by Garry Disher
Kick Back
( Wyatt - 1 )
Garry Disher
Garry Disher
Kick Back
One
Wyatt tensed. A silver BMW had emerged from the driveway of the Frome place. The headlights plunged, then levelled, as the car entered Lansell Road. Wyatt counted heads: Frome driving, wife next to him, kids in the back. He checked the time-8 pm-and watched the BMW disappear in the direction of Toorak Road.
‘Let’s go,’ Sugarfoot Younger said.
He reached for the key in the ignition but before he could turn it Wyatt’s fingers closed like a steel clamp on his wrist. He looked around. The eyes were close and remorseless in Wyatt’s narrow face. ‘We wait,’ Wyatt said.
Sugarfoot jerked free his hand. ‘What the fuck for?’
‘People forget things, Sugar. They feel cold and come back for their coats. We wait.’
‘Aaah,’ Sugarfoot Younger said.
He lit a cigarette. The match flared, illuminating his blockish face, his disgust with the world and Wyatt and all this buggerising around. He pitched the match out of the window and began to pull at his hair, caught in a stubby ponytail at the back of his head. ‘First lesson,’ he said, huffing a smoke ring at the windscreen, testing for a reaction from the still figure next to him, ‘never strike while the iron’s hot.’
Wyatt ignored him. He hadn’t wanted this, hadn’t known that Ivan Younger would be sending his brother along. He cranked down his window. It was a cold evening, the air smelling of plants and damp soil. There were few cars about, fewer pedestrians. They were watching the Frome place from the front seat of a Yellow Cab, and no one was looking twice at it, parked innocently, its headlights on.
A few minutes later, when two elderly women entered the street from a nearby house, their faces and hair dirty white in the street lights, Wyatt said, ‘Switch on the interior light and study the street directory. Avert your face.’
‘Avert?’ Sugarfoot said. ‘Speak English.’
The women shuffled past the Yellow Cab. When Wyatt turned in his seat to watch them, his bony nose cast a hooked shadow across the flat planes of his face. He saw the women stop at a small Morris sedan. After some confusion about keys and who would drive, the women got into the car and drove away. They wouldn’t remember two men in a taxi looking for an address.
Sugarfoot switched off the inside light and closed the street directory. ‘Come on, Wyatt. We could’ve done the place by now.’ He flicked away his cigarette.
‘Another five,’ Wyatt said.
He watched the street. He would wait all night if a job required it. Hoons like Sugarfoot Younger got jumpy before a job. They were never as solid as you’d like. They swallowed uppers and blundered in and made mistakes. Which is fine, he thought, if you’re not working with them.
In the seat next to him, Sugarfoot sighed and shifted his heavy limbs. He wore Levis, a denim jacket, a red bandana knotted at his throat, and calf-length tooled leather boots. He would have worn his Stetson hat if Wyatt hadn’t kicked up a fuss. He brushed his palm against the stubble on his chin. Apparently struck by the sound and the sensation, he did it again.
He’s going to start yapping again, Wyatt thought, glancing at the lightless, shallow eyes. He won’t be able to help himself.
As if on cue, Sugarfoot lounger said, ‘You know Jesse James? The outlaw? Well, get this, he had these two brothers in his gang, and their last name was Younger.’ He tipped back his head at Wyatt. ‘I reckon that makes me and Ivan the second Younger brothers.’
He watched Wyatt, waiting for a response. Wyatt said nothing, merely lifted his wrist to check the time. Like all his movements, it was fluid and economical.
‘There’s this film about them,’ Sugarfoot said. ‘The Long Riders. About how they were always getting hassled, so they hit back. They did trains, banks, whatever. I got the video at home.’
Wyatt had heard about this cowboy fixation. It probably accounted for the name Sugarfoot, a name from an old television show, but he hoped somebody was being ironical when they gave that name to Bruno Younger. Bruno Younger was the right age for a cowboy punk, about twenty-one, but he was a heavy-featured vicious boy and Wyatt could not imagine him robbing a train on horseback.
‘There’s this long scene near the end,’ Sugarfoot said. ‘The gang hits a bank in Northfield, Minnesota-The Great Northfield, Minnesota Raid-but they’ve been set-up. It’s filmed in slow motion,’ he said. He paused. ‘Orchestrated,’ he said, as if testing the word. ‘It’s orchestrated. Second by second, every shot in close-up.’ He shot the windscreen with his finger. ‘Pow. There’s this sort of fantastic thunk when the slugs hit.’
