Wyatt - 01 - Kick Back (4 page)

At one oclock he ate lunch
sparingly and restlessly, then sat and brooded at his window. Sometimes, after
a job, he brought a woman here for a few days, women who didnt know who he was
or what he did. They found him to be wary and emotionally invisible. When he
tired of them he drove them to Hastings and put them on the train. He always
took confusing back roads, and there was no number on his telephone dial,
making it impossible for them to find him again. He had encountered one of
these women once, in Bourke Street, and had responded so coldly that she
flushed and drew back in anger. It seemed to Wyatt that he was only ever in
intimate situations with strangersa woman sometimes, a safe-cracker in a
darkened room, a getaway driver after a joband then only for short periods. He
hid his past, from others and from himself. No photographs, diaries or letters;
nothing kept for memorys sake; no reminiscing.

The wind dropped in mid-afternoon
and he went out in his boat, a five-metre aluminium dinghy with a Johnson
outboard. He took with him fishing gear and a Nikon with a telephoto lens and
puttered along the shoreline for several kilometres, stopping occasionally to
fish or photograph the sea birds. But the dissatisfaction wouldnt leave him.

At four oclock he turned back.
There would be a storm later. The sky was grey, heaving. He beat through the
short, choppy whitecaps to the beach and hauled the dinghy onto the boat trailer.
Fat drops of rain began to dimple the sand. An open fire tonight, he thought.
Grilled fish and baked potatoes, salad, one of his dwindling dry whites. But
then he felt cold, and thought again of his six months in the sun somewhere.
This was a life of waiting, and he might wait forever.

The weekend passed. He gardened,
gathered pine cones in the pine tree plantation, spoke to Craig, and started to
clear the thicket of blackberry bushes on his southern boundary. But a sense of
lucklessness seemed to wash around him. He was forty and felt that hed lost
the old easy pattern, become unrelaxed, caught up in complications and
uncertainty. Nothing he touched seemed worthy of him anymore. He needed money.
He needed luck.

The call came on Sunday evening. The
telephone rang once and stopped. Wyatt stiffened, waiting for it to sound
again, then fall silent, then sound a third time, the signal hed worked out
with Rossiter. Once, a year ago, the telephone had rung at length and at
intervals all through the day and into the evening, leaving him edgy and alert,
his gun at hand, the safety catch off. But nothing happened. He supposed it was
a wrong number. Only Rossiter knew his address and telephone number.

The telephone rang again. Wyatt waited,
and when it rang a
third time he picked it up but did
not speak. Rossiter said, without preamble, Rob Hobba wants you to ring him,
and read off a Melbourne number. Wyatt dialled, let it ring twice, hung up, and
dialled again.

Hobba answered immediately. Yes?

Im calling about your
advertisement in the
Trading
Post, Wyatt said. I need more details.

Its a Westinghouse, Hobba said, very
clean, large capacity but easy to shift. However, I have to sell within the
next few days. Any chance you can come and see it?

Wyatt thought about it. Hed worked
with Hobba twice, a bank hold-up and an armoured-car hijack, and both had gone
like a dream. Hobba was good; he wouldnt be making contact unless he thought
the job had possibilities. And it was an easy
job
he was talking about, a safe, but it had to be done soon.

Tomorrow morning would suit me,
Wyatt said. Ill come up to Melbourne and ring you again when I get there.

They rang off and Wyatt poured away
the scotch hed been drinking. He would not drink again until after the job.
Already he felt calmer and more compact. He did not prefigure the job but went
to bed and slept dreamlessly.

* * * *

Six

This
time Wyatt took the train to Melbourne. He didnt want to be burdened with a
car. If the job looked like taking a while, hed rent himself one.

He got out at Flinders Street,
walked through to the Gatehouse on Little Collins, and registered under the
name Lake. The room they gave him looked out onto an airshaft, but it was
comfortable. Wyatt liked the Gatehouse. It was central, cheap and
old-fashioned, a hotel for bemused farmers and their families visiting
Melbourne from the country. You didnt get cops checking faces in the lobby or
bars at the Gatehouse.

