Wyatt - 01 - Kick Back (10 page)

Hobba shook his head. You have, he
said. Its your little mate.

* * * *

Sixteen

That
car of his sticks out like a sore thumb, Hobba said. Dumb prick.

Wyatt turned onto the Boulevard and
accelerated. Bright enough to know he could find me by following you.

Hobba grunted. Think Ivan put him
up to it?

Well soon find out.

A few minutes later they were in
back streets much like those in Burnley. Now and then Wyatt glimpsed Sugarfoot
Youngers massive red car in the rear view mirror, gingerly negotiating the
humps and holes in the bitumen behind them.

Hobba tossed a mint into his mouth. Whats
he want anyway?

Wyatt shrugged. Get even with me.

Muscle in on this job?

That too.

Why dont we just waste the little
prick?

It seemed to be a rhetorical
question, but Wyatt treated it seriously. It hasnt become necessary yet. We
cant afford heat at this stage.

Hes a mad bastard, Hobba said
after a while. Hes stupid, but dangerous with it. Gun happy.

Wyatt nodded. Got Hoddle Street
written all over him.

Before Ivan took him on he was
trying to be Mr Big, but he was just a jumped-up standover merchant. Ivans got
him at his natural level. If a head needs kicking in, send young Sugar

Wyatt checked the rear view mirror
again. He grinned. I think Ivans trying to smarten him up. Like sending him
with me on that insurance job last week.

Sort of work experience, Hobba
said, enjoying this. He almost never saw Wyatt smile. Writes it up afterwards,
three-hour exam at the end of the year

TAFE certificate after two years,
Wyatt said.

They drove deeper into the back
streets, peering into alleys and lanes. Wyatt said, Go all right at Lomans?

Beautifully, Hobba said. He gave
me three sets of fake ID. Tomorrow hell have a van ready with clean papers,
plus some handcuffs, a drill and bits for Max, and C4 plastic if we need to
blow the safe.

Hassle you over the money?

I gave him the thousand, Hobba
said. Like you said, all he needed was a sweetener. Hes expecting another six
and a half within the week.

Wyatt nodded. How about the
transfers?

Ready tomorrow. Compatible
Computer Servicing. Black letters on a white background.

Good. What about Max?

Watching Finn, like you wanted. Were
going to need cars though, Wyatt. You cant watch a place on foot. People
notice you.

Wyatt nodded. There was a give-way
sign ahead. He slowed for it and entered another narrow street. Hobba lit a
cigarette and threw away the match. Try there, he said suddenly, pointing to
an alley.

Wyatt slowed, but accelerated again.
Too open.

After a while, Hobba said, How come
its never straightforward, Wyatt? You ever wondered that? I mean, is it
because were bent? God looks down, sees what were doing, and sends Sugarfoot
along to fuck us around? I often wonder.

Could be testing us, Wyatt said.

Whats the point? Weve already
failed. Nuh, God likes to fuck you around. Take a bloke, hes a pillar of
society, wife and kids, church on Sundayif he fucks up you can bet hes got
something going on the side. Hobba finished his cigarette and popped another
mint. Check this one, he said, pointing ahead.

Wyatt braked. They were at the
entrance to a narrow, cobblestoned, dead-end back alley lined by high rusty
fences. The cottages and sheds on either side were boarded up and empty-looking.
He glanced in the rear view mirror; the red Customline was two blocks behind
them. He drove a short distance beyond the entrance, shifted into reverse, and
backed into the alley. He reversed for fifty metres and stopped, keeping the
engine idling. No windows overlooked the alley. No-one was about. They slid
down in their seats so that the car looked to be empty.

Entering now, Hobba said,
listening to the Customline rumbling towards them. He raised his head a
fraction to look. Sugarfoot Younger, surprised to see no-one sitting in the
Holden, had driven far into the alley.

Go! Hobba said.

Wyatt slammed his foot on the
accelerator. The Holden leapt forward. They saw the look of alarm on Sugarfoots
face and saw him turn his head desperately and begin to reverse. The big car
swerved erratically. Suddenly its rear bumper caught a pole and the car slewed
and stopped. Wyatt did not reduce speed. He swept through the gap and braked a
short distance beyond the red Customline, effectively boxing it in between the
street and the walled-in end of the alley.

He took a Smith & Wesson from
the shopping bag and gave another to Hobba. He could be carrying, he said.

They crouched and moved down on
either side of the Customline. Sugarfoot wound down his window but otherwise
didnt move. The heavy motor belched and muttered.

Wyatt stopped at the back door. We
only want to talk, he said. Leave your gun there and come out. Otherwise we
put holes in your nice car.

There was a movement in the car. Did
you see that? Hobba said. Little prick gave us the finger.

Wyatt released the safety catch on
his revolver. Lets take him.

They rushed the two front doors,
keeping low.

But Sugarfoot gave them no trouble.
He turned off the engine as they began to move, and they found him staring
defiantly ahead, his hands on a magnum revolver in his lap.

