Kick Back w-1

by Garry Disher

  Wyatt motioned with the gun.

  ‘What?’ Finn demanded. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Don’t, Mr Finn,’ Amber said. Her voice was shaky. ‘He wants you down here with us.’

  Finn eased his big frame onto the floor. Wyatt prodded the client, who seemed to collapse in relief.

  Hobba said, ‘Face each other in a circle, and put your wrists out.’

  It was the only thing said by any of the men in the four minutes they were in the building. Later none of the victims could remember his exact words or what his voice was like. They were certain no names were used. They held out their wrists and felt the handcuffs click tight and they sat there then, in a circle, linked to a leg of Amber’s heavy desk, while two of the men left the room. The third stayed behind.

  This one said nothing. He stood behind Anna Reid, his gun at the back of her bowed head, staring at Finn. The meaning was clear: try anything and she gets shot. Amber was certain it was a real gun. She could see bullet tips in the cylinder, and she heard the latex glove squeak against the metal. No sign of nervousness, no yelling, no waving of guns around. The policeman who later took her statement nodded. ‘Pros,’ he told her.

  In Finn’s office, Hobba and Pedersen worked fast, slipping a cardboard carton over the safe and tipping it onto the trolley.

  Wyatt heard them returning, the trolley wheels grumbling on the polished floor of the hall. Then he heard them go out the front door. He did not look round. He kept his gun on Anna Reid and his eyes on Finn.

  A minute later there was a rap on the door frame. It’s done.

  Wyatt touched his knee very gently against Anna’s shoulder, then backed out of the room, his gun now pointed at Finn. Finn seemed to swell, to spit his words: ‘I’ll find you bastards.’

  In the hallway they removed their balaclavas, then left the house and heaved the safe into the rear of the van. Hobba scrambled in after it. Pedersen slammed the door and got into the passenger seat. Wyatt had the engine running. He eased them out of Quiller Place and onto Toorak Road, No-one looked twice at them.

  At Chapel Street, Wyatt turned south for three blocks, then he cut in front of a tram and entered the system of side streets mapped out for him by Pedersen. They were narrow streets, made narrower by small glossy cars. A dog ran into their path from behind a red MG and they felt and heard the wheels tumble and crush it. Dogs here were valued over children. There would be outrage on Channel 10 tonight.

  Then they were on Punt Road, still going south, quite fast now, but no faster than any combative peak-hour driver. An easy right with the lights onto Commercial Road, a smooth run onto St Kilda Road, heading north for a few blocks in the service lane, then quickly left, left again, and down with a gentle bump to the underground level and into the lock-up garage.

  Wyatt began stripping off the transfers and unbolting the false number plates. Hobba joined Pedersen in the back of the van. Wyatt heard them conferring. Then Pedersen got out. ‘Wyatt, I can’t drill-the casing’s mill-hard grid, take hours. I’ll have to blow it.’

  ‘Can you do it without hurting the money?’

  ‘Piece of cake.’ Pedersen demonstrated with his hands. ‘What I do is, I concentrate the blast around the lock. No flying metal, just some smoke and noise.’

  Wyatt nodded. He helped them unload the safe, backed the van out, and shut the garage door on them. Then, leaving Pedersen and Hobba to set the plastic explosive, he went up to the street level with a radio. After five minutes Hobba said, ‘All clear?’

  The home-time traffic was heavy on St Kilda Road to Wyatt’s left and on Queens Road to his right, but here outside the pink and grey apartment block there was no traffic. He had been thinking of Sugarfoot Younger, but there was nothing to indicate that Sugarfoot was about. ‘All clear.’

  ‘Blowing now.’

  There was a dull thud, like a distant door slamming. The radio crackled, as if Hobba’s hand had tightened in reflex.

  Wyatt waited. They were taking a long time. He said, ‘All right?’

  ‘Wait a tick,’ Hobba replied. ‘My fucking ears. There’s smoke everywhere.’

  Two minutes later, the radio crackled again. It was Hobba. ‘You little beauty.’

