Wyatt - 01 - Kick Back (11 page)

By
four-thirty Wyatt was on the footpath outside a building near Queens Road,
having his hand shaken by a man who said, Mr Lake? Call me Rocky.

Rocky drove a black Porsche Targa
with a car phone and personalised plates. He wore a white shirt and a double-breasted
suit sharp as a knife. He released Wyatts hand and clapped his palms together.
Right, he said. Short-term rental, fully furnished? No problem. He spoke
urgently, his face too close, as if Wyatts only wish in life was to hear his
words. What firm you with?

Wyatt mumbled a name. Sydney based,
he said. Today I learned Ill have to stay here for another three weeks, so I
thought, why not the wife and kids as well? Theyll be down on the weekend.
Thats why I need the extra rooms. Plus Ill be doing a certain amount of
entertaining, and you cant do that in a hotel room.

Rocky watched Wyatts face,
fascinated. Then he couldnt help himself and said, Excuse me, I think the
frames of your glasses are twisted.

Yeah, damn things, Wyatt said.

There was a pause. Rocky clapped his
hands together again. Right. He indicated the building behind him, three
storeys of pastel pink stone, and grey doors, window frames and entrance
canopy. We got several apartments available. He numbered his clean, white,
ringed fingers. You got your VHS, CD system, central heating, washing machine,
two phones, proper down doonas. You got your intercom at the main entrance
here, and your lock-up garage in the basement, room for two cars.

Can I see the garage?

Rocky looked surprised. Usually they
wanted to see the apartment first. Sure. No problem. He led Wyatt down a ramp
to a large, dim, underground space. Along one wall were twelve steel garage
doors. Incredibly secure. The lifts on the other side. Ill show you.

Rocky unlocked one of the steel
doors, revealing an empty garage with space for two cars. It smelt faintly of
old oil and exhaust fumes. He drew down the door, locked it, and opened a
strong, plain wooden door set in the back wall. This led into a small passageway.

You got your lift, Rocky said,
pushing a button. The lift arrived and Rocky took them to level two. Got a
nice corner apartment, he said. Three bedrooms plus all I said before.

It was apartment 8. Rocky took out a
large bunch of keys, unlocked the door, and they entered the apartment. Wyatt
walked to the main window, which looked down over Queens Road, the golf course
and Albert Park Lake. Some mugs were out on the lake, one or two miserable
sails bending in the wind. He turned away, examined the room, and went into the
bedrooms and the bathroom. Rocky followed him, almost upon his heels, keys
rattling, smelling nastily of aftershave.

It was like being in a resort hotel,
like a beer barons wifes idea of good taste. Pastel walls, glossy white
wooden surfaces, terracotta ornaments, varnished cane and rattan, bright cotton
cushions and chair coverings, Mexican rugs, vaguely Aboriginal prints on the
walls, vases the colour and shape of candy chips.

You got your coffee percolator,
your microwave, Rocky said, for the wife.

Very nice, Wyatt replied. Quiet?

Absolutely. Double glazing, thick
walls, carpets in the corridors. You wont hear a thing. No-one knocking on
your door for a chat. Actually Rocky coughed, a little embarrassed were
not fully occupied at the moment.

Things are tough everywhere, Wyatt
said.

Itll pick up, Rocky said. Always
does. He coughed again. We would require a deposit, of course, if you were
interested in taking the place.

Full amount up front, Wyatt said, in
cash. Thats how I work. He got out his wallet.

Rocky opened and closed his mouth. Youll
take it?

Ill take it.

You wont regret it. This is a
quality facility

Right, Wyatt said.

They went down to the street level
and filled out the papers in Rockys car. You want anything else, just call
me, Rocky said, giving Wyatt his business card and keys for all the locks.

Wyatt went back inside and rang
Pedersen with details of the evenings plans. Then he made tea, settling down
to wait for six oclock when he would call Anna Reid and arrange to pick up the
photographs. He felt impatient, and that surprised him.