Again Wyatt failed to respond. Sugarfoot, annoyed now, said, ‘Ivan reckons you’re a hotshot at banks and armoured cars and that.’
Wyatt continued to watch the sparse traffic and the Frome place behind its screen of English trees. Sugarfoot gestured abruptly. ‘If you’re so good, how come you’re doing this pissy insurance job for him?’
Good question, Wyatt thought. He sensed, without turning around, that Sugarfoot had his head cocked at a smart-arse angle. He was not surprised when Sugarfoot said, ‘I mean, it’s not what you’d call heavy-duty. Lose your nerve?’
Wyatt noted the time on his watch.
‘Ah well,’ Sugarfoot said airily, ‘Ivan reckons you’ll learn me some tricks of the trade, so I guess I better be patient.’
Wyatt stiffened. But he said nothing. It could wait.
‘Course, you could be bankrolling a big job,’ Sugarfoot said, watching Wyatt’s face. ‘Maybe with Hobba?’
‘Put your gloves on,’ Wyatt said.
Sugarfoot pulled on latex gloves and started the engine. ‘Come on, Wyatt. Is it a bank? Armoured van? You going to let me and Ivan in on it?’
‘Just drive,’ Wyatt said, taking gloves from the inside pocket of his thin, tan leather jacket.
Sugarfoot drove away from the kerb, across the street, and into the steep driveway of the Frome place. The taxi’s tyres rumbled expensively over the gravel surface. Well-tended trees arced above. Then the taxi emerged from the darkness onto a paved area at the front of the house, where a small-leafed wall ivy crept like a stain towards the upper levels of the house. A light was on above the door.
‘Park here,’ Wyatt said. ‘Do what taxis do, lights on, engine running.’
‘You told me that.’
‘I’m telling you again.’
Sugarfoot braked, shifted the gear lever into Park and both men drew balaclavas over their faces. They got out. As Wyatt pressed the illuminated buzzer set into the door frame, he murmured, ‘Remember, she’s old, she’s only the housekeeper’
‘Lesson number two,’ Sugarfoot said, ‘listen to the same shit over and over again.’
Wyatt held up his hand. A curtain had twitched at a window. The housekeeper was there, just as Ivan Younger had briefed him. That meant the alarm system was off. The housekeeper would see the taxi, take the security chain off, and come out to investigate.
They waited. When the door opened, Wyatt pushed through, Sugarfoot crowding in behind him.
‘Oh,’ the housekeeper said.
Her hand went to her heart and she struggled for breath and pressed back against the wall. Her hair seemed to spring into grey, untidy clusters. Powder had smudged the lenses of her glasses. She wore slippers. She smelt of sherry.
‘We don’t want to hurt you,’ Wyatt said gently. ‘We’ll be in and out in five minutes. But we have to tie you up first, do you understand?’ He turned to Sugarfoot. ‘Got the tape?’
Sugarfoot patted his pocket.
Wyatt turned back to the housekeeper. ‘We’ll use parcel tape. It doesn’t bite in like rope.’ He always explained what
he was doing. It calmed people, made them less unpredictable. ‘We’ll sit you in a chair,’ he said, ‘so you’ll be comfortable. Unfortunately we have to put tape over your mouth. Do you understand?’
The old woman gulped and nodded.
Then Sugarfoot said, ‘Don’t make me use this, okay?’ He had opened his denim jacket; Wyatt saw the butt of a small automatic pistol in his waistband.
The old woman closed her eyes.
‘We won’t hurt you,’ Wyatt said. He elbowed Sugarfoot to one side and clasped the old woman’s elbow and led her to a small antique chair next to an antique hallstand. A telephone stood on the hallstand. ‘Sit here,’ Wyatt said, pushing down gently on her shoulders. He turned to Sugarfoot, said, ‘Tie her,’ and unplugged the telephone.
‘Not so tight,’ he said, watching Sugarfoot. ‘Now, wait by the front door. If you see or hear anything, come and get me. No heroics. I’ll start upstairs.’
‘I got two hands. I could be doing down here.’
‘I said wait.’