Out you get, Wyatt said, opening
the drivers door. We want to talk to you. He reached for the magnum. Jesus
Christ, a replica.

Wyatt stood back as Sugarfoot got
out of the car. He saw strength in the bulky frame, but no grace, agility or
swiftness. Whyre you tailing us?

Get fucked.

Hobba reached out for Sugarfoots
ear and jerked on it. His hand came away with the earring. Sugarfoot flinched,
then straightened, putting his hand to his bloodied ear.

Answer the man, Hobba said.

You two and Max Pedersen got a job
on.

What makes you think that?

Sugarfoot Youngers face creased in
exasperation. Im not bloody stupid. If the great Wyatt pulls a small job hes
got to be bankrolling a big one.

Whats it to you? Wyatt said.

Sugarfoot looked down and muttered, That
was a cunt act, belting me in front of Ivan. He looked up again. I want to be
in on this job. Ive got skills.

You fucked up once, youll fuck up
again. Were taking you home to Ivan.

Hell fucking kill me. Give us a
go, Wyatt. Ill drive, keep a lookout, whatever.

Lie down on the ground, Wyatt
said.

Hobba grinned. Sugarfoot, panicked,
said, Jesus, no need for that. I wont tell. Just let me go.

Shut up, Wyatt said. No-ones
going to shoot you. Just lie there on your stomach.

Sugarfoot, afraid now, settled onto
the damp cobbles. When Hobba rested a foot on his back, he uttered a small,
shocked cry.

Dont be a sook, Hobba said. He
began to prod Sugarfoot with his shoe. Whats with the pony tail and the
earring, Sugar? he said. Eh? You a poofter?

Fuck you. Ill fucking get you
cunts. Ill track the three of youse down.

Leave it, Wyatt said wearily. He
pulled on Hobbas sleeve. I want a word.

A short distance away he muttered, We
cant waste time with this. Weve got work to do.

Waste him, Hobba said. You heard
him, hell just keep hassling us.

Then wed have Ivans hoons after
us. We dont need that. Throw a scare into him and let him go.

Suit yourself.

Meanwhile, pain was beginning to
register above Sugarfoots fog of dreams and grievances. He raised his head
from the ground. Im fucking bleeding to death here.

Shut up, Hobba said. He swiftly
crossed to Sugarfoot and, taking a knife from his pocket, knelt down and sliced
off the pony tail. He showed Sugarfoot the blade and the hair. See this? If I
see you again, even by accident, Ill slice off your balls. Then Ill start on
your face. He stood up and kicked Sugarfoots ribs. Now piss off.

Sugarfoot scrambled to his feet and
made for the street in a stumbling run. He didnt look back.

They watched him go. What a prick,
Hobba said. I didnt mean he had to leave his car behind.

Wyatt was still, concentrating hard.
They needed a safe house now, till the job was over. Without one they risked
being found by the Youngers.

But they had a job to do in Fitzroy
first.

* * * *

Seventeen

Of
the four thousand prostitutes in Melbourne, nine hundred work in legal
brothels. Escort agencies, street trade, and a thriving cottage industry
account for the remainder.

Two were run by Ken Sala. Cher and
Simone operated out of a two-bedroom townhouse in the Caribbean Apartments, a
converted bluestone factory in Fitzroy, turning tricks for clients in hotel
rooms or in the townhouse itself. On a good weekend they could each pull in
fifteen hundred dollars, and another fifteen hundred during the week. Ken, who
lived in one of the adjacent apartments, gave back only a third, but he paid
all their bills and didnt steer any creeps their way, so they werent
complaining. Anyway, as he was always reminding them, he was just a cog. He
pocketed a thousand bucks in commission and the remainder went to some
syndicate in Sydney.

It was three in the afternoon and
Ken was starting a new day. First he did the paperwork for the weekends
takings. The deal was, he collected from Cher and Simone on Monday, did all the
paperwork on Tuesday, and waited till the bagman came around in the evening to
collect.

Five thousand, six hundred bucks.
About average. There was a travel agents convention starting Friday, so things
would pick up a bit then. He stuffed the money into a cash box, locked it and
shut it in the bottom drawer of his desk.

Every afternoon at this time he
liked to wander down Lygon Street. Hed tried Brunswick Street but the style
there was more your ponytails, fifties gear and anaemic punk birds dressed in
black. Lygon Street was more his scene. He went into his bedroom and put on the
baggy electric-shimmer trousers with the pleated front, a black silk shirt, a
drape jacket with broad shoulders and discreet checks, and low profile Italian
slip-ons so slight they felt like slippers. He finished by gelling his hair. He
looked at his face. Not one youd mess with.

Three-twenty-five. Time to cruise. Hey,
Ken, the guys would say on Lygon Street. Hows tricks? He hadnt 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.
Hed 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. Somethingthe 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, Hes 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
weeks takings.

You dont know what youre letting
yourself in for, Ken said. Im 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.

Therell be fucking trouble. Plus
whichand Kens treacherous voice rose againhow 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