Kick Back w-1

by Garry Disher

  ‘Yeah?’

  Pedersen, flat and wary.

  ‘Home at last, eh?’ Sugarfoot said. ‘Got your pockets full?’

  No answer. Sugarfoot said, ‘You listening? You know who this is?’

  ‘Hobba called me,’ Pedersen said.

  There was no inflexion in his voice. He sounded more preoccupied than surprised. Sugarfoot felt sour about that. ‘Thought you might like to do a deal,’ he said.

  He heard rustling in the background, and then a complaining zipper. ‘Sounds like you might be counting your take. Am I right?’

  ‘I’m busy,’ Pedersen said. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Mate. Think about it. I can ruin your day.’

  Pedersen said, ‘I seem to remember we ruined yours. We can do it again. Fuck off.’

  Sugarfoot had the upper hand. He wasn’t fazed. ‘Suit yourself. I’ll just go and have a word with the jacks, what do you reckon? Or maybe that bloke you hit, that lawyer. I mean, if you won’t cough up for me, I bet he’ll be happy to.’

  A pause. Then, ‘Get to the point.’

  ‘That is the point. You give me a percentage, or I dob you in.’

  Another pause. ‘How much?’

  ‘That’s better,’ Sugarfoot said. ‘They reckoned on TV ten thousand, but the take was bigger, am I right?’

  Pedersen replied warily, ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Well, what are we looking at?’

  After a while, Pedersen said, ‘Around fifty thousand.’

  ‘Your cut’s what, sixteen, seventeen?’

  Pedersen grunted.

  ‘So if I got, say, ten thousand off each of you, you still wouldn’t be out of pocket,’ Sugarfoot said. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t want all of it.’

  There was a pause, then Pedersen said clearly, ‘And we come after you and blow your miserable brains out.’

  Sugarfoot was enjoying this. ‘Not if there’s this envelope, it gets opened if anything happens to me.’

  ‘You been watching too many films,’ Pedersen said.

  Sugarfoot straightened, his feet firm and set apart on the cement floor. ‘You’re in no position to fuck with me, pal. You collect the other two and meet me now, with the money.’

  ‘Can’t.’

  ‘What do you mean, you can’t? Do you want me to put the cops onto you?’

  ‘I mean we physically can’t make it. It will take a while to track Wyatt down.’

  Sugarfoot considered. ‘All right, two this afternoon.’

  ‘I could need more time.’

  ‘Jesus. Four o’clock, no later.’

  ‘Where?’ Pedersen said.

  ‘I don’t trust you bastards. Somewhere nice and open. There’s a footbridge over the Yarra at Abbotsford, at the end of Gipps Street. Be on the middle of the bridge at four.’

  ‘On the bridge.’

  ‘Right in the middle,’ Sugarfoot said, ‘where I can see all three of you.’

  See your faces, that look when you realise I’m picking you off from high ground somewhere.

  He hung up. He was going to need something a bit gutsier than the Kombi.

  Like Ivan’s Statesman.

  ****

  Thirty-six

  They dressed again and had coffee and set out for the beach on foot. Wyatt could feel his heart and lungs working. The black soil was carpeted with winter grasses, scored here and there by plough lines and the mud eruptions of bogged farm vehicles. They skirted a chain of crisp puddles. The roadside grasses, starred and bearded with frost, reflected light from the mid-morning sun. By the time they reached the beach they could hear water dripping.

  It was a windless day, grey with low clouds. But the sea must have heaved in the night, dumping seaweed and kelp along the shoreline. There were prints in the sand: a horse, a man with a crazy dog. They exchanged waves with a fisherman on the rocks.

  Mostly they walked in companionable silence. Wyatt wondered if it was living alone, always in the present, that had made him unlucky. Love for him had become a brief release with women who would never know or understand what he did. The rest of the time he waited for treachery from people he was obliged to trust, and never could he relax his guard against the death dealer he’d never see, never meet. He felt that he’d almost lost the swift cleanness of his life, but things had changed now, he was in a position to see that it didn’t happen again.

  They were watching a coastal freighter, their arms around each other, when Anna said, ‘What will you do now?’