Wyatt felt free now. He could start work. He was tall and hard, but as he ran noiselessly up the stairs he felt light and potent and elastic. At the top he paused, then made for the master bedroom at the front of the house. He stood in the doorway and examined the room. King-size bed, dressing table, wardrobes, Tibetan rugs on the carpet, half-open door to the ensuite bathroom. The curtains were closed. He crossed the room and turned on a bedside light. The Cartier bracelet was in the jewel case. No Piaget watch, though. She’s wearing it, Wyatt thought. He put the bracelet in his pocket, ignoring rings and brooches. He found Frome’s Rolex and put it in his pocket.
He went downstairs. The dining room was also at the front of the house. According to Ivan’s shopping list, the Meissen dishes and silver goblets were in the sideboard under the window, the Imari vases and the eighty-thousand dollar antique clock on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. He found them and wrapped each piece in foam sheets and packed them into a polythene bag.
Frome’s Krugerrands and rare coins were in a desk drawer in the study. Most of the coins sat in moulded green baize in a long wooden box. Some individual coins were wrapped in small sealable plastic bags in small boxes. Wyatt tipped all the coins into a second polythene bag and returned to the entrance hall of the house.
Something was wrong.
Sugarfoot was no longer there, only the housekeeper, and she sagged in the chair, her chin on her chest. Wyatt put the bags on the floor against the wall. Still wearing his gloves, he eased the tape away from her mouth and lifted her chin.
A red weal marked her cheek. Otherwise her features were slack. Her blouse was unbuttoned and one stocking had slipped to her knee. He felt behind her ear for a pulse. Even as he found it he felt it flutter and stop. He let her go and stepped back, imagining it: Sugarfoot, pacing up and down, his impulses clashing with his intelligence, taking his grievances out on the woman.
Wyatt punched her chest several times and tested for a pulse. Nothing. He stepped back from her again for a last look around. Further along the hall the door to one of the rooms was open. It had been closed before. He looked in. It was a small, comfortable television den. Apart from some expensive paintings on the wall, it was unpretentious. But there was an asymmetry about the way the paintings were arranged on one of the walls, and Wyatt, crossing to investigate, discovered an empty hook.
He went outside and said softly, ‘Sugar.’
Sugarfoot Younger was closing the boot of the taxi. ‘Yo?’
‘Give it to me.’
Sugarfoot frowned as though puzzled.
‘The painting,’ Wyatt said patiently. ‘Give it to me.’
‘Are you kidding? Do you know what it is?’
Wyatt said nothing, his thin face tight. He held out his hand.
Sugarfoot, disgusted, opened the boot and removed a painting the size of a handkerchief. The frame was thick, ornate, the gold paint flaking. Wyatt returned to the house and rehung the painting. He was not interested in the name engraved on the brass plate.
He went out to the taxi, leaving the polythene bags and the body where they were. A cold fury had settled in him. In other circumstances he’d have left Sugarfoot’s body there too.
****
Two
Sugarfoot was leaning against the door of the Yellow Cab. He saw Wyatt come out and tossed away his cigarette. ‘Where’s the jewellery and stuff?’ he said.
Wyatt ignored him. He stepped on the cigarette, picked it up and put it in his pocket. He felt close to the edge. He said savagely, ‘We’re leaving everything behind. Get in and drive.’
Sugarfoot waited a couple of beats, letting Wyatt know he’d comply if it suited him, he’d been tongue-lashed by experts, then got behind the steering wheel. Wyatt slid into the passenger seat, shut his door and stared ahead through the windscreen.
Sugarfoot drove them through Toorak and towards the Yarra. ‘Ivan’s going to be pissed off,’ he said, keeping it light. ‘What’s the problem?’
Wyatt felt his head throbbing. He waited for it to ease. ‘What did you do to her?’
‘Who?’
Wyatt waited until they had braked to a stop at the MacRobertson Bridge roundabout, then reached across, jerked the pistol out of Sugarfoot’s belt, and jabbed it under Sugarfoot’s rib-cage. ‘Keep driving,’ he said. When they were through the roundabout and on the bridge, he said, ‘We’ll start again. What did you do to the woman?’
Sugarfoot wheezed painfully. ‘Nothing. What d’ya mean?’
Wyatt jabbed again. ‘She’s dead. You killed her.’
Sugarfoot gulped and shook his head. ‘No, mate. Not me.’