Now he was leaning his long frame
against the window, regarding Robert Hobba with cold interest. Three hundred
thousand dollars? he said.

Hobba nodded. In cash.

Where?

An office safe.

Wyatt frowned. Lifts, doors,
cameras, security patrols, nightwatchmen . . .

Thats just it, Hobba said. Its
in a house.

Wyatt watched him, wondering if this
job was like all the others, no more than someone with an itch and a way in. At
first sight, Hobba didnt inspire confidence. He sat on the edge of the bed,
narrow shoulders sloping to a bulky stomach and massive thighs. He had
prominent lips in a grey, puffy face. When he was nervous he licked them.

He licked them now. A converted
house in South Yarra, he said. Quiller Place. Went by it yesterday. Single
storey, quiet street. A lawyers office. Easy

Wyatt said nothing, deliberately
putting pressure on Hobba. Then he said, Tell me what a suburban law firm is
doing with three hundred thou in the safe.

Hobba wet his lips again and looked
at the ceiling. Lets see if Ive got this straight. When you want to build a
shopping centre, whatever, you apply for a planning permit. If youre out of
luck, some neighbour comes along and lodges an objection. If you go through a
tribunal it can take a few months. Then when youre about to lay the
foundations some other geezer objects. Your costs go up, everyones being
fucked around, so to save hassles you buy off the objectors.

He frowned, then looked at Wyatt and
smiled in satisfaction.

So? Wyatt said.

So this lawyer, Finn, negotiates
these things.

Negotiates himself three hundred
thousand dollars? Thats some fee, Wyatt said.

He only gets a percentage, Hobba
said. Theres a deal going through on Friday and hes the banker for a few
hours. Well only have one shot at it.

Wyatt had not moved from the window.
He leaned against the frame, arms folded now, assessing Hobba and his story. He
said, How come you know all this?

It was eleven-thirty. Hobba had
arrived at eleven-fifteen and already had smoked three cigarettes. After each
one he took a mint from a rattling tin and tossed it into his mouth. Now he
shuddered and coughed, and Wyatt, recognising a delaying tactic, said sharply: Where
did you hear it?

Hobba sighed. The horses mouth.

Finn?

Not him, Hobba said. The partner.
A bird called Anna Reid.

Dont like it, Wyatt said. Then, How
close are they?

Not close at all. Just partners.

Hobba wet his lips again, drew
violently on his cigarette, and knocked off the ash with three dainty taps of
his forefinger. He wore glasses, looked crumpled and gave an impression of
incompetence, but Wyatt had worked with him before, had seen the excessive
gestures disappear and the shapeless body grow still and efficient.

Wyatt continued to watch him. He
waited, saying nothing. Sometimes people found him to be patient beyond reason.
Finally Hobba shifted restlessly and said, You know Maxie Pedersen?

Wyatt remembered a hard, sandy man
who specialised in safes when he wasnt dealing dope on a small scale. Last I
heard he was doing five for blowing a TAB safe. He also deals, so no thanks.

Hobba shook his head. Hes given
that away. Strictly safes now. Anyhow, he got out a year ago on parole. The
Reid woman is his lawyer, Legal Aid. She told him about Finns safe.

Wyatt was liking this less and less.
If Pedersens fucking her, thats it, Im out.

Nothing like that.

But shes got him excited about three
hundred thou that isnt hers.

Hobba shrugged. All Im saying is,
according to Max shes not pulling his dick. The moneys there.

There was a silence. Wyatt turned on
the electric kettle. He tried to go behind Hobbas story. He wondered about the
woman: maybe she was bored, kidding herself she was living on the edge,
flirting with hard men and risks.

He made tea with the hotels tea
bags, waiting for the water to turn a deep reddish-brown. He threw away the
bags and handed a cup to Hobba, who sipped from it cautiously and then reached
for the sugar.

