Wyatt - 01 - Kick Back (5 page)

Then, as Wyatt approached her desk,
she frowned. She was disconcerted by his crooked glasses and smudged cheek. Her
fingers itched to make adjustments. Wyatt said, You were able to squeeze me in
for a three oclock appointment with Mr Finn.

She snapped her fingers,
remembering. Mr Lake?

Thats right.

An embarrassed half-smile as she
looked at a point next to his ear. If youll just take a seat in the waiting
room? Ill tell Mr Finn youre here.

Wyatt removed his overcoat and stood
at the waiting room window, ignoring the Scandinavian-look leather armchairs in
the room. He automatically studied the window and ceiling. As he expected,
there was an alarm system. In a room somewhere along the corridor, a vigorous
male voice talked and laughed. Finn? Was the safe in his office? Would he
interview Wyatt there or take him to a consulting room? Whatever, this was all
part of filling in the background. Wyatt wanted firsthand knowledge of the
layout, an impression of Finn, a feeling about the job itself. If everything
seemed right he would call a meeting. It was not a big job, but it was the best
hed been offered in months. If it fell through it wouldnt be for want of
solid groundwork.

He studied the rest of the room.
Pale wallpaper, mass-produced prints hanging from an old-style picture rail,
empty fireplace, business magazines on a glass-topped table. He returned to the
window. A minute later he saw a black Volkswagen slow in the street outside,
its turning indicator flashing. It gave way to a passing taxi and pulled into
the driveway next to Finns Mercedes. A young woman got out, dressed in dark,
expensive winter clothes. Wyatt stood at the windows edge, watching her
approach the front door. When he heard her footsteps in the hall he stepped
back and began idly flicking through a magazine. The footsteps paused at the
waiting-room door. Wyatt looked up, as anyone might. He saw solitary,
complicated good looks, curious green eyes, an impression of impatience. Then
she was gone and he heard her enter a room somewhere along the corridor. Hobba
was right. She was too classy for Max Pedersen.

The receptionist appeared, staring
this time at Wyatts shoulder. This way, Mr Lake. Mr Finn will see you now.

Wyatt followed her along the
corridor. More evidence of the alarm system. Anna Reid had closed her door. The
receptionist stopped at the end office, smiled, extended an arm, and Wyatt
entered.

The man behind the massive
leather-topped antique desk pushed back and half turned in his swivel chair and
got up, his hand outstretched. Mr Lake, he said. David Finn. Have a seat.

Finn was an inch taller than Wyatt,
at least six-two, solid, not heavy. He was about fifty and had the blunt look
of a man who gets timid clients to the point quickly. He wore an expensive
suit, striped cotton shirt and a floppy, hand-tied silk bow tie. A camel hair
overcoat hung on a chrome coat rack in one corner. Two stiff modern chairs
faced the desk, and a bench under the window supported a fax, a telex, a paging
device and two mobile phones. Leather-bound law books sat neatly in white
bookshelves. Well-known Boyd and Nolan prints were on the walls. The safe was
there, a squat black Chubb set on tiles in the unused fireplace. On the
mantelpiece above it were sporting trophies and two small team photographs. No
comfortable chairs, no ashtrays, no clutter. It was an odd room, as though
furnished absent-mindedly from antique shops and designer showrooms.

Finn shook hands and abruptly sat
down. What can I do for you, Mr Lake?

Wyatt hovered, then sat, hesitant,
nervous, on the edge of a stiff chair opposite Finn. If Finn wanted him
intimidated, he would be intimidated. In a rush of words he said, I was told
youre the best person to see about problems with building permits.

Finn straightened invisible papers
on his desk. Depends. What sort of problems?

Im speaking on behalf of others,
Wyatt said. If what we
think
is going to happen happens, well be
ruined.

Finn was a busy man. Mr Lake, what
exactly is the problem?

I own a bookshop, rare books, two
others sell antiques, another runs a print gallery. Its that sort of area, he
said apologetically.