  Wyatt walked down into the underground garage again and drove the van back into the lock-up. He could smell smoke; the air was still heavy with it. Hobba and Pedersen were crouched over the safe, which was blackened from the force of the explosion. The little door stood open, scorched and buckled, revealing small stacks of fifty- and hundred-dollar notes. Hobba hadn’t waited. He was bundling the money into a Qantas bag.

  Wyatt unsnapped the fasteners of his overalls. ‘I’ll dump the van tomorrow but you two won’t be coming down here again so check you’ve got everything. Max, you dump the overalls and the balaclavas.’

  Pedersen didn’t respond at first. Then he uttered a short laugh and looked around at Hobba. ‘Listen to him, would you. Give us a smile, Wyatt. Look at all the lovely loot.’

  Wyatt ignored him. He stuffed his overalls, gloves and balaclava into a shopping bag, then retrieved and wiped the three.38 revolvers.

  ‘Forget it, Max,’ Hobba said.

  ‘Well he gives me the shits,’ Pedersen said.

  ****

  Twenty-nine

  After the initial fear and upset, and with them all sitting there like that, wrist to wrist on the carpet, Finn said, to gauge their reactions, ‘This was a personal thing, you know.’

  He watched them. The client was out of it, no problem there. Amber, a bit tearful, sniffed and said, ‘Personal?’ Anna Reid gave him her level look. Just lately he never knew what went on in her head.

  ‘There wasn’t much in the safe,’ he said. ‘Someone was just out to get at me, that’s all.’

  ‘Who?’ Amber said, distracted and miserable. She lifted a hand to wipe her nose, realised she couldn’t, and leaned down to where her wrist was manacled to Anna Reid’s, Anna watching her neutrally.

  ‘It’s something I can handle,’ Finn said, his expression telling them this was something tricky and private. He waited, watching them. ‘I’ll do the right thing by each of you, of course. There’s no need to worry on that score.’

  Amber, blearily concentrating, frowned at him. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘He wants us to keep it quiet,’ Anna said. This with one of her glittering looks.

  Amber was shocked. ‘Mr Finn, we can’t, it’s not right, you have to tell the police.’

  With both hands weighed down by handcuffed wrists, Finn had to settle for placating her with raised palms. ‘I’m sorry. You’re quite right.’

  ‘I mean, they had guns. They could’ve hurt us. What if they do worse things to someone else next time?’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying,’ Finn said, ‘but I thought you wouldn’t want the police tramping through here, that’s all, upsetting everyone with their questions, etcetera, etcetera.’

  No, Amber told him, recovering quickly, this was heavy duty and he must let the police know. ‘Anyhow,’ she said, ‘people would’ve seen something out in the street.’

  Finn breathed out heavily. ‘You’re right,’ he said. Anna was giving him a mocking eyebrow, Amber was giving him the shits, and the client might as well have been asleep. ‘Okay, we’d better ring them,’ he said.

  Their situation brought films to mind. They all had to shuffle and reposition themselves until Amber was on her side, stretching out to plug the phone lead back into the wall socket. Then she pulled the telephone off the desk. She was about to press the buttons when she froze, giggling nervously. ‘I don’t know the number,’ she said. ‘Is it 999?’

  ‘I think it’s 000,’ Anna Reid said. ‘Or 11444 if you want to get straight through to D24.’

  Finn let them play at this. All the time, his mind was racing, anticipating the police questions, the media questions, wondering how, when everyone had gone home, he’d explain this to Bauer, wondering how Bauer could stop the damage going any fu
rther.

  ****

  Thirty

  Sugarfoot didn’t get as far as the weather news this time. His attention was caught by one of the lead stories, about an armed hold-up in South Yarra, three men, and how the getaway van was driven so dangerously a dog was killed.

  It wasn’t much, but the details fitted: the location, the three armed men. He turned off the television set and started dial hunting on the radio. By eight o’clock he had more information: the actual street, and a name, a lawyer called Finn.

  You had to have a strategy. He collected his Melways street directory from the Customline, took it back to his room and began to assemble what he knew. Using scraps of paper, he marked the location of the lawyer’s office and where Hobba, Pedersen and Rossiter lived.

