Wyatt - 01 - Kick Back (9 page)

At eleven oclock he popped his
knuckles and stepped out for some fresh air. Being a Monday night, and
mid-winter, there wasnt much action in King Street. Not like the time he
worked a Saturday night shift: guys openly dealing, chicks crying rape, torn
scalps, cops, ambulances, a couple of bouncers charged with assault. Do this
full time? Fifteen bucks an hour? Forget it.

He was more and more determined to
turn pro. Seeing Bauer in action this afternoon had left him feeling unsettled
and excited. Bauer had the right idea.

Monday night bouncer? Collector of
small debts? No input into planning? Fuck that. One swift, clean, impressive
hit, thats all hed need.

He finished work at one oclock. By
one-thirty he was sitting in the Customline in the car park of the Housing
Commission flats in Racecourse Road. Hobba lived on the eighth floor, but
Sugarfoot didnt go up to check it out. Too many ethnics about. Leave your car
unattended and theyd strip it. Look twice at them and theyd knife you.

Sugarfoot started the Customline and
drove out of the car park and across to a long, narrow street in Brunswick. He
looked sourly at the houses. They were small workers bungalows, but the street
was well on the way to becoming yuppie heaven. Already there were brass
numerals and restored verandahs. Pedersens weatherboard was set amid tidy
garden beds and gravel paths. Gloomy fruit trees dominated the back yard.

Sugarfoot sat for a while. There was
no sign of life, but he didnt expect there to be. If Hobba and Pedersen did
have something planned with Wyatt, and if it hadnt happened yet, their daytime
movements might be the key. Meanwhile, finding out where they lived was all part
of the groundwork.

Sugarfoot drove home and set the
alarm for eight oclock. Fucking terrible hour but he was treating Tuesday as
the first day of the rest of his life.

* * * *

Fifteen

Before
going for the guns on Tuesday morning, Wyatt checked out of the Gatehouse. He
never spent more than one night in a place when he was setting up a job. He
checked into a cheap hotel nearby, put his remaining cash in a money belt
around his waist, and entered the Underground at Parliament Station. He caught
a train that went through Burnley. Out of habit he sat at the end of the
carriage, where he had a clear view of the aisle and the entry and connecting
doors. He kept his hand on the knife in his pocket. That was habit, too. But
knives were useful. People respected the swift threat of a blade where a gun or
a raised fist simply flustered them.

The carriage was almost empty. Two
men, one elderly, the other about forty, sat near the middle doors. Three
middle-aged women were going home with their shopping. Wyatt listened to them
comparing the hairdressing salons in Myer and David Jones. Two young Vietnamese
men, quick and glittering, sat at the far end of the carriage. Across from
Wyatt was an overweight teenage mother wearing stretch jeans and scuffed
moccasins. She had trouble keeping still, and shouted rather than spoke
endearments to a squawling child in a pusher. There was graffiti on the
windows, the script bold and mocking.

He got off at Burnley Station and
stood at the timetable board watching others get off, watching for lingerers.
He saw the young mother light a cigarette and shake the pusher. She joined a
huddle of people at the exit gate, people who could easily be her parents,
siblings, neighbours. They disappeared into the flat, exhausted streets. Sour
poverty and contention and mindless pride, Wyatt thought. Hed grown up in a
suburb like this. Everyone had talked solidarity, but hed never seen it.

Other trains came in and pulled out
again. He left the station and walked to Cowper Road, a narrow street of sodden
workers cottages and grimy workshops. Cars heaved across small craters in the
road surface, throwing up gouts of oily water.

Number twenty-nine was a
corrugated-iron shed about thirty metres deep. A sign above the door said
Burnley Metal Fabricators. On a smaller sign was the word office and an arrow
that pointed left to a turn-of-the-century cottage which shared a wall with the
shed.

Apart from the patchy lawn and a
chained Alsatian on the verandah, there was no sign of life at the cottage. The
curtains were imitation lace. Steel bars secured the windows. Keeping a wary
eye on the Alsatian, Wyatt mounted the steps to the door. The dog opened and
closed an eye and yawned squeakily. Its tail flapped. Wyatt pressed the buzzer.