  Wyatt stirred. ‘Stay here. Keep a low profile.’

  ‘You said you usually travelled after a job.’

  ‘If it’s a big enough earner.’

  ‘Seventy-five thousand isn’t exactly peanuts.’

  ‘Until recently,’ Wyatt said, ‘I’d pull two or three jobs a year. One job alone netted me enough for the farm and six months in France. Things have changed.’

  Anna was silent. Then she said, ‘I wondered if I’d feel guilt or remorse or fear or have second thoughts, but I feel neutral.’

  Wyatt nodded absently, and said, as if thinking aloud, ‘That’s a good sign, the sign of a pro. Next time you won’t even examine your feelings.’

  Anna positioned herself in front of him so that he was forced to look at her. ‘What do you mean, next time?’

  Her tone was more demanding than mystified. Her expression was quizzical, as if she knew the answer, but he also saw a brief, puzzling, hunted look on her face. He touched her breasts, so briefly he might never have done it, and said, ‘It’s the pattern.’

  ‘What are you saying? That I’ll want to do it again?’

  He watched her. He had her attention and he knew she wouldn’t run or laugh or play dumb.

  ‘Does it suit you,’ he said, ‘doing what you do?’

  ‘It’s not boring. You meet an interesting class of person, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘It’s not boring yet,’ Wyatt said flatly.

  ‘You think I’ve got a taste for crime now. Work won’t satisfy me any more, is that it?’

  Wyatt said, ‘Often a good job comes along but I have to cancel it because the key role belongs to a woman, and I don’t know any who are good enough.’

  She rested her stomach against his and looked at him sleepily. ‘And all I have to do is cross the line.’

  ‘You’ve already crossed it,’ Wyatt said. She tensed, very briefly.

  Rainclouds were blowing in so they walked back to the house. The telephone rang soon after they got there. Rossiter, reading out a Melbourne number and saying it was urgent.

  It was Pedersen. ‘Sugarfoot’s been sniffing around again,’ he said. ‘He tried to jump Hobba, and when that didn’t work he contacted me.’

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘A meeting. This afternoon at four.’

  Wyatt said nothing. Pedersen went on, ‘He says either we cut him in or he goes to Finn or the cops.’

  ‘He knows about the job?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t ask me how.’

  ‘What else does he know? Does he know about Anna Reid?’

  ‘I don’t know. He only mentioned you, me and Hobba. Jesus Christ, Wyatt. You know what he’s like. What if he decides to play us and Finn. You should’ve wasted him when you had the chance.’

  That’s when Wyatt told him to sit tight, he would deal with it. ‘Get hold of Hobba,’ he said. ‘Go to the safe house-you’ve still got the key?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll meet you both there when it’s over. Do you know where Sugarfoot lives?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Rossiter will know. Now, details: where and when does he want to meet?’

  Pedersen told him, then said, ‘You want to watch him. He’ll try something.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Wyatt broke the connection. Anna Reid was watching him, one expression following another in her green eyes: pleasure, alertness, calculation. She said, ‘Trouble?’

  He told her about Sugarfoot Younger. ‘I let it go too
long,’ he said.

  She was angry suddenly. ‘Why didn’t you tell me all this before? This affects me just as much as it does you. He could be talking to Finn this very minute-or the police. Jesus, I thought you were a professional.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Wyatt said, so hard and sharp she stepped back.

  ‘What does he want?’ she said.

  ‘Money. Revenge.’

  ‘You’ll kill him, I suppose. So much for my simple safecracking job.’

  ‘Listen to me! His brains are fried. He’d just as soon kill you as me.’

  She breathed in and out. ‘Does he know about me? Has he been following me?’

  ‘No. But if I miss him and he comes here, you’ve had it. I want you to stay in the safe house with the others.’

  She rubbed her upper arms as if she felt cold. ‘Suddenly it’s all escalated.’

  ‘I’ll deal with it. Go and pack your things.’

  She flushed with annoyance and left the room. Wyatt made the fireplace secure and opened the front door. He took out one of Flood’s.38s and waited, listening and watching, until Anna appeared, stuffing clothes into her leather bag.

