Wyatt - 01 - Kick Back (16 page)

Seemed to be. A detective asked me
didnt I think it was well plannedthe robbers knew the layout, had guns,
disguises, a disguised vehicle.

What did you say

I told him it seemed to be. He
asked me about Finns clients. I said we worked separately, I didnt know them.

Wyatt said, With any luck theyll
concentrate on Finn.

They fell silent. The traffic was
heavy through Frankston, Mornington and Mt Martha, and for a while Wyatt forgot
about Anna. He found himself absorbed with his driving, braking often, alert
for mulish families and weekend farmers who were fleeing the city in
four-wheel-drives, hauling horse floats and boat trailers behind them. They
scared him. The village atmosphere was long gone from this part of the bay.
Mansions in the form of Californian funeral homes competed for advantage on the
cleared slopes leading to the beaches. Here worth was measured by sundeck area,
pool size, garage capacity. All along the coast, real estate agencies
outnumbered milk-bars by four to one, and the councillors rubbed their
gym-tanned hands together, knowing the cost of everything and the value of
nothing. Eventually, in frustration, he turned off and took back roads to
Shoreham.

It was cold at the cottage. While
Anna explored the house, the sheds and the garden, he chopped firewood, stacked
the logs on the lounge-room hearth and lit a fire.

He was aware of smellsthe splintery
new wood, the sea, Anna Reid. His muscles ached agreeably. Soon they would make
love, and then he would take her for a walk along the beach.

He thought how it might be. They
would be occasional lovers and it wouldnt go anywhere and that would suit both
of them.

He wondered how dedicated she was to
her job. The last few days had made her feel alive, shed said. She could be
useful to him. He had at least a dozen scams in mind that required a woman.

Meanwhile, he would hide his share
of the money and next week begin the careful process of converting it. Some
small deposits, some paintings, some shares and bonds.

He looked up as she entered the
room. For once he wasnt interested in taking his customary six months
somewhere warm.

* * * *

Thirty-Two

The
word was out on the street now, so all Bauer could do was wait. He spent the
morning in his workshop, tuned to the easy listening station, humming along to
Neil Diamond, Frank Sinatra, Liza Minnelli, and sometimes someone a bit racier,
like Joan Armatrading.

Humming helped him to concentrate.
On the bench in front of him was a packet of .38 calibre hollow-nose
cartridges. Taking them five at a time, he prised the lead noses out of their
brass jackets and upended them in a small vice. He filled the hollows with
mercury from a dropper, sealed them with wax melted on a bunsen burner, and
fitted them in the brass jackets again.

He might never use the cartridges,
but he liked to have them ready. Hed seen the damage they could do to a kaffirs
back, the mercury forcing its way through the nose and spreading out, causing a
massive wound and certain death from blood loss if nothing else. Bauer hummed
along with Barry Manilow, his fingers deft with the little cartridges.

There was a telephone on the bench.
He was patient. Someone would bite, hooked by ten thousand dollars.

He felt secure in here. There was no
window. The furniture consisted of the work bench, a chair, a planet lamp,
filing cabinets, shelves and a small wardrobe. His rifles and target pistols
were behind glass in a cabinet on one of the walls. The environment was
atmosphere controlled, and Bauer cleaned and oiled his guns regularly. Shelves
on a second wall held telescopic sights, tinted shooting glasses, earmuffs, gun
oil, rags, brushes and boxes of ammunition. On the wall above the work bench,
beneath ordnance survey maps, was a shelf of manuals and back issues of
Soldier
of Fortune.

The wardrobe was next to the
airtight door. In it were the jackets and trousers he wore for hunting and
shooting-range practice. Some of the clothing was black, some khaki, some in
camouflage shading. He kept rubber-and-canvas boots at the bottom. The drawers
held belts, webbing, clips, black skivvies, T-shirts, balaclavas and holsters.
Familiar gear, similar to the gear hed worn fifteen years ago, hunting
terrorists across the border into Mozambique. These days he bought his stuff
from a mail-order firm which had a booth at the
Soldier of
Fortune
convention in Las Vegas.