‘You frightened her,’ Wyatt said. ‘It killed her. Anyone caught handling stuff from that house would be an accessory to murder.’
‘Hardly touched her,’ Sugarfoot said, rolling his shoulders uncomfortably. ‘It was the way she was looking at me. You know.’
Wyatt sat back, turning his bleak face to the window. On the other side of the bridge, Sugarfoot turned left and followed the down-ramp to the South Eastern Freeway. The taxi despatcher’s voice faded in and out above the static on the taxi radio. The meter clicked: thirty-five dollars, thirty-six dollars, thirty-seven.
It was Friday night, the traffic heavy. As if nothing had happened, Sugarfoot began a patter: ‘Look at the way that prick’s driving… Get your eyes mended… You’ll do me, sweetheart.’
They crossed the river again and followed it to the approach roads for the Westgate Freeway. Wyatt looked out at the night. Ahead of them, the lighted bridge loomed, curving right, and in the darkness it seemed unfamiliar to him, like a bridge in someone else’s city.
On the bridge Sugarfoot fell silent for the long descent into Footscray. When he spoke again, he sounded self-conscious, as if asking for recognition. ‘That painting,’ he said, ‘was a Tom Roberts, worth a fortune. Ivan fenced one last year’
Wyatt ignored him. He’d met aerobics instructors and plumbers who now ran galleries, so nothing the Youngers knew about art surprised him. Eventually he said, ‘It wasn’t on the list Ivan gave me, meaning it wasn’t insured, meaning there was no point in taking it.’
‘Fucking list,’ Sugarfoot said.
He slowed the taxi. They were outside Bargain City, his brother’s secondhand bulkstore on a flat, windy street off Williamstown Road. A St Vincent de Paul op shop was on one side, a video library on the other. Cars were double-parked in the street, their drivers returning or borrowing videos.
‘Go around the back,’ Wyatt said.
Sugarfoot drove into a laneway and parked behind a white Statesman at the rear door of his brother’s storeroom. A band of light showed under the door. ‘Wait here,’ Wyatt said. He got out, knocked on the storeroom door, and waited.
A high, constricted voice said, ‘Yeah?’
‘It’s us,’ Wyatt said, his face to the door. A key was turned, a bolt slid back. The door opened and Ivan Younger asked, ‘Go all right?’
‘The day driver takes it out tomorrow morning, same as usual,’ Ivan said. He walked over to the cab and leaned in at the driver’s window. ‘Park it out the front, Sugar, then come in the back way.’
Wyatt followed Ivan inside. The storeroom was large, grey and gloomy, constructed of cement blocks and steel girders. Metal shelving lined the walls. Cardboard boxes had been stacked on the floor next to gutted armchairs, warped table-tops and scratched stereo cabinets. The only light in the cheerless room came from a neon strip in the ceiling.
‘So,’ Ivan Younger said. ‘Go all right?’
Wyatt regarded him bleakly. He had worked with Ivan Younger before. Ivan believed in diversity. For a fee he’d provide false papers, explosives, guns, plastic surgery, floor plans, maps of security systems, a ‘legitimate’ set of wheels. He had contacts in Telecom who set up telephone diverters in his SP joints. He gave twenty cents in the dollar for hot televisions and home computers. He was a middle man in insurance scams, negotiating a cut of the victim’s refund or, as in tonight’s job, the reward money. He had insurance clerks in his pocket, along with cops and magistrates probably. And just lately there were rumours he’d bought into the vice operations of a Sydney syndicate expanding its Melbourne base.
Now he was staring at Wyatt. ‘Where’s the stuff?’
Keeping well clear of him, Wyatt stood where he could watch the door to the alley and the door through to the showroom. He did it automatically, in the way that he also avoided lifts, call boxes and other confined spaces, stood back from a door once he’d knocked on it, used crowds for protection, avoided unlighted areas. It was like breathing.
Ivan said again, ‘Wyatt? The stuff?’
Wyatt watched him warily. Ivan Younger was older than Sugarfoot, about forty; cleverer, less belligerent, more assessing. His bald head gleamed in the storeroom’s meagre light. He compensated for baldness with a bushy, grey-streaked moustache. He wore baggy linen trousers burdened with fussy pockets, and a bulky, brightly coloured pullover. His tasselled Italian shoes snapped on the cement floor. He reminded Wyatt of some sleek predator.