Kick Back w-1

by Garry Disher

  ‘Reward,’ Bauer said flatly.

  The voice grew flustered and uncertain. ‘You know, for information.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About some robbery. A safe.’

  ‘Could be.’

  The voice was silent. Then, ‘This reward-is it the real thing?’

  ‘If the information is useful.’

  ‘How will I know if it’s useful?’

  ‘I’ll know,’ Bauer said. ‘Who are you? Where are you? What do you know?’

  ‘I’m not stupid enough to tell you over the phone, now am I? I want to see the colour of your money first.’

  ‘Where and when?’ Bauer’s tone was quick and contemptuous and it rattled the woman on the other end. She gave him an address in Fitzroy, for two o’clock.

  The line went dead. Bauer resumed work on the cartridges. After a while he began to hum, smiling because he knew the address. He didn’t know what it all meant yet, but he soon would.

  He finished the cartridges, packed them away, and decided to get ready. He was mindful of what might be ahead. Whatever it was, it would be close and quick and it needed to be quiet.

  He opened the gun cabinet and took out the.22 pistol. With this gun Bauer was capable of placing six rounds in a ten-centimetre grouping across a cardboard chest at twenty metres, but today would be close-range work and that’s what the.22 was best suited for. Also, the gun had no history and the little slugs he used would tear apart in the body and be useless as ballistics evidence. He checked the clip: full. Unfortunately, the wood grip was too oily from all his good care so he wrapped it in rubber bands so it wouldn’t shift in his hand. He slapped the gun from one palm to the other. Left or right, he was good with both.

  Then a silencer, a shoulder holster and his short black quilted coat. He checked the mirror: nothing showed. Bauer believed there were too many cowboys in his game. If not selling absurd T-shirts they were lugging around Colt Python.357 magnums weighing 47 ounces. After a while they got tempted, tried a thrill killing or a hold-up, but they always got caught, always held onto their guns or failed to clean their prints off the shells they ejected at the scene.

  He put on lightweight combat boots, locked the door behind him and went to the kitchen to wait. As usual, Placida was there, listening to a cassette of wailing love songs of the Philippines. It was a harsh white room, the neon strip-lighting cold and bright in the ceiling. A clock ticked on the wall. Placida looked up as he entered, saw how he was dressed, and paled.

  Bauer watched her. ‘Come here,’ he said. His voice was like gravel crushing.

  She approached, her eyes cast down. ‘You know what to do,’ Bauer said, pushing down on her head.

  ****

  Thirty-three

  Sugarfoot was up at eight that morning, surprising Rolfe at his muesli and Tina in the bathroom, tugging closed the plastic shower curtain. ‘I won’t look,’ he said, catching a flash for the first time, and not too bad either.

  ‘Put the seat down after,’ she yelled. ‘Watch your aim.’

  Sugarfoot took his time, playing the stream in the bowl. He lifted his head and called, ‘Hey, Teen.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can I borrow the van again?’

  Sounds of angry soaping. ‘When?’

  ‘Now. This morning. My mate’s getting rid of his bookshelves.’

  He half expected her to say, ‘Can read, can he?’ but she said, ‘All right, but I need it lunchtime.’

  ‘No worries.’ He shook the drops off into the bowl. She yelled, as if she’d been peeking, ‘Don’t dribble.’

  So he flushed, making her water run scalding hot.

  By quarter to nine he was parked behind bushes in the Housing Commission car park. The flats loomed like rock slabs on a cold plain, the window glass distorting the wintry morning sun like icicles. From where he sat, Sugarfoot could see anyone who entered or left Hobba’s block. At this hour, plenty of people were about, going miserably to work or the Vic Market in rusted cars, or walking to the tram stop. There were kids in parkas, fucking ethnic kids all brushed and combed, a sure sign they had parents working two jobs to buy a house out in the suburbs.

  He took the stinking lift to the eighth floor, saw that Hobba hadn’t come home yet, and went downstairs again. The flats created a wind tunnel and he had to hunch over against the gusting air and kick away paper scraps that clung to his shins.