Wyatt blew on the surface of his
tea. Lets suppose Pedersens right. The woman bothers me. Shes got too much
to lose. Her share of three hundred thousand dollars isnt going to be all that
much. How do we know shes not after thrills? Maybe shes setting us up. Your
Honour, I was helping Mr Pedersen rehabilitate himselfI had no idea hed
fallen in with thieves again.

Hobba was losing heart. Talk to
her, mate. She convinced Max Pedersen, whos no mug, and he convinced me.

Wyatt said, She approached Pedersen
because he knows safes?

Hobba nodded. She defended him on
the TAB job. Anyhow, he told her he couldnt do it alone. She doesnt like it
but she said shed meet us.

He looked up. Remember that
armoured car? Or that bank in that shopping centre? Youd spend a few days
checking out car parking, front and rear access, then strike quickly when it
was quiet. This job could be like that, nice and simple.

Ill check it out, Wyatt said.

I mean, me and Max need this one,
Wyatt,
really
need it. You know how its been lately. No decent jobs
around, no cash anymore, everythings plastic cards or electronic transfer

Wyatt watched him toss another mint
into his mouth. Hobba was broke. He spent it, lost it, forgot it, gave it away
to hangers-on and ex-wives. But hed put his finger on the general malaise.

Im not promising anything, Wyatt
said, but I want you to tell Pedersen and the woman to keep this evening free
for a meeting.

You going to check out Quiller
Place?

Wyatt nodded.

Hobba sighed. His jaws closed on the
mint.

* * * *

Seven

At
two-thirty Wyatt alighted from a tram outside a strip of salons, bookshops and
designer-wear showrooms on Toorak Road and walked through to Quiller Place. He
wore an overcoat over a casual brown- and grey-flecked woollen suit, white
shirt and plain tie. His shoes were brown. It was a suit for any purpose. He
might be a professional punter, a businessman, a client keeping an appointment
with his lawyer.

He had altered the contours of his
face. His hair, normally fine and straw-coloured and pushed indifferently to
one side, was now oil-darkened and drawn back close and gleaming against his
skull. He had applied a small smudge of soot to the edge of his bony jaw. He
wore steel-framed glasses with chipped lenses. The frame was crooked. It was a
face of false but compelling and contradictory surfaces.

He
walked once down to Quiller Place. It was one block long, ending in a
T-junction at each end. There were houses along the northern side, one of them
converted into the offices of Finn and the Reid woman. Opposite them were the
rear entrances, courtyards and customer-parking areas of the shops on Toorak
Road. That was good; the street was a backwater,
meaning few potential witnesses. Then Wyatt explored
one block north and one block south of Quiller Place, checking for laneway
access and dead-end or one-way streets.

At five minutes to three he stopped
outside number 5. It was a restored Edwardian house like those on either side
of it. The stonework was soft and clean, the woodwork painted in period
colours. A cobblestone driveway curved round at the front of the house and
there was room for two cars at the side. A car was parked there, a pastel-green
Mercedes bearing the plates FINN. The words Finn and Reid, Barristers and
Solicitors were engraved on a brass plate next to the front door. Anna Reid,
Wyatt thought. He didnt know Finns first name.

A smaller sign read Please Enter.
He pushed open the heavy, glossy black door and found himself in a long
hallway. The air, centrally heated, smelt of new carpets, paint and furniture
polish. A recent injection of money, he thought. Floorboards and heating vents
gleamed in the hallway. A telephone chirruped in an end room. He heard expert fingers
pause on a computer keyboard. A voice said, Can I help you?

A receptionist was looking at him
from a small carpeted office to the right of the front door. This was the
designer-punk end of South Yarra: the receptionist had elaborately untidy black
hair and wore black tights and skirt, a striped waistcoat over a scarlet lycra
top, silver bracelets, and four silver rings in the cartilage of one ear. She
wore plum eyeshadow like a bruising around each eye. She was happily chewing
gum and the smile was genuine.