twelve minutes. Pedersen, gloomy for so long, suddenly grinned. ‘Home and dry before they even raise the alarm.’

  Wyatt pulled on the hand brake.. ‘Twelve-fifteen. Time for your shift.’

  The grin faded. ‘All go, eh, Wyatt?’

  ****

  Twenty-eight

  On Friday they rotated the shifts again. Wyatt took the first shift, and he saw the money arrive.

  Two men brought it in a briefcase, late in the morning, as Anna had said they would. From the driver’s seat of a rented Datsun, he watched them drive up in a mud-splashed white Falcon, two men in tweed jackets, yellow hard hats on the rear window shelf
. They were in there for five minutes, and when they came out they looked fed-up.

  Hobba watched until two o’clock. Pedersen watched until four, this time on foot. At five past four, Wyatt and Hobba pulled up in the van. Pedersen climbed into the back and changed into overalls. Finn had come back from his coffee break, he told them. And he’d seen a client go in.

  They hit at four-twelve.

  Anyone passing on the footpath might have seen a white commercial van pull into the driveway of 5 Quiller Place and three men get out. The men wore balaclavas-it was a cold day-and overalls. They kept to the far side of the van, which meant that they couldn’t be seen clearly, but one witness, a Lady Wright, later told police crossly that ‘three tradesmen came out, pushing one of those trolley things’. There was only one other witness, a shop manager checking to see that he had switched off his car lights. He saw the van over at number 5 and said he assumed they were getting their computers serviced.

  No-one saw the three men pause at the front door and pull the balaclavas over their faces, then plunge through, fast and silent.

  Wyatt went to Finn’s office, Hobba to Anna Reid’s.

  Pedersen locked the front door, unplugged the telephone and held his gun to Amber’s temple. He touched his forefinger to her lips and pushed down on her shoulders until she understood and sat on the floor. He said nothing.

  Hobba was there first, pushing Anna Reid ahead of him. She stumbled, restricted by a close-fitting skirt. Her hair fell forward, concealing her face. ‘Who are you?’ she said, shaking it back. ‘What are you doing?’

  Hobba said nothing. He pushed her onto the floor next to Amber and pressed his.38 to the top of her head.

  Wyatt came in with Finn and a client-male, young, wearing a short leather jacket and designer jeans. The client was blurry, vague, as though half asleep. Finn refused to be hurried. He entered alertly, a vigorous shape in a grey, fitted suit, and stared in fury at Hobba and Pedersen and back at Wyatt. ‘You don’t know what you’re getting into here,’ he said.