Finn nodded. Go on.

Well, we understand the hotel on
the corner has applied to extend its licence and build a beer garden and a
bigger car park. Were open on the weekends. Thats when we do most of our
business. We dont want yahoos coming and going. Police breathalysers. People
urinating and throwing bottles.

Finn laced his fingers together and
began to recite. The Planning and Environment Act stipulates that anyone has
the right to object to building development. You may appeal on social and
economic grounds against council decisions to award planning permits. If a
developer gets a building surveyor to give the go-ahead under the Building
Control Act, you may then take the matter to the civil court.

Wyatt shifted in his seat. Is it ..
. does it cost a lot?

Finn swung idly in his chair. Court
costs can be high, certainly. Then he leaned forward and said, It neednt get
that far.

Wyatt looked alert.

Appeals to council decisions are
heard by the Administrative Appeals Tribunal, Finn said. Many small objectors
use it. Its not like the normal court system, where if you lose you have to
fork out.

The word lose seemed to worry
Wyatt. There was silence in the room. After a while Finn said, Hows business?

Business? Wyatt said.

You know what I mean. High interest
rates, limited cash flowsmall businesses are failing left, right and centre.
Am I right?

Wyatt was embarrassed.

There are ways, Finn went on, where
you can have cash in hand even if development does go ahead.

Got you, Wyatt thought.

Finn fiddled with his watch, a
chunky, complicated metal and plastic affair decorating his wrist. Wyatt bet
that he wore a gold chain, Reeboks and tight jeans on the weekends and drank coffee
at sidewalk cafe tables.

Once an objection has been lodged,
Finn continued, developers are very vulnerable. It can take eight months
before a case is heard by the Tribunal. Meanwhile costs escalate interest
rates, landholding costs, etcetera, etcetera. You can imagine the mindset of
someone in that predicament.

Mindset. Jesus. Wyatt kept his face
polite, expectant, naive.

It seemed to irritate Finn. Mr
Lake, Ill spell it out. In return for withdrawing the objection, developers
have been known to pay tens of thousands of dollars, or compromise, or offer
work in kind. Perhaps you need a new shop front? He shrugged. Whatever.

Eagerness flickered on Wyatts face.
But he played responsible again and said, Is that legal?

Depends how you look at it. A
persistent prosecutor might do something with it, but why bother? In the long
run it will be easier to tighten up the legislation. Wise people are acting
now.

Wyatt was anxious. There was a lot
to take in. Ill have to talk to the others, he said.

Finn stood up and looked at his
watch. Why dont you all come in? Say, sometime next week. Bring all relevant
documents with you so we can map out a plan of action. I tell you whatif we do
decide to go ahead, I wont bill you for todays consultation. How does that
sound?

Thats very kind of you, Wyatt
said, standing and shaking Finns hand.

See Amber on your way out. Shell
fix you up with an appointment.

Wyatt left the room. Finn was
already working on something else, scribbling on a pad, frowning. Anna Reids
door was still closed. Wyatt could hear her murmuring to a client. He made his
way to the reception desk. Here Amber watched him get into a tangle buttoning
up his coat.

Finally she couldnt help herself. No
offence, she said, but theres a bit of dirt on your cheek.

God, is there? Wyatt said. He went
out, rubbing at it.

In Toorak Road he telephoned Hobba. So
far so good.

You checked it out?

Finns bent. Now well check the
woman. My room, eight oclockbut tell Pedersen seven-thirty.

* * * *

Eight

Monday,
and Sugarfoot Younger still felt bad. He got up late, taking his time, hitting
the street late, just before lunch. The traffic was heavy, the Customline
hemmed in by mugs in suits in the company Holden. On Victoria Street he leaned
on the horn for effect, then searched the dial for some decent music. If it
wasnt easy-listening crap it was new-wave crap. Eventually he found something
to match his mood, Roy Orbison singing Only the Lonely, the Big Os voice cutting
in and out because it was coming from fucking Geelong.