  He said, ‘I didn’t mean to be abrupt.’

  ‘I know’

  ‘Here’s the key to the safe house. You’d better go now.’

  ‘Aren’t you coming with me?’

  ‘It’s best if we go separately. We can’t afford to be linked in any way if something goes wrong.’

  She held her arms around herself against the chilly wind. ‘When will I see you again?’

  ‘When it’s done. I’ll keep in touch by phone.’

  ‘What if something happens to you?’

  ‘Think about yourself, not about me. Here’s a gun, just in case. Do you know how to use it?’

  Anna weighed the gun in her hand. She seemed to be speculating. It was an odd look, as though she were repelled by the gun, but fascinated and keen to use it. ‘I just point and pull the trigger, right?’

  ‘That’s the general idea,’ Wyatt said.

  ****

  Thirty-seven

  After she had gone, Wyatt rang Hertz in Frankston and reserved a Falcon using the name on his fake ID. Then he bundled old clothes into a shopping bag, pocketed a spare clip and a silencer for the Browning, and ate a sandwich. Before leaving he rang Rossiter and got Sugarfoot Younger’s address. Finally he drew on gloves: he didn’t want his prints on the rental car.

  On the way to Frankston he thought about Sugarfoot. Like all amateurs, the punk seemed to be working to a pattern, repeating himself, comfortable with moves he’d made before. He’d set his mind on a big score and was taking it personally that Wyatt had excluded him. He would not let up until he got payment or got even-and he probably wanted both. He’s emotional, Wyatt thought. He’s incapable of waiting or watching or breaking new ground or trying a new pattern. He lacks control. He’s announced his hand, made himself the target.

  An hour after picking up the Hertz Falcon Wyatt was in Kew, parking at the nine-hole golf course on Studley Park Road near the river. He got out, carrying the shopping bag, and cut across the golf course to a vantage point on Yarra Boulevard, trying to anticipate how Sugarfoot would do this. He had no doubt that Sugarfoot intended an ambush-and from the Kew, not the Abbotsford, side. Too many houses, cars, potential witnesses on the Abbotsford side, but here in the park Sugarfoot would have the advantage of high ground, trees and a dozen exits.

  Wyatt was early by almost two hours. He didn’t expect Sugarfoot to be that early. He walked down into the park, skirting a dense belt of trees, and entered a muddy track which meandered through weeping willows, mossy logs and clumps of onion weed. No respectable person ever ventured here. Shadowy, overcoated figures coupled, softly moaning, in the gloomy light. A pale-faced man stepped onto the track, saw Wyatt’s prohibitive face, and slipped away again. Here and there a solitary shape was hunched in miserable, tense-wristed pleasure.

  Wyatt passed through the trees to open ground on the far side. Avoiding two Harley-Davidsons being tested on the Boulevard’s curves, he made his way back to the footbridge where Sugarfoot had suggested they meet. It occurred to him that the noisy bikes might provide Sugarfoot with sound cover.

  He stood on the top end of the path leading to the footbridge. To the left were the trees, to the right grassy open ground with seats and swings.

  No-one was around. Taking temporary shelter behind a peeling gum, he emptied the shopping bag and pulled his shabby gardening coat and trousers on above his normal clothes. He put a torn, stretched woollen cap on his head. The Browning was behind his right hip. It was a flat gun, resting comfortably above his right kidney in a forward-canted holster. Finally he took out a sherry bottle bagged in brown paper, and crossed to the swings.

  One of the seats faced the slippery dip and the river. He slumped in it in an attitude of dejection and prepared to wait. Three o’clock, one hour early. Now and then he raised the sherry bottle to his lips but was otherwise perfectly still, his chin on his chest, the frayed cap concealing his face. He kept one hand under his coat, holding his Browning. He had a clear view of the footbridge. When Sugarfoot arrived to make his inspection, Wyatt would spot him immediately.

  During the next hour, five people entered the park from the footbridge. The first two were a businessman and a teenager with wisps of orange and blue hair who disappeared into the trees a minute apart. Two joggers thumped across the bridge soon after that. They were followed by a wino, who homed in on Wyatt’s bottle. The wino shuffled past the seat twice before hovering nearby in a test of Wyatt’s sense of brotherhood.

