Wyatt - 01 - Kick Back (18 page)

It was a windless day, grey with low
clouds. But the sea must have heaved in the night, dumping seaweed and kelp
along the shoreline. There were prints in the sand: a horse, a man with a crazy
dog. They exchanged waves with a fisherman on the rocks.

Mostly they walked in companionable
silence. Wyatt wondered if it was living alone, always in the present, that had
made him unlucky. Love for him had become a brief release with women who would
never know or understand what he did. The rest of the time he waited for
treachery from people he was obliged to trust, and never could he relax his
guard against the death dealer hed never see, never meet. He felt that hed
almost lost the swift cleanness of his life, but things had changed now, he was
in a position to see that it didnt happen again.

They were watching a coastal
freighter, their arms around each other, when Anna said, What will you do now?

Wyatt stirred. Stay here. Keep a
low profile.

You said you usually travelled
after a job.

If its a big enough earner.

Seventy-five thousand isnt exactly
peanuts.

Until recently, Wyatt said, Id
pull two or three jobs a year. One job alone netted me enough for the farm and
six months in France. Things have changed.

Anna was silent. Then she said, I
wondered if Id feel guilt or remorse or fear or have second thoughts, but I
feel neutral.

Wyatt nodded absently, and said, as
if thinking aloud, Thats a good sign, the sign of a pro. Next time you wont
even examine your feelings.

Anna positioned herself in front of
him so that he was forced to look at her. What do you mean, next time?

Her tone was more demanding than
mystified. Her expression was quizzical, as if she knew the answer, but he also
saw a brief, puzzling, hunted look on her face. He touched her breasts, so
briefly he might never have done it, and said, Its the pattern.

What are you saying? That Ill want
to do it again?

He watched her. He had her attention
and he knew she wouldnt run or laugh or play dumb.

Does it suit you, he said, doing
what you do?

Its not boring. You meet an
interesting class of person, if you know what I mean.

Its not boring yet, Wyatt said
flatly.

You think Ive got a taste for
crime now. Work wont satisfy me any more, is that it?

Wyatt said, Often a good job comes
along but I have to cancel it because the key role belongs to a woman, and I
dont know any who are good enough.

She rested her stomach against his
and looked at him sleepily. And all I have to do is cross the line.

Youve already crossed it, Wyatt
said. She tensed, very briefly.

Rainclouds were blowing in so they
walked back to the house. The telephone rang soon after they got there.
Rossiter, reading out a Melbourne number and saying it was urgent.

It was Pedersen. Sugarfoots been
sniffing around again, he said. He tried to jump Hobba, and when that didnt
work he contacted me.

What does he want?

A meeting. This afternoon at four.

Wyatt said nothing. Pedersen went
on, He says either we cut him in or he goes to Finn or the cops.

He knows about the job?

Yes. Dont ask me how.

What else does he know? Does he
know about Anna Reid?

I dont know. He only mentioned
you, me and Hobba. Jesus Christ, Wyatt. You know what hes like. What if he
decides to play us
and
Finn. You shouldve wasted him when you had the
chance.

Thats when Wyatt told him to sit
tight, he would deal with it. Get hold of Hobba, he said. Go to the safe
houseyouve still got the key?

Yes.

Ill meet you both there when its
over. Do you know where Sugarfoot lives?

No.

Rossiter will know. Now, details:
where and when does he want to meet?

Pedersen told him, then said, You
want to watch him. Hell try something.

Yes.

Wyatt broke the connection. Anna
Reid was watching him, one expression following another in her green eyes:
pleasure, alertness, calculation. She said, Trouble?

He told her about Sugarfoot Younger.
I let it go too long, he said.

She was angry suddenly. Why didnt
you tell me all this before? This affects me just as much as it does you. He
could be talking to Finn this very minuteor the police. Jesus, I thought you
were a professional.

Shut up, Wyatt said, so hard and
sharp she stepped back.

What does he want? she said.

Money. Revenge.

Youll kill him, I suppose. So much
for my simple safecracking job.

Listen to me!
His brains are fried. Hed just as
soon kill you as me.

She breathed in and out. Does he
know about me? Has he been following me?

No. But if I miss him and he comes
here, youve had it. I want you to stay in the safe house with the others.

She rubbed her upper arms as if she
felt cold. Suddenly its all escalated.

Ill deal with it. Go and pack your
things.

She flushed with annoyance and left
the room. Wyatt made the fireplace secure and opened the front door. He took
out one of Floods .38s and waited, listening and watching, until Anna
appeared, stuffing clothes into her leather bag.

He said, I didnt mean to be
abrupt.

I know

Heres the key to the safe house.
Youd better go now.

Arent you coming with me?

Its best if we go separately. We
cant afford to be linked in any way if something goes wrong.

She held her arms around herself
against the chilly wind. When will I see you again?

When its done. Ill keep in touch
by phone.

What if something happens to you?

Think about yourself, not about me.
Heres a gun, just in case. Do you know how to use it?

Anna weighed the gun in her hand.
She seemed to be speculating. It was an odd look, as though she were repelled
by the gun, but fascinated and keen to use it. I just point and pull the
trigger, right?

Thats the general idea, Wyatt
said.

* * * *

Thirty-seven

After
she had gone, Wyatt rang Hertz in Frankston and reserved a Falcon using the
name on his fake ID. Then he bundled old clothes into a shopping bag, pocketed
a spare clip and a silencer for the Browning, and ate a sandwich. Before
leaving he rang Rossiter and got Sugarfoot Youngers address. Finally he drew
on gloves: he didnt want his prints on the rental car.

