Wyatt - 01 - Kick Back (2 page)

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 hed have left Sugarfoots body there too.

* * * *

Two

Sugarfoot
was leaning against the door of the Yellow Cab. He saw Wyatt come out and
tossed away his cigarette. Wheres 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, Were leaving everything behind. Get in and drive.

Sugarfoot waited a couple of beats,
letting Wyatt know hed comply if it suited him, hed 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. Ivans going to be pissed off, he said, keeping it
light. Whats 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 Sugarfoots belt, and jabbed it under Sugarfoots rib-cage. Keep
driving, he said. When they were through the roundabout and on the bridge, he
said, Well start again. What did you do to the woman?

Sugarfoot wheezed painfully. Nothing.
What dya mean?

Wyatt jabbed again. Shes 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 despatchers
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 pricks driving . .. Get your eyes mended . .. Youll 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 elses 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. Hed met aerobics
instructors and plumbers who now ran galleries, so nothing the Youngers knew
about art surprised him. Eventually he said, It wasnt on the list Ivan gave
me, meaning it wasnt insured, meaning there was no point in taking it.

Fucking list, Sugarfoot said.

He slowed the taxi. They were
outside Bargain City, his brothers 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 brothers 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?

Its 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?

Wyatt didnt reply. He nodded at the
taxi, This taken care of?

The day driver takes it out
tomorrow morning, same as usual, Ivan said. He walked over to the cab and
leaned in at the drivers 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 hed
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 victims refund or, as in tonights job, the reward
money. He had insurance clerks in his pocket, along with cops and magistrates
probably. And just lately there were rumours hed bought into the vice
operations of a Sydney syndicate expanding its Melbourne base.

Now he was staring at Wyatt. Wheres
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 hed 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 storerooms 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.

Ivan folded his arms across his
thick chest, and leaned back against the bench. Is something wrong?

Wyatts narrow face seemed to
sharpen. What do you fucking think?

Tell me.

Straightforward job, experienced
lookout, right?

Right.

Except theres this hidden agenda,
Wyatt said. We have a young punk who wants to learn a few tricks so hell be
useful to his older brother, and the older brother thinks, why not send him out
on a job with a pro?

Ivan Younger shifted uncomfortably. Thought
it would do him good, he said, his high voice a register higher. What did he
do?

Later, Wyatt said. Give me my
fee.

Ivan pointed at a corner safe. Its
in there. I want the stuff first.

Havent got it.

Ivan stared at him. Did you get
into the place?

Oh, we got in all right, Wyatt
said.

Dont fuck around. How come theres
no stuff?

My fee.

No way. You deliver, you get paid,
that was the deal. If youre holding out for more, you can just fuck off.

Wyatt stood lightly on the balls of
his feet, his fists ready. He kept half an eye on the alley door. He said, We
left the stuff behind.

What the fuck for? You

Sugarfoot Younger stepped in from
the alley. He was carrying a painting, another small one, a plain wooden frame
this time. Hey, Ive? He tell you what happened? Got cold feet and left the
stuff behind. I snuck this out, but. He began to cross the storeroom towards
them.

What do you mean? Ivan said. There
were no paintings on the-

He stopped. Wyatt had stepped behind
Sugarfoot and was jerking savagely on the ponytail. He had the pistol in his
other hand. He motioned at Ivan with it. You move and Ill blow his brains out

Sugarfoot struggled. He had the
blockish body of a weightlifter but his large limbs lacked flexibility, his
arms bowed out at the sides and he was a head shorter than Wyatt. Get him,
Ive, he said, grunting the words.

Wyatt ground the pistol barrel under
Sugarfoots jaw, cutting off his voice. The pressure on the ponytail forced
Sugarfoots head back. The painting clattered onto the floor.

You want him to
learn
things? Wyatt said. He tugged hard on the ponytail in punctuation. Here are
some basic lessons. One, obey orders. Two, know your part. Three, no guns
unless the job demands it. Four

He released the ponytail, stepped
back, and raked the pistol across Sugarfoots face.

Stay out of this, he said,
gesturing at Ivan again. He drove his knee into Sugarfoots groin, let him
double over, then smacked the butt on the back of his neck. Sugarfoot
collapsed, dry-retching.

Wyatt prodded with his foot. Four,
know your limitations. Youre a punk.

He stepped back and pocketed the
pistol.

Ivan Younger relaxed. In other
words, he said, he fucked up.

It was an attempt at humour, but
Wyatt took out the pistol again. My five thousand.

Fuck you.

They stood and stared at each other.
Wyatt thought about it. Stand-offs wasted time. He didnt want the antagonism,
and the longer he hung around here the riskier it would be. Still holding the
pistol, he bent down and picked up the little painting and took it across to a
deep stainless steel sink.

Ivan said, What the fuck are you
doing?

Wyatt ignored him. He smashed the
glass with the pistol butt, snapped the wooden frame and dropped the painting
into the sink.

Jesus Christ, Wyatt.

He watched dully as Wyatt doused the
painting with methylated spirits and set fire to it. A Whiteley, Ivan said. Know
what one of thems worth?

Wyatt knew Whiteleys. If he wanted,
he could steal job-lots of Whiteleys in every house in Toorak. He watched the
painting turn to ash, said, Stay away from me, and let himself out into the
night.

* * * *

Three

Ivan
watched Wyatt go, feeling vaguely dissatisfied. Hed backed him down on the
five thousand dollars, but it was a hollow victory. Wyatt wasnt someone youd
normally cross. He told himself he did it because of the guys arrogance and
the way hed thumped Sugar.

He leaned down and twisted his
brothers ear. Get up.

Sugarfoot patted at him feebly.

Get
up.
I want to know what
happened tonight.

Sugarfoot put his weight on his
hands, then his knees, and finally stood. He swayed groggily, touched his face
and took his hands away. They were sticky with blood. Look what the cunt did
to me.

Ill do worse if you dont fucking
tell me what happened.

Sugarfoot shrugged, his loose,
pouchy face growing sullen. The maid, whatever. One minute shes all right,
the next minute she carks it.

Jesus H. Christ.

Mustve had a dicky heart.

Ivan stared at his brother. You
didnt help her along, of course?

No. I swear

Ah, fuck off, I dont want to hear
about it.

Ivan leaned against the workbench,
concentrating hard. Wyatt wouldnt talk. But the insurance clerk would have to
be sweetened in case he developed a conscience.

Fucking Sugar. A grade-A fuckwit.
That Whiteley painting could have put them all in Pentridge.

He stiffened. Listenyou take
anything else?

Nothing, said Sugarfoot. Look, Im
sorry, right?

Ivan regarded his brother sourly.
Sugarfoot: a joke name, yet he was proud of it, the moron. Hed been charged
with his first offence at the age of twelve. That was followed by ten stretches
inside for periods ranging from four days to eighteen months: indecent assault,
extortion, social security fraud, possession of cannabis resin.

He grabbed Sugarfoots face in a
pinch grip. The eyes looked okay. Whenever Sugar was on coke or angel dust or
whatever, his pupils shrank.

Sugarfoot shook him off. Leave us
alone.