Kick Back w-1

by Garry Disher

  Three-twenty-five. Time to cruise. ‘Hey, Ken,’ the guys would say on Lygon Street. ‘How’s tricks?’ He hadn’t seen the joke at first, but now he did, and knew it meant that he was accepted.

  His buzzer rang. He put his eye to the spyhole. No-one there. The courtyard was empty.

  ‘Who is it?’ he said.

  No answer.

  It was the kind of thing kids were always doing. This one kid would come around delivering the Herald-Sun and ring on every bell whether the person took that paper or not. Ken opened the door. He’d soon sort the little bastard out.

  It was the kind of thing that happens in a bad dream, the two men wearing balaclavas coming through the door at him. Something-the door?-split his lip open. The men punched him, pushed him against the wall, kicked the door shut. It was over in about five seconds.

  Less than a minute later they had him in an armchair and one, a fat one smelling of mints, was waving a gun in his face, going, ‘Kenny, we want the cash.’

  The other one, a slender, fluid, hard-edged looking guy, did a quick check of the other rooms and came back and leaned in the doorway. There was an air of stillness about him.

  ‘What cash?’ Ken said.

  The hard-looking one stirred. He said, ‘He’s wasting our time. Take the place apart,’ and started to rip prints off the walls and tear the covers off the Penthouse magazine and the Stephen King paperback on the coffee table.

  The fat one pulled out a knife and slit the grey and pink leather sofa, three thousand bucks in Scandinavia World.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Ken said. His voice squeaked a little. He tried again. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

  The hard one said, ‘The cash. The week’s takings.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for,’ Ken said. ‘I’m connected. There are going to be some pissed-off people as a result of this.’

  ‘So you admit to the cash?’ the fat one said.

  ‘There’ll be fucking trouble. Plus which’-and Ken’s treacherous voice rose again-’how the fuck am I going to pay them back?’

  The hard one looked at him. ‘Just get the money.’

  On the way out the fat one grinned and the hard one said, ‘Like the threads, Ken.’

  It was three-thirty. They had been in and out in less than five minutes.

  ****

  Eighteen

  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 Wyatt’s 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 Wyatt’s only wish in life was to hear his words. ‘What firm you with?’

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

  Rocky watched Wyatt’s face, fascinated. Then he couldn’t 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 lift’s on the other side. I’ll 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 baron’s wife’s 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 won’t hear a thing. No-one knocking on your door for a chat. Actually-’ Rocky coughed, a little embarrassed ‘-we’re not fully occupied at the moment.’

  ‘Things are tough everywhere,’ Wyatt said.

  ‘It’ll 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. That’s how I work.’ He got out his wallet.

  Rocky opened and closed his mouth. ‘You’ll take it?’

  ‘I’ll take it.’

  ‘You won’t regret it. This is a quality facility’

  ‘Right,’ Wyatt said.

  They went down to the street level and filled out the papers in Rocky’s 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 evening’s plans. Then he made tea, settling down to wait for six o’clock 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, ‘You’re a fuckwit. What are you?’ He stopped pacing. ‘You’re lucky they didn’t cut your throat. That’s what I would’ve 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 Wyatt’s way. You’re not in the same league.’

  Sugarfoot scowled. He’d been hearing nothing else all afternoon. Hours of listening to crap, being treated like shit. Worse, stuff about IQ, snide stuff he’d 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. I’ll 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 we’ll 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.

  ‘Let’s 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, though-apart from a sawn-off on a sling-would be to fire from high ground with his sniper’s rifle fitted with a scope. Bullets coming out of nowhere, this look of surprise on Wyatt’s face when his chest explodes. Other people looking around, taking awhile to work out what’s 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. ‘I’ll 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 hadn’t 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 he’d 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 people’s property, walk by good car flesh with a knife blade or the edge of a coin. Cunt. Sugarfoot beat his fist on the Customline’s boot lid, then circled the car, trying to get calm, trying to tell himself at least they hadn’t 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.

  ‘Didn’t steal it,’ Sugarfoot said. ‘I can show you the rego papers.’

  The second cop said, ‘Relax. Just wanted a look. My mate here’s 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 Vietnamese-that’s 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 Sala’s 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, ‘you’re 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. ‘It’s okay, I’ve got it under control. He’s going to answer a few questions, aren’t you, Kenny?’

  ‘Let him go, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘How do you know he isn’t trying to rip us off? If he staged it himself, we’ll soon know.’

  Ken Sala managed to gasp, ‘It wasn’t me. I’m 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. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

  He cut through the rope. Ken Sala’s 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. I’ve got it written down somewhere.’

  ‘Describe them.’

  ‘One was on the heavy side, the other was thin, that’s 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, “Where’s 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 Wyatt’s insurance job, today you go following him all over the place. I’d like to know how your mind works sometimes. What did you expect he’d do? Take it lying down? He’s telling me he can hit me where and when he likes.’

  ‘Bullshit. He’s bankrolling. He’s got a job on with Hobba.’

  ‘So? That doesn’t change the fact he nabbed five thousand bucks of the outfit’s money. What am I supposed to tell Bauer? “Sorry, the take’s a bit less this week.” Jesus, they already got their eye on me. This’ll convince them I’m holding out.’ He looked across at Ken Sala. ‘I’ll make up the difference myself. What Bauer and Sydney don’t know won’t hurt them. We’ll deal with Wyatt later.’

  Sugarfoot shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’

  ‘Just keep your trap shut,’ Ivan said. ‘Okay?’

  Then he sat next to Ken Sala on the bed. He explained how none of this was Ken’s fault, and he, Ivan, would put it right, and Ken could go on as before, so long as he kept his trap shut, okay?

  ‘Okay,’ Ken Sala said.

  He fingered his neck worriedly.

  ****

  Twenty-one

  Wyatt called Anna Reid at six o’clock and she said she had the polaroids, come around any time, and now they were in her lounge-room and she was riding him on the rug i
n front of her log fire, concentrating hard. He looked up at her face, the parted lips, the eyes staring as if hypnotised by the patterns in the rug. Now and then she came out of it, saw him and grinned, leaned over his face to give him a nipple or to let the line of his cheek and jaw brush her breasts left and right. Sometimes she clenched her face in a kind of fury, as if this were not enough and she wanted to consume him as well. She would bite, ride him quickly for a while, ease again.

  ‘This is what I’ve been thinking about,’ she said, ‘not the money’

  In answer, Wyatt raised her a little with his hands and pushed up. She bent her head back. Then he rested and she lifted herself and they watched as she moved on him again.

  When she pulled at his shoulder, he rolled with her. She backed along the rug, wanting him to follow. She climbed backwards into an armchair, Wyatt almost losing her, then flopped back, getting her breath, while he moved in her again.

  She said, ‘I want to finish, yet I don’t want to.’

  Wyatt gravely took both her hands and moved them down. She looked questioningly at him, then smiled slowly, and he watched her long fingers begin working, circling, pushing hard at herself. He was on the edge too so he watched her face, and when her eyes opened in a kind of sorrow he let himself go.

  The room was hot. They were perspiring. Wyatt, arms locked to support his weight, looked down at Anna, who watched him drowsily, her face swollen, heavy-lidded. She blew air between her breasts and onto his chest and it felt like a cooling breeze.

  After a while he pulled away and fell back onto the rug. It was an expensive rug and he seemed to sink into it. ‘I feel exposed up here,’ she said, lying down with him. A moment later Masher joined them, purring, coiling his furry back into Wyatt’s waist.