  He sat back. Where should he start? He’d sort of come full circle in his thinking. A few days ago he wanted a piece of Wyatt’s action. Since Tuesday, all he’d wanted was to get even. Now he felt more on track, wanting a cut and wanting to get even.

  Thinking about it, why not set up a deal? Go to one of them and say. fifty-fifty or I talk. Sixty-forty maybe.

  Or take a cut and then drop word where the cops will hear it. Let the cops take care of the revenge angle.

  Better still, take a cut now and hit them one by one-weeks, months, later, when they’re least expecting it.

  He’d better hit now, though, before any of them had time to consolidate or slip away or spend the money.

  But when Sugarfoot staked out Hobba’s flat and Pedersen’s house again, it was as if nothing had changed since Tuesday. Still no-one was at home. Still there were newspapers on Pedersen’s welcome mat-a total of four now.

  If they didn’t show up tomorrow, he didn’t know what he’d do.

  When he got home, Tina had a message for him. ‘Your brother’s trying to get hold of you. He’s rung four times already. I told him you were out, but he just keeps ringing.’

  ‘I’ll call him.’

  ‘I mean, I’m trying to do my chart,’ Tina said.

  Ivan answered on the first ring. ‘Younger.’

  ‘It’s me,’ Sugarfoot said.

  ‘Thank Christ for that.’ Ivan sounded panicky. ‘Bauer called me earlier. Someone hit one of the outfit’s operations this afternoon and he wants us to start putting the word out on the street. Ten thousand bucks to anyone who can give him a lead.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘It’s on the news. Some lawyer got done over in South Yarra. That’s all I know. I didn’t ask questions.’

  It made Sugarfoot feel good hearing Ivan fall apart like this. He said calmly, ‘You’re putting two and two together, right?’

  ‘Sugar, listen, I know you’ve got it in for Wyatt, but just let it rest, okay? No heroics. No getting tempted. If Bauer finds out Wyatt hit Ken Sala as well, we’re stuffed.’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ Sugarfoot said.

  ****

  Thirty-one

  Wyatt woke early on Saturday morning, feeling sharp and well. He showered, packed his things together and stood at the kitchen bench to eat toast and drink coffee. Pedersen was sprawled on the couch, asleep, and Wyatt could hear the snores of Hobba in the second bedroom. He looked at his watch: seven-thirty. At eight o’clock Anna Reid was coming by to collect her share of the three hundred thousand dollars. Then they would drive to his place on the coast. At five minutes to eight he was waiting for her in the foyer of the safe house.

  Her black Volkswagen pulled up outside just after eight o’clock. He didn’t leave the building but watched the car and the street. When he was satisfied that she was alone he went out to the car. She saw him, smiled, and slipped across to the passenger seat, saying, ‘You know the way.’ He stashed his bags on the back seat, got in behind the wheel, kissed her and started the engine.

  He didn’t speak until they were through St Kilda junction. He said, ‘Any problems with the cops about going away for the weekend?’

  ‘I just told them I felt upset but I’d be back at work on Monday.’

  Wyatt nodded. ‘You might like to look in the black bag.’

  She smiled and reached around behind him. He heard her draw open the zip and then she was waggling a wad of hundred-dollar notes under his nose. ‘All mine?’

  He nodded. ‘What did the cops say?’

  ‘A professional job.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘They were puzzled, wanting to know what Finn had in the safe that was so valuable.’

  ‘They questioned you separately?’

  She nodded. ‘We were split up as soon as the doctor said it was okay.’

  ‘Doctor?’

  ‘Just routine. They thought we might need attention.’

  ‘What about later? Did you talk about it with the others?’

  Anna moved closer to him, putting her hand on his thigh. ‘We sent Amber and the client home. Finn was a bit embarrassed. He said he assumed I knew about his planning permission deals. Told me there was a large settlement in the safe that he couldn’t tell the police about.’

  ‘So how did he explain it to them?’

  ‘Said he had cheques, bonds, share certificates, odds and ends like that, some his, some his clients’. Ten thousand dollars worth, covered by insurance.’

  ‘Were they satisfied with that?’