  It was chilly in the Kombi, the vinyl seat grim and unyielding. He sat there shivering in his long coat, wondering if he could risk crossing the road to buy a vanilla slice and takeaway coffee. Not even nine-thirty and he might have a long wait ahead of him.

  He got out and ran across to the cafe, holding his forearm against his waist to keep the little.25 in place. He was back in three minutes. The coffee was only lukewarm and the vanilla slice smaller than usual, stale and shrunken-looking, but they made him feel better.

  Thirty minutes later the coffee and the coldness got the better of his bladder.

  No public toilet anywhere. He couldn’t risk going to the pub on the corner: too far away and he might miss Hobba.

  That left the flats. Piss in the lift like everyone else. He got out of the van, locked his door, looked around and started walking.

  And halfway across open ground, in broad daylight, he felt something hard press against his troubled kidneys, and heard Hobba say softly, ‘It’s a gun, cowboy. Don’t stop. Just keep walking.’

  Sugarfoot’s first impulse was to put up his hands. To control them he put them in his pockets, but Hobba struck at his elbows with the gun barrel. ‘Keep them where I can see them. You carrying?’

  Sugarfoot cleared his throat. ‘In my belt, under my coat.’

  ‘Give it to me later.’

  They approached the grimy, massive columns at the base of the nearest block of flats. Ten o’clock, and no one around. Sugarfoot said, ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Shut up,’ Hobba replied.

  ‘Ivan knows I come here this morning, if anything happens to me.’

  Hobba jabbed with the gun. ‘I said shut up.’

  ‘Ivan’s got contacts. Anything happens to me, you’ve had it.’

  ‘Sugar,’ Hobba said wearily, ‘your brother thinks you’re a fuckwit.’

  ‘Yeah, well he was pretty riled when he saw what you did to me the other day.’

  ‘But he told you to stay away, right? If he knew you were here he’d say, “Go ahead, waste the little prick”.’

  Sugarfoot fell silent, suspecting it was true. They were under the building now, in a cheerless region of wind gusts, crumbling damp stucco and drifts of food scraps. Suddenly, no-one was about, not even a building supervisor, not even a Turkish widow going to the shops.

  ‘Stop there,’ Hobba said, and Sugarfoot felt an arm go around him, find the.25 and release him again. ‘Okay, over to the lift.’

  ‘Where we going?’

  ‘The roof.’

  They stood and waited for the lift to come down. Sugarfoot looked sidelong at Hobba, taking in the plump left arm protectively clasping a soft black weekender bag. Hobba’s right hand was in his coat pocket and Sugarfoot saw the clear outline of a gun there. Hobba’s large head was set determinedly. Sugarfoot remembered the earring and the ponytail. He felt his heart begin to pound.

  Get him talking, take his mind off it. ‘The news said ten thousand bucks, but it was more, right? Wyatt only goes for big jobs.’

  Hobba ignored him. He had pushed the button to call the lift and was standing where he could shoot if Sugarfoot turned on him or tried to run. Sugarfoot said, ‘Look, be reasonable, let’s work something out. What say you and me hit Pedersen and Wyatt?’

  ‘You’d be better off praying,’ Hobba said. Then he seemed irritated with himself for responding and his face closed up.

  ‘I only wanted to be part of the original deal,’ Sugarfoot said. ‘That’s all.’

  Hobba went up on his toes, back on his heels, waiting for the lift t
o come down.

  ‘People on the top floor will hear the shot,’ Sugarfoot said, wondering if there would be anyone at home on the top floor, then realising Hobba had something else in mind, like his outline in chalk on the ground.

  The lift was coming down now, non-stop, no passengers.

  ‘Look, please,’ Sugarfoot pleaded.

  He heard it at the same time as Hobba did, teenage kids in stretch jeans and moccasins shouting in the stairwell, pouring out of the building. They resembled apes in the zoo but just now Sugarfoot was pleased to see them. He charged, yelling, arms windmilling, flinging them onto and around Hobba.

  Five seconds later he was around the corner and crossing the car park. Behind him, curses, cries of ‘Out of my fucking way’ and ‘Gis a look in the bag, mate.’