Matched his mood because even with
having the weekend off he felt depressed. His body ached. He kept trying to get
a mental grip on Wyatt, put him into some kind of perspective so he wasnt a
threat, but the picture kept slipping away.

In Elizabeth Street he stopped at a
speed shop and bought twin air horns for the Customline. Got some looksblokes
admiring the restoration job hed had done, the glossy chrome and duco and the
white-wall tyres. The personalised plates: CUSTOM.

He wasnt going to bust a gut
getting to Bargain City. For old times sake he cruised past the Vic Market,
throttling back, letting the Customline mutter past the donut trailers, the
stalls where on market day you had overweight men and women in track suits, and
foul-mouthed sorts scuffing along in moccasins, and ethnic guys with blow-waved
hair, handkerchiefs stuffed down the front of their stretch jeans.

The thing about your ethnic is, he
doesnt trust banks. Just one of the many possibilities Sugarfoot intended to
explore when he finally broke with Ivan and went freelance.

He stopped to let a garbage truck
back out of the fruit and vegetable section. He had lifted his first wallet at
the Vic Market, felt up an ethnic chick in a jeans stall while her old man was
serving a customer, scored his first line of coke from some Asian kid, whod
told him there was a Melbourne Triad and what to expect from it if he didnt
keep his mouth shut.

But that was back in his small-time
period, working with mugs who only had a limited rangelike theyd do burglary
but they wouldnt do arson, kind of thing; not to mention this one guy who
couldnt control himself and always had to have a crap at the scene. Sugarfoot
wound his way through to Footscray Road, saying aloud, Youre a long way past
all that, Sugar.

Thered also been his Pentridge
period, but that had been due to monumental bad luck. Everything had been going
along sweetsix dole cheques, a bit of bag-man work, a bit of distributing, day
manager of an escort agency. And then it all collapsed in a heap. Hed run up a
couple of debts, bugger-all really, but the heavy boys came round and said he
could either drive for them, just the once, settle his debt, or end up another
statistic of the Portsea rip.

Crass stupidity, the trial judge
said. No way known. Hed been set up, or someone had tipped the Feds off.
Eighteen months in Pentridge.

He learned how slowly time can pass.
Hed been expecting gang rapes in the showers, vicious guards just a gun and a
uniform away from prison themselves, invitations to be bum-buddies with some
guy with AIDS. But the real punishment was time and tedium: up at the same time
every morning, back to the cell at the same time every night; the meagre time
allotted for showering, shaving, eating, exercising; the long hours at some
sweatshop sort of job; the same juvenile crap on television every evening,
chosen by the lifers and the long-sentence boys whose brains had turned to
prison porridge. What really got to him was the simple lack of natural light
and natural darknesswherever he went they had an electric light on, bright
during the day so the guards wouldnt miss anything, dim at night but leaking
into his cell, his brain, nevertheless. Sugarfoot had wondered how he would
survive the eighteen months, was thankful they hadnt given him longer, and
knew he was never going back.

He came to Williamstown Road. The
lights were against him but the dickheads were trundling across the
intersection like they were out for a Sunday drive, so he leaned on the horn,
turned left in front of them, and opened up along Williamstown Road.

He parked at the back of Bargain
City and walked through to the showroom. Leanne, who helped in the mornings,
was trying to talk some dickhead into buying a vacuum cleaner. The cord goes
in here, she was saying. Sugarfoot stood next to her until she looked up.

Ivan in? he said.

Hes at an auction. Be back by
lunchtime.

Beautiful. Time to do some Wyatt
groundwork. But just as Sugarfoot turned to walk away, Leanne said, He wants
you to move those rolls of carpet out the back. He says theyre starting to
pong.

Things like this could break the
camels back. Forcing himself to stay cool, Sugarfoot said, No worries. By the
way, you got the key?

The key?

Yeah, the cupboard.

She turned to the customer and
pointed to a box on the floor. It comes with all the attachments, she said.
Turning again to Sugarfoot, she said, The keys in my top drawer.