A voice crackled on the intercom. Yeah?

Flood?

Yeah.

I rang you last night, Wyatt said.

He heard shuffling footsteps behind
the door and sensed an eye at the peephole. Two locks were opened. The door
swung back. Flood, a small, gloomy man dressed in overalls, said nothing but
turned and shuffled back into the house. The air was hot and stale and smelt of
toast and pipe smoke. Wyatt followed Flood through a poky sitting-room where
gas flames flickered in an ancient heater, to a kitchen at the back of the house.
The ceramic sink was chipped and yellowed. Beaten fruit-tin lids had been
nailed over cracks in the linoleum. A nervy black cat eyed Wyatt from a wooden
kitchen dresser.

I asked around, Flood said. The
word is, youre okay.

Wyatt said nothing.

Flood shrugged. He had a staved-in
face. Whisker tufts grew high on his cheeks as if he shaved without a mirror. A
thin brown rime coated his lips. Suit yourself, he said. He sat down. There
was another chair but Wyatt remained standing. What are you after?

Three handguns.

Prices range from two hundred and
fifty bucks. You good for it?

Yes.

Ill buy back afterhalf what you
paid.

Wyatt nodded.

Next door, Flood said.

He led Wyatt into the backyard and
through a side door to the long shed. It was dark inside, the air heavy with
the smell of oil. Dismembered machines, heavy lathes, copper tubing, iron
scraps and metal shavings were scattered about the floor. Weak, wintry light
barely penetrated the grimy windows in the roof. Everything was coated with
grease and dust. Flood picked his way through the shed. It was an unlikely
place for such small, precise instruments as guns. Wyatt was about to challenge
Flood when Flood pulled back the corner of a dirty rug to reveal a trap-door.
They climbed down into a long, narrow chamber.

Wyatt understood. Nice, he said.

The armourer showed emotion for the
first time. Like it? He pointed at the walls, floor and ceiling. Completely
soundproof. The lining absorbs ricochets. The targets down there. He
indicated the overhead pulley system and the sandbags stacked at the far end.
Rubbing his hands together, he said, Lets do business.

Light, accurate, good stopping
power, Wyatt said. Untraceable.

Thatll cost you, Flood said. What
sort of job you pulling?

Wyatt ignored him. He kept a .38
revolver at Shoreham and a Browning automatic in his car. They were for his
protection when he wasnt working. They were new, untraceable. Hed never used
them. When he was working hed buy a gun and discard it after the job. He used
a different supplier each time. He never bought guns that might tie him to
someone elses job, someone elses shooting. Show me what youve got, he said.

Flood unlocked a steel cabinet and
began taking out handguns and arranging them in rows on the benchtop: Colt
Woodsman .22 target pistol, 9 mm Beretta, Browning automatic, Smith &.
Wesson .38 Chiefs Special, Walther PPK, and the first Sauer Wyatt had seen. The
final gun was a chunky Uzi machine pistol the size of a heavy revolver.

Forget the Uzi, Wyatt said. Im
not fighting a war.

Good persuader, Flood said, but
Wyatt was pulling on his latex gloves and reaching for the Browning. He wanted
to compare it with his own. Like Floods other guns, it had been smeared with
gelatin and sealed in a plastic bag. But that was recent; it hadnt always been
cared for. The butt showed traces of rust. A hand print was etched permanently
into the barrel. The serial number had been scratched out with a file. But the
clip was full. Wyatt shrugged. He would try it at least. Ear plugs.

Flood handed him a pair of
industrial earmuffs, then clipped a target to the pulley and sent it down to
the end of the room. When Flood was out of the way, Wyatt positioned himself
and snapped off several shots. The gun jammed.

Flood was unembarrassed. He flicked
a switch and the target came back to where they were standing. Wyatt examined
the spread pattern. Only three of his shots had hit the target, and well to the
left of centre. He was never that bad.