* * * *

Nineteen

In
Bargain City, Ivan Younger was pacing the storeroom floor, jabbing his finger,
saying, Youre a fuckwit. What are you? He stopped pacing. Youre lucky they
didnt cut your throat. Thats what I wouldve done. Where you going?

Sugarfoot shrugged. Get my car
back, then collect the take from Ken Sala.

Ivan thought about it. That, and
nothing else. No more fucking adventures, understand? Drive straight here
after. Stay out of Wyatts way. Youre not in the same league.

Sugarfoot scowled. Hed been hearing
nothing else all afternoon. Hours of listening to crap, being treated like
shit. Worse, stuff about IQ, snide stuff hed been hearing all his life. On top
of being bashed twice in a week. They could all go and get fucked.

Sugarfoot buttoned up his coat. A
good coat, ankle length, warm, concealing, mean-looking. He had this idea for a
shotgun on a sling. Sawn off, it would weigh as little as six pounds. Just fold
back the coat flap, whip her up, blam.

But just thinking about it seemed to
pull at his bruised ribs and stomach. He grimaced in pain. Ivan said, his voice
a shade kinder, You all right? Want me to drive you there?

I rang a cab. Ill be all right,
Sugarfoot said.

But he felt stiff and sore. His
right eye was puffy, going black, almost closed. Blood crusted his ear and
neck. His hair looked like a Victa had been through it.

Ivan touched his arm. Look, mate,
one day well get back at the bastards, okay? They went too far. But as a
favour to me now, stay out of their way.

Mr Hotshot. Number one son. Fuck
off, Sugarfoot said.

He went outside to wait for the
taxi. He could feel Ivan watching him from behind the advertisement-smeared
plate glass window of Bargain City. He hunched deep into his coat. The wind was
cruel on his ear.

A horn bipped. He looked up. A
Silver Top, the ethnic driver giving him the once-over. You been drinking? You
chuck in my cab, mate, and you can clean it up.

Get stuffed, Sugarfoot said.

Yeah, well you too, mate, the
driver replied.

Lets just go, all right?
Sugarfoot said.

He gave directions to his place in
Collingwood. Wait here, he said. He went upstairs, unlocked the chest under
his bed, and pocketed a flick-knife. He needed a handgun, and soon. Something
small enough to tuck in his sock or conceal in his hand. What would be really
good, thoughapart from a sawn-off on a slingwould be to fire from high ground
with his snipers rifle fitted with a scope. Bullets coming out of nowhere,
this look of surprise on Wyatts face when his chest explodes. Other people
looking around, taking awhile to work out whats going on.

He went downstairs and told the
driver to take him to Richmond. They cruised for fifteen minutes as he tried
from memory to find the Customline. Wyatt had left Richmond Park, gone along
Swan for a while, then up Burnley, then into side streets. It was all
depressing.

Listen, pal, the driver said. Ill
take you to Sydney if you like, but I got better things to do than cruise
around Richmond.

Any of your business? Sugarfoot
said.

If he hadnt been feeling so bad, he
might have sorted the bastard out then and there. But they were slowing for a
tight roundabout in the road and he saw an alley and a flash of red at the end
of it. You can stop here, he said.

The driver looked around, dismissing
it. Here?

Sugarfoot scowled. The cunt probably
lived in a two-storey red brick wog mansion in Sunshine. Keep the change, he
said, tipping two dollars. Buy yourself a bar of soap.

For a moment he thought hed done
it, but the driver gave him the finger and sped, tyres squealing, towards
Bridge Road. Sugarfoot tried a grin with his bruised face and walked down the
alley to his car and saw, bastards, lines scratched all over the duco. Around
here it would be Vietnamese, got nothing better to do than damage other peoples
property, walk by good car flesh with a knife blade or the edge of a coin.
Cunt. Sugarfoot beat his fist on the Customlines boot lid, then circled the
car, trying to get calm, trying to tell himself at least they hadnt let down
the tyres or broken in.