The phone rang at midday. A womans
voice, drowsy with recent sleep, said, Are you the one offering the reward?

Reward, Bauer said flatly.

The voice grew flustered and
uncertain. You know, for information.

About what?

About some robbery. A safe.

Could be.

The voice was silent. Then, This
rewardis it the real thing?

If the information is useful.

How will I know if its useful?

Ill know, Bauer said. Who are
you? Where are you? What do you know?

Im not stupid enough to tell you
over the phone, now am I? I want to see the colour of your money first.

Where and when? Bauers tone was
quick and contemptuous and it rattled the woman on the other end. She gave him
an address in Fitzroy, for two oclock.

The line went dead. Bauer resumed
work on the cartridges. After a while he began to hum, smiling because he knew
the address. He didnt know what it all meant yet, but he soon would.

He finished the cartridges, packed
them away, and decided to get ready. He was mindful of what might be ahead.
Whatever it was, it would be close and quick and it needed to be quiet.

He opened the gun cabinet and took
out the .22 pistol. With this gun Bauer was capable of placing six rounds in a
ten-centimetre grouping across a cardboard chest at twenty metres, but today
would be close-range work and thats what the .22 was best suited for. Also,
the gun had no history and the little slugs he used would tear apart in the
body and be useless as ballistics evidence. He checked the clip: full.
Unfortunately, the wood grip was too oily from all his good care so he wrapped
it in rubber bands so it wouldnt shift in his hand. He slapped the gun from
one palm to the other. Left or right, he was good with both.

Then a silencer, a shoulder holster
and his short black quilted coat. He checked the mirror: nothing showed. Bauer
believed there were too many cowboys in his game. If not selling absurd
T-shirts they were lugging around Colt Python .357 magnums weighing 47 ounces.
After a while they got tempted, tried a thrill killing or a hold-up, but they
always got caught, always held onto their guns or failed to clean their prints
off the shells they ejected at the scene.

He put on lightweight combat boots,
locked the door behind him and went to the kitchen to wait. As usual, Placida
was there, listening to a cassette of wailing love songs of the Philippines. It
was a harsh white room, the neon strip-lighting cold and bright in the ceiling.
A clock ticked on the wall. Placida looked up as he entered, saw how he was
dressed, and paled.

Bauer watched her. Come here, he
said. His voice was like gravel crushing.

She approached, her eyes cast down. You
know what to do, Bauer said, pushing down on her head.

* * * *

Thirty-three

Sugarfoot
was up at eight that morning, surprising Rolfe at his muesli and Tina in the
bathroom, tugging closed the plastic shower curtain. I wont look, he said,
catching a flash for the first time, and not too bad either.

Put the seat down after, she
yelled. Watch your aim.

Sugarfoot took his time, playing the
stream in the bowl. He lifted his head and called, Hey, Teen.

What?

Can I borrow the van again?

Sounds of angry soaping. When?

Now. This morning. My mates
getting rid of his bookshelves.

He half expected her to say, Can
read, can he? but she said, All right, but I need it lunchtime.

No worries. He shook the drops off
into the bowl. She yelled, as if shed been peeking, Dont dribble.

So he flushed, making her water run
scalding hot.

By quarter to nine he was parked
behind bushes in the Housing Commission car park. The flats loomed like rock
slabs on a cold plain, the window glass distorting the wintry morning sun like
icicles. From where he sat, Sugarfoot could see anyone who entered or left
Hobbas block. At this hour, plenty of people were about, going miserably to
work or the Vic Market in rusted cars, or walking to the tram stop. There were
kids in parkas, fucking ethnic kids all brushed and combed, a sure sign they had
parents working two jobs to buy a house out in the suburbs.