  Sugarfoot fumbled open the door of Tina’s Kombi, got in, and floored it, rocking back and forth in his seat as if urging greater speed, wishing he were in the Customline, leaving snakes of rubber at every stop light between here and Bargain City.

  No way was he going home.

  ****

  Thirty-four

  The woman had said two o’clock but Bauer got to the Caribbean Apartments at one o’clock. He drove slowly past the entrance, parked in a nearby street and walked back.

  He stood for five minutes on the footpath at the fenceline, where he could not be seen, and watched and listened. Sala had not drawn his curtains. Bauer saw him pass from room to room, singing, occasionally standing as if in doubt about something.

  The fence was a low one and Bauer stepped over it and crossed the lawn to the side of the apartments, to a shaded area under an ornamental tree. He took out the.22, checked that the clip was full, and fastened the silencer to the barrel. He felt sharp and alert. He hadn’t eaten, and knew that his blood was pumping fast on his empty stomach.

  He crouched and circled the building, straightening only to make a rapid inspection at each window. In Cher and Simone’s apartment the curtains were closed, but he could hear voices. They’ll be getting ready for their afternoon clients, he thought, and knocked on their door.

  Cher opened it. She wore a close-fitting black dress and light make-up. Her feet were bare. She recognised the thin lips, the gaunt, tense frame. The colour drained from her face. ‘I didn’t know it was you,’ she said. ‘All I had was a number.’

  Bauer entered and locked the door behind him. As Cher turned away to precede him into the flat, his arm went around her neck and he pressed the pistol against the base of her spine. He began to probe with the barrel, as if seeking her anus, then spun her around and pushed her against the wall.

  ‘Tell me what you know,’ he said. He watched her closely. Then he began to twist her breasts with his free hand. It was a studied act of loathing.

  She swallowed audibly and grimaced in pain. She whispered, ‘Someone robbed Ken on Tuesday, and he thinks the same ones did that job in South Yarra.’

  ‘Where is Simone?’

  Cher jerked her head. ‘In there.’

  ‘We will join her’

  Cher led him into the lounge-room. Simone was standing on the rug in the centre of the room, staring at the burning logs in the fireplace. Without turning around to face them she said, ‘If that was Ken I hope he had something good lined up for a change.’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Cher said.

  Something in the voice made Simone turn around. She saw Bauer with the gun pressed under Cher’s jaw, paled, and stepped back. ‘What’s going on?’

  Bauer pushed Cher forward, saying, ‘Over there by your whore friend.’

  When they were standing together on the rug he said, ‘Now, tell me everything. Everything.’

  Simone, less frightened than Cher, laughed briefly. ‘I suppose this means we dip out on the reward, huh?’

  Bauer stepped forward, taking a knife from his pocket. He touched the point to her earlobe. At first she didn’t realise that he’d nicked her with it; but then she felt blood pool in a hollow at the base of her neck and run down onto her breast. She stood stock still. ‘You dirty bastard,’ she said, in a low, passionate voice. ‘You didn’t need to do that.’

  ‘Talk,’ Bauer said.

  ‘Someone robbed Ken. The Youngers came over and roughed him up as if it was all his fault. They tied him up so he nearly choked. He’s been good to us. They didn’t have to do that to him.’

  Bauer frowned. ‘What has this to do with anything? Are you lying? I was paid as usual. Nothing was said about a robbery.’

  ‘Maybe, but the Youngers are covering up. Someone hit Ken, the Youngers know who it was, and Ken thinks it’s got something to do with that other job, the reward one.’

  Bauer began to feel his control slipping. Confined spaces made him nervous, and Simone’s blood made him think of AIDS. He had the sensation of a creeping corruption in his bloodstream. He pushed her away. ‘You will say nothing. You will behave as if nothing has happened,’ he said, backing out of there, his face twisted with disgust.

  Once outside again, he breathed in and out deeply and walked around to Ken Sala’s door and pressed the doorbell.

  Inside he heard Sala call, ‘Who is it?’

  Bauer said nothing. He pressed the bell again.

  This time Sala stood close to the door. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Open the door,’ Bauer said.

  He didn’t wait for the door to open fully before pushing through. Sala fell back against the wall. ‘You,’ he said. He was puffy-faced and he’d been drinking.