On the way to Frankston he thought
about Sugarfoot. Like all amateurs, the punk seemed to be working to a pattern,
repeating himself, comfortable with moves hed made before. Hed set his mind
on a big score and was taking it personally that Wyatt had excluded him. He
would not let up until he got payment or got evenand he probably wanted both.
Hes emotional, Wyatt thought. Hes incapable of waiting or watching or
breaking new ground or trying a new pattern. He lacks control. Hes announced
his hand, made himself the target.

An hour after picking up the Hertz
Falcon Wyatt was in Kew, parking at the nine-hole golf course on Studley Park
Road near the river. He got out, carrying the shopping bag, and cut across the
golf course to a vantage point on Yarra Boulevard, trying to anticipate how
Sugarfoot would do this. He had no doubt that Sugarfoot intended an ambushand
from the Kew, not the Abbotsford, side. Too many houses, cars, potential
witnesses on the Abbotsford side, but here in the park Sugarfoot would have the
advantage of high ground, trees and a dozen exits.

Wyatt was early by almost two hours.
He didnt expect Sugarfoot to be that early. He walked down into the park,
skirting a dense belt of trees, and entered a muddy track which meandered
through weeping willows, mossy logs and clumps of onion weed. No respectable
person ever ventured here. Shadowy, overcoated figures coupled, softly moaning,
in the gloomy light. A pale-faced man stepped onto the track, saw Wyatts
prohibitive face, and slipped away again. Here and there a solitary shape was
hunched in miserable, tense-wristed pleasure.

Wyatt passed through the trees to
open ground on the far side. Avoiding two Harley-Davidsons being tested on the
Boulevards curves, he made his way back to the footbridge where Sugarfoot had
suggested they meet. It occurred to him that the noisy bikes might provide
Sugarfoot with sound cover.

He stood on the top end of the path
leading to the footbridge. To the left were the trees, to the right grassy open
ground with seats and swings.

No-one was around. Taking temporary
shelter behind a peeling gum, he emptied the shopping bag and pulled his shabby
gardening coat and trousers on above his normal clothes. He put a torn,
stretched woollen cap on his head. The Browning was behind his right hip. It
was a flat gun, resting comfortably above his right kidney in a forward-canted
holster. Finally he took out a sherry bottle bagged in brown paper, and crossed
to the swings.

One of the seats faced the slippery
dip and the river. He slumped in it in an attitude of dejection and prepared to
wait. Three oclock, one hour early. Now and then he raised the sherry bottle
to his lips but was otherwise perfectly still, his chin on his chest, the
frayed cap concealing his face. He kept one hand under his coat, holding his
Browning. He had a clear view of the footbridge. When Sugarfoot arrived to make
his inspection, Wyatt would spot him immediately.

During the next hour, five people
entered the park from the footbridge. The first two were a businessman and a
teenager with wisps of orange and blue hair who disappeared into the trees a
minute apart. Two joggers thumped across the bridge soon after that. They were
followed by a wino, who homed in on Wyatts bottle. The wino shuffled past the
seat twice before hovering nearby in a test of Wyatts sense of brotherhood.

About to tell him to scram, Wyatt
thought better of it and inched along the seat to give the man room. Sit down,
he said. He raised the bottle. Thisll warm your guts. The wino said Ta
delicately and drank deeply from the bottle. Ah, he said. He wiped the rim
with his sleeve.

Have another, Wyatt said.

The man was ideal cover: so
obviously derelict that he coloured Wyatt and the entire playground area.
Sugarfoot would discount them immediately.

When it reached four-fifteen and
Sugarfoot had not showed himself, Wyatt turned side-on in the seat. To an
observer he appeared to be in animated conversation with his drinking mate, but
he was looking beyond the bleary, whiskered face to the golf course, the bridge
and the dense trees. Shadows were lengthening in the bad light of late
afternoon, making objects difficult to assess. A misty rain began to fall and
he hunched deeper into his coat. He stayed like this until four-thirty, but saw
nothing. At quarter to five, he knew that it was a no-show.

Keep the bottle, he said, cutting
the derelict off in mid-ramble about a shearing shed and a shearing record in
1954.

Hawking and spitting, Wyatt shuffled
back across the golf course. He felt tense, wondering if Sugarfoot was smart
after all, had support, had the cross-hairs of a telescopic sight on him all
this time, waiting for a clear shot.

He kept his head down. Golfers swore
at him. A golf ball bumped past him, someone yelled Fore!, another laughed.

Behind the clubhouse he stood at
drunken attention and surveyed the parked cars. Some he remembered, others had
arrived more recently. There was no two-tone Customline, but nor did he expect
there to be. He was watching for warning signs: a man taking too long to find
his car; a car circling the rows instead of leaving; a silhouette showing
suddenly in a car window.

After a few minutes he wandered
among the cars, looking for the one that didnt belong. It was an empty gesture
at best, since every car looked exactly like a family car used to cart golf
clubs around.

He returned to the Hertz Falcon.
Just before reaching it he dropped a handful of coins. They rang out, clear and
metallic, on the hard asphalt. He knelt to recover them. He also swung round on
the soles of his shoes, scouting for figures crouching behind nearby cars.

Nothing.

He checked the back seat and got
behind the wheel. It was unlikely that the car had been wired, but still, he
felt a prickle of fear as he turned the key in the ignition.

He drove to a secluded street and
removed his coat, trousers and cap. They were damp, and had made his clothes
underneath feel damp, but there was no time to do anything about that.
Sugarfoot had not shown. He might have changed plans, had a fight with Ivan,
sought help, decided on a different surprise.

Wyatt started the car again and
drove to the Collingwood address Rossiter had given him. Time to go after
Sugarfoot, not wait for him.