He took the stinking lift to the
eighth floor, saw that Hobba hadnt come home yet, and went downstairs again.
The flats created a wind tunnel and he had to hunch over against the gusting
air and kick away paper scraps that clung to his shins.

It was chilly in the Kombi, the
vinyl seat grim and unyielding. He sat there shivering in his long coat,
wondering if he could risk crossing the road to buy a vanilla slice and
takeaway coffee. Not even nine-thirty and he might have a long wait ahead of
him.

He got out and ran across to the
cafe, holding his forearm against his waist to keep the little .25 in place. He
was back in three minutes. The coffee was only lukewarm and the vanilla slice
smaller than usual, stale and shrunken-looking, but they made him feel better.

Thirty minutes later the coffee and
the coldness got the better of his bladder.

No public toilet anywhere. He couldnt
risk going to the pub on the corner: too far away and he might miss Hobba.

That left the flats. Piss in the
lift like everyone else. He got out of the van, locked his door, looked around
and started walking.

And halfway across open ground, in
broad daylight, he felt something hard press against his troubled kidneys, and
heard Hobba say softly, Its a gun, cowboy. Dont stop. Just keep walking.

Sugarfoots first impulse was to put
up his hands. To control them he put them in his pockets, but Hobba struck at
his elbows with the gun barrel. Keep them where I can see them. You carrying?

Sugarfoot cleared his throat. In my
belt, under my coat.

Give it to me later.

They approached the grimy, massive
columns at the base of the nearest block of flats. Ten oclock, and no one
around. Sugarfoot said, What are you going to do?

Shut up, Hobba replied.

Ivan knows I come here this
morning, if anything happens to me.

Hobba jabbed with the gun. I said
shut up.

Ivans got contacts. Anything
happens to me, youve had it.

Sugar, Hobba said wearily, your
brother thinks youre a fuckwit.

Yeah, well he was pretty riled when
he saw what you did to me the other day.

But he told you to stay away,
right? If he knew you were here hed say, Go ahead, waste the little prick.

Sugarfoot fell silent, suspecting it
was true. They were under the building now, in a cheerless region of wind
gusts, crumbling damp stucco and drifts of food scraps. Suddenly, no-one was
about, not even a building supervisor, not even a Turkish widow going to the
shops.

Stop there, Hobba said, and
Sugarfoot felt an arm go around him, find the .25 and release him again. Okay,
over to the lift.

Where we going?

The roof.

They stood and waited for the lift
to come down. Sugarfoot looked sidelong at Hobba, taking in the plump left arm
protectively clasping a soft black weekender bag. Hobbas right hand was in his
coat pocket and Sugarfoot saw the clear outline of a gun there. Hobbas large
head was set determinedly. Sugarfoot remembered the earring and the ponytail.
He felt his heart begin to pound.

Get him talking, take his mind off
it. The news said ten thousand bucks, but it was more, right? Wyatt only goes
for big jobs.

Hobba ignored him. He had pushed the
button to call the lift and was standing where he could shoot if Sugarfoot
turned on him or tried to run. Sugarfoot said, Look, be reasonable, lets work
something out. What say you and me hit Pedersen and Wyatt?

Youd be better off praying, Hobba
said. Then he seemed irritated with himself for responding and his face closed
up.

I only wanted to be part of the
original deal, Sugarfoot said. Thats all.

Hobba went up on his toes, back on
his heels, waiting for the lift to come down.

People on the top floor will hear
the shot, Sugarfoot said, wondering if there would be anyone at home on the
top floor, then realising Hobba had something else in mind, like his outline in
chalk on the ground.

The lift was coming down now,
non-stop, no passengers.

Look, please, Sugarfoot pleaded.

He heard it at the same time as
Hobba did, teenage kids in stretch jeans and moccasins shouting in the
stairwell, pouring out of the building. They resembled apes in the zoo but just
now Sugarfoot was pleased to see them. He charged, yelling, arms windmilling,
flinging them onto and around Hobba.