  Bauer took out the.22 and pushed Sala into the bedroom, grinding the end of the silencer under his jaw.

  ‘Tell me what happened.’

  Sala focused slowly. ‘Did the girls tell you? We were ordered to keep it quiet.’

  ‘You may tell me,’ Bauer said coldly.

  ‘On Tuesday I’d just collected the take when these two guys came bursting in and roughed me up and took the lot.’

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘Never seen them before.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re dissatisfied. Perhaps you decided to take a bigger slice.’

  Sala was frustrated. ‘That’s what Sugarfoot said. You got to believe me-I was robbed. I got a good thing going here. I wouldn’t fuck that up. I mean, Jesus.’

  He had his hands flat on the bed next to his thighs. He rocked back and forth. He was terrified and more than likely telling the truth.

  More than likely: it was qualification enough for Bauer to fire the pistol. There was a small spurt of blue flame and two almost co-existent sounds: the huff of the silenced shot and the punch of the bullet through Ken Sala’s left hand.

  Sala looked down. There was little to see at first, but then blood began to seep from the small puncture wound on the back of his hand. He slowly raised the hand and examined it, both sides. Then he tucked it in his armpit. He said, disbelievingly, ‘You shot me.’ He looked down at the bed cover, at another puncture mark, stained red at the edges. ‘You bloody well shot me.’

  He began to wail terribly. The rocking grew more agitated and he slid off the bed and onto the floor.

  Bauer straddled him. ‘Tell me about the two men.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sala said. ‘I don’t know.’

  He tried to get up, but felt Bauer’s foot on his face.

  ‘Answer me,’ Bauer said.

  Sala twisted and twitched beneath the foot like some baffled animal shot in the spine. Again he tried to raise himself and again Bauer held him down.

  ‘Are you ready to answer me?’

  Sala went still. His chest was heaving. ‘Two of them,’ he said. He jerked as if to rid himself of the heavy foot.

  ‘Two men. That is not specific,’ Bauer said. ‘Describe them to me.’

  Sala burped and coughed suddenly, enveloping Bauer in a fug of stale alcohol and panic. He said, ‘Let me up, please. I can’t think down here.’

  Bauer removed his foot and stepped back. He watched as Sala climbed to his feet and sat on the edge of
the bed. ‘Begin,’ he said.

  ‘They wore balaclavas. But the Youngers seemed to know who they were.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Wyatt was one. Hobba. I never heard of them.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Ivan thinks it was personal, Sugar thinks they’re funding a bigger job.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  Sala was rocking to and fro on the bed. ‘I don’t think anything. I was told to shut up about it. What happens now? What do I say to Ivan?’

  Bauer regarded him with distaste. ‘Don’t say anything. I will be in touch.’

  ‘I need a doctor.’

  ‘The girls will take you,’ Bauer said.

  He left the bedroom, closing the door and telling Sala to stay there. In the kitchen he found a wall-mounted telephone. He dialled a Sydney number. When he spoke it was to give a report and a recommendation. He spoke clearly and concisely for two minutes without repeating himself. The reply was what he expected it to be. He broke the connection again, pocketed the.22 and left the house.

  ****

  Thirty-five

  The Kombi was gutless but Sugarfoot made the distance from Hobba’s to Bargain City in eight minutes. He parked in the alley, came in the back way, and stood in the showroom, catching his breath. Leanne was there, this time with a whole family of ethnics looking at kitchen chairs.

  He forced himself to be casual. ‘Ivan in?’

  She looked up. ‘He went home to meet someone. Are you all right?’

  ‘I’ll be in the storeroom,’ Sugarfoot said.

  She shrugged, turning away to play peekaboo with one of the ethnic kids.

  Sugarfoot shut himself in the storeroom and began to walk among the junk, feeling on edge, wondering when Ivan would get back. It was probably stupid, coming here. He’d be safer at Ivan’s house, that high wall and all that hi-tech security stuff.

  Then it struck him-don’t run, go on the offensive. Hobba is alerted now, so go for Pedersen. He picked up the storeroom phone and dialled.