  About to tell him to scram, Wyatt thought better of it and inched along the seat to give the man room. ‘Sit down,’ he said. He raised the bottle. ‘This’ll warm your guts.’ The wino said Ta’ delicately and drank deeply from the bottle. ‘Ah,’ he said. He wiped the rim with his sleeve.

  ‘Have another,’ Wyatt said.

  The man was ideal cover: so obviously derelict that he coloured Wyatt and the entire playground area. Sugarfoot would discount them immediately.

  When it reached four-fifteen and Sugarfoot had not showed himself, Wyatt turned side-on in the seat. To an observer he appeared to be in animated conversation with his drinking mate, but he was looking beyond the bleary, whiskered face to the golf course, the bridge and the dense trees. Shadows were lengthening in the bad light of late afternoon, making objects difficult to assess. A misty rain began to fall and he hunched deeper into his coat. He stayed like this until four-thirty, but saw nothing. At quarter to five, he knew that it was a no-show.

  ‘Keep the bottle,’ he said, cutting the derelict off in mid-ramble about a shearing shed and a shearing record in 1954.

  Hawking and spitting, Wyatt shuffled back across the golf course. He felt tense, wondering if Sugarfoot was smart after all, had support, had the cross-hairs of a telescopic sight on him all this time, waiting for a clear shot.

  He kept his head down. Golfers swore at him. A golf ball bumped past him, someone yelled ‘Fore!’, another laughed.

  Behind the clubhouse he stood at drunken attention and surveyed the parked cars. Some he remembered, others had arrived more recently. There was no two-tone Customline, but nor did he expect there to be. He was watching for warning signs: a man taking too long to find his car; a car circling the rows instead of leaving; a silhouette showing suddenly in a car window.

  After a few minutes he wandered among the cars, looking for the one that didn’t belong. It was an empty gesture at best, since every car looked exactly like a family car used to cart golf clubs around.

  He returned to the Hertz Falcon. Just before reaching it he dropped a handful of coins. They rang out, clear and metallic, on the hard asphalt. He knelt to recover them. He also swung round on the soles of his shoes, scouting for figures crouching behind nearby cars.

  Nothing.

  He checked the back seat and got behind the wheel. It was unlikely that the car had been wired,
but still, he felt a prickle of fear as he turned the key in the ignition.

  He drove to a secluded street and removed his coat, trousers and cap. They were damp, and had made his clothes underneath feel damp, but there was no time to do anything about that. Sugarfoot had not shown. He might have changed plans, had a fight with Ivan, sought help, decided on a different surprise.

  Wyatt started the car again and drove to the Collingwood address Rossiter had given him. Time to go after Sugarfoot, not wait for him.

  ****

  Thirty-eight

  The big Customline was parked in the street. The road surface under it was bone-dry, indicating that it had been there for some time. The house itself looked to be vacant, an impression encouraged by the peeling window frames and verandah posts and the expensive renovation of the houses on either side of it.

  Wyatt rapped the front door knocker. When there was no answer, he walked around to the back of the house. Out of habit he looked in the two sheds built against the back fence. One contained newspapers stacked for recycling, the other a workbench and a number of bicycle spare parts.

  The back door key was under a bluestone block that supported a terracotta pot of herbs. Wyatt turned the key softly and let himself into the house. He stood, listening, for two minutes, then began a rapid search of the rooms on both floors.

  He rejected the common living areas and two of the bedrooms-one because it clearly belonged to a womaer because he doubted that Surgarfoot subscribed to bush-walking magazines.

  That left a elarge front room on the first floor. It was dimly lit, the air heavy with an atmosphere of cloaked obsessions. Among the pulp novels in the bookcase were sets of American handgun magazines and several large folios on weaponry from remainder bookshops. One shelf was crammed with war and western videos, heroes posed like gods on the covers. There was a small desk under the window. The drawers were locked. Against one wall was a large, gloomy wardrobe. It, too, was locked. Wyatt looked under the bed. He saw a padlocked chest but didn’t bother to drag it out or force the lock. He had a good idea what he’d find.