  ‘Seemed to be. A detective asked me didn’t I think it was well planned-the robbers knew the layout, had guns, disguises, a disguised vehicle.’

  ‘What did you say’

  ‘I told him it seemed to be. He asked me about Finn’s clients. I said we worked separately, I didn’t know them.’

  Wyatt said, ‘With any luck they’ll concentrate on Finn.’

  They fell silent. The traffic was heavy through Frankston, Mornington and Mt Martha, and for a while Wyatt forgot about Anna. He found himself absorbed with his driving, braking often, alert for mulish families and weekend farmers who were fleeing the city in four-wheel-drives, hauling horse floats and boat trailers behind them. They scared him. The village atmosphere was long gone from this part of the bay. Mansions in the form of Californian funeral homes competed for advantage on the cleared slopes leading to the beaches. Here worth was measured by sundeck area, pool size, garage capacity. All along the coast, real estate agencies outnumbered milk-bars by four to one, and the councillors rubbed their gym-tanned hands together, knowing the cost of everything and the value of nothing. Eventually, in frustration, he turned off and took back roads to Shoreham.

  It was cold at the cottage. While Anna explored the house, the sheds and the garden, he chopped firewood, stacked the logs on the lounge-room hearth and lit a fire.

  He was aware of smells-the splintery new wood, the sea, Anna Reid. His muscles ached agreeably. Soon they would make love, and then he would take her for a walk along the beach.

  He thought how it might be. They would be occasional lovers and it wouldn’t go anywhere and that would suit both of them.

  He wondered how dedicated she was to her job. The last few days had made her feel alive, she’d said. She could be useful to him. He had at least a dozen scams in mind that required a woman.

  Meanwhile, he would hide his share of the money and next week begin the careful process of converting it. Some small deposits, some paintings, some shares and bonds.

  He looked up as she entered the room. For once he wasn’t interested in taking his customary six months somewhere warm.

  ****

  Thirty-Two

  The word was out on the street now, so all Bauer could do was wait. He spent the morning in his workshop, tuned to the easy listening station, humming along to Neil Diamond, Frank Sinatra, Liza Minnelli, and sometimes someone a bit racier, like Joan Armatrading.

  Humming helped him to concentrate. On the bench in front of him was a packet of.38 calibre hollow-nose cartridges. Taking them five at a time, he prised the lead noses out of their brass jackets and upended them in a small vice. He filled the hollows with mercury from a drop
per, sealed them with wax melted on a bunsen burner, and fitted them in the brass jackets again.

  He might never use the cartridges, but he liked to have them ready. He’d seen the damage they could do to a kaffir’s back, the mercury forcing its way through the nose and spreading out, causing a massive wound and certain death from blood loss if nothing else. Bauer hummed along with Barry Manilow, his fingers deft with the little cartridges.

  There was a telephone on the bench. He was patient. Someone would bite, hooked by ten thousand dollars.

  He felt secure in here. There was no window. The furniture consisted of the work bench, a chair, a planet lamp, filing cabinets, shelves and a small wardrobe. His rifles and target pistols were behind glass in a cabinet on one of the walls. The environment was atmosphere controlled, and Bauer cleaned and oiled his guns regularly. Shelves on a second wall held telescopic sights, tinted shooting glasses, earmuffs, gun oil, rags, brushes and boxes of ammunition. On the wall above the work bench, beneath ordnance survey maps, was a shelf of manuals and back issues of Soldier of Fortune.

  The wardrobe was next to the airtight door. In it were the jackets and trousers he wore for hunting and shooting-range practice. Some of the clothing was black, some khaki, some in camouflage shading. He kept rubber-and-canvas boots at the bottom. The drawers held belts, webbing, clips, black skivvies, T-shirts, balaclavas and holsters. Familiar gear, similar to the gear he’d worn fifteen years ago, hunting terrorists across the border into Mozambique. These days he bought his stuff from a mail-order firm which had a booth at the Soldier of Fortune convention in Las Vegas.

  The phone rang at midday. A woman’s voice, drowsy with recent sleep, said, ‘Are you the one offering the reward?’