This gun is shit.

Bargain basement, Flood said. What
next?

Wyatt didnt know the Sauer. The
Woodsman would be light and accurate but it was too long, too difficult to
conceal. Give me the Beretta, he said.

It was a 15-shot Parabellum model,
blue steel construction, wood grip. It wasnt new, but it was clean and it didnt
jam. The spread pattern was tight and accurate. A maybe. But who knew what some
punk had used it for in the past?

He consciously tried the Smith
&. Wesson last, and immediately felt at home with it. At 14 ounces the
weight was right, and it came with a natural rubber grip. It looked new.

Part of a gun shop haul in Brisbane
last year, Flood murmured. Never been used.

Got any more?

Another six.

Ill try it.

The two-inch barrel would not mean
great accuracy over distance, but then, accuracy beyond 20 metres is doubtful
in any handgun. The raid on Finns office would be strictly close-range stuffif
it came to that, and it wouldnt. Wyatt fired the revolver rapidly. The pattern
was perfect.

Ill take three, he said. And
ammunition.

Three hundred and fifty bucks each
and Ill throw in a box of shells, Flood said. He was belligerent, expecting
Wyatt to haggle over the price. But all Wyatt said was, The numbers have only
been scratched off. Thats not going to stop the forensic boys. Got any acid?

Flood nodded. Theres some
hydrochloric upstairs. He turned to make for the steps to the trapdoor.

Just a moment, Wyatt said. Youve
got records for these?

Flood paused reluctantly. In there.

He was indicating a two-drawer
filing cabinet. I want them, Wyatt said.

He reached out, keeping an eye on
Flood, and opened the cabinet. The filing system was simple: folders arranged
alphabetically according to gun name. This was Floods insurance. If ever the
cops traced a gun back to him, he would have something to offer them in
exchange for a reduced sentence.

As expected, Flood had handled
dozens of Smith & Wessons. Details of each had been recorded in full on a
filing card: model type, serial number if present, description of the condition
of the gun, dates, provenance, and information about the purchaser. A small,
sealable plastic bag was stapled inside each foldertest slugs that Flood had
fired into a sawdust channel and kept to help identify the guns he sold.

Flood watched Wyatt flip through the
folders. Aggrieved, he said, Youll fucking mess up me system.

Wyatt ignored him. He found seven
recently dated folders for unused Smith & Wesson .38s. Brisbane Small
Arms, he said, reading from the first folder. These the ones?

Flood nodded sourly.

Wyatt burnt the cards and pocketed
the test slugs for disposal later. He left the other folders. They had nothing
to do with him.

They went upstairs and coated the
filed serial numbers with acid. Flood then cleaned the guns and put them in a
shoe box inside a Safeway bag.

Wyatt paid him and left the house.
On the verandah the dog groaned and stretched and lifted its tail.

Quarter to twelve. Wyatt did not
return to Burnley Station but walked to the pavilion in Richmond Park where
Hobba would pick him up. The air was cold. A small boy, bloated in a coat and
scarf, walked unsteadily with his mother. A council gardener was hoeing weeds
along the paths.

At five minutes to twelve the
gardener loaded his tools onto the back of a council truck. He got in and left.
At twelve oclock a white Holden turned off the Boulevard and stopped. Hobba
was driving.

Wyatt left the shelter of the
pavilion and walked toward the Holden. He passed the childs mother, buckling
her son into the back of a Volvo station wagon. The only other vehicle around
was a massive 1950s car pulling onto the grass verge on the Boulevard. It had
tinted windows. Wyatt could hear the thump of its stereo.

Wyatt opened the drivers door of
the Holden. Let me drive, he said.

Hobba moved across to the passenger
seat and Wyatt climbed in behind the steering wheel. He started the engine,
then jerked his head at the big car behind them. How longs he been there?

Hobba began to chew on a mint. After
I ordered the van I called in at my place to get a jacket. He picked me up
there.

Wyatt put the Holden in gear. Have
you been treading on any toes lately?