He ground the starter, listening,
waiting for the big motor to catch. It did, belching smoke, then settled,
grumbling sweet as you like.

He half turned to look through the
rear window and backed out, one hand on the wheel. Seated like that, he could
feel pressure from the little knife in his pocket.

It was hassle on hassle. In Johnston
Street he heard a siren and looked around and it was a cop car telling him to
pull over. He quickly fumbled the knife out of his pocket and under the seat.
He had his licence and a puzzled look ready when the two cops got out and came
over to his door. Anything wrong?

Two constables, so young they had
bum fluff on their faces. Ace car, the first one said.

Didnt steal it, Sugarfoot said. I
can show you the rego papers.

The second cop said, Relax. Just
wanted a look. My mate heres got a Galaxie.

Fully restored. Did it myself, the
first cop said.

Sugarfoot almost warmed to him. Good
cars, Galaxies, he said. Fucking crap cars.

He got out and the three of them
walked around the Customline for a while. The cops said it was bad news about
the scratches in the duco. Sugarfoot told them it was Vietnamesethats how he
got beaten up, protecting his car and the cops understood and clicked their
tongues and told him to have a nice day.

He got to the Caribbean Apartments
in Fitzroy in time to find Ken Sala in tears, the place a wreck, a bag half
packed on the bed. He slapped Salas flabby cheeks and got some story about his
being jumped by a couple of guys with guns.

He picked up the phone. Ken, old
son, he said, punching the number for Bargain City, youre in deep shit.

* * * *

Twenty

Ivan
was there in thirty minutes. He paused at the bedroom door, looked in horror at
the bed, and said, Jesus Christ, what did they do to the poor bugger?

Ken Sala was lying on his side, a
thin yellow nylon rope looped from his bound ankles to his neck. He was
red-faced with effort, his face wet, his eyes popping. The rope was slowly
strangling him and he was powerless to stop it happening.

Sugarfoot turned around. Its okay,
Ive got it under control. Hes going to answer a few questions, arent you,
Kenny?

Let him go, for fucks sake.

How do you know he isnt trying to
rip us off? If he staged it himself, well soon know.

Ken Sala managed to gasp, It wasnt
me. Im not stupid. Two guys. Let me go.

Let him go, Sugar

Grumbling and sighing elaborately,
Sugarfoot leaned over and began to pull at the knots. When he discovered that
they were as tight as pebbles, he took out his knife. Ken Sala began to thrash
about on the bed, grunting terribly. Settle down, Sugarfoot said. Im not
going to hurt you.

He cut through the rope. Ken Salas
relief was palpable. For the next two minutes the only sounds in the room were
the coughs and gasps as his breathing settled back to normal. He sat up weakly.
Honest, he said. Two guys done me over.

How much did they get? Ivan said.

Just over five thousand. Ive got
it written down somewhere.

Describe them.

One was on the heavy side, the
other was thin, thats all I can tell you.

Faces?

They had masks on. Them balaclava
things.

Not much to go on.

Look, they knew who I was and
everything. The fat one breathes lolly breath all over me and goes, Wheres
the cash, Ken?

Sugarfoot stiffened. He said
involuntarily, Hobba. I smelt it on him this afternoon.

Jesus Christ, Ivan said, his voice
low and passionate. This is all your fucking fault. Last week you fucked up
Wyatts insurance job, today you go following him all over the place. Id like
to know how your mind works sometimes. What did you expect hed do? Take it
lying down? Hes telling me he can hit me where and when he likes.

Bullshit. Hes bankrolling. Hes
got a job on with Hobba.

So? That doesnt change the fact he
nabbed five thousand bucks of the outfits money. What am I supposed to tell Bauer?
Sorry, the takes a bit less this week. Jesus, they already got their eye on
me. Thisll
convince
them Im holding out. He looked across at Ken
Sala. Ill make up the difference myself. What Bauer and Sydney dont know wont
hurt them. Well deal with Wyatt later.

Sugarfoot shrugged. Suit yourself.

Just keep your trap shut, Ivan
said. Okay?