Kick Back

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. He’d grown up in a suburb like this. Everyone had talked solidarity, but he’d 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, you’re 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.’

‘I’ll buy back after-half 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 target’s down there.’ He indicated the overhead pulley system and the sandbags stacked at the far end. Rubbing his hands together, he said, ‘Let’s do business.’

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

‘That’ll 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 wasn’t working. They were new, untraceable. He’d never used them. When he was working he’d 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 else’s job, someone else’s shooting. ‘Show me what you’ve 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 amp;. 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. ‘I’m 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 Flood’s other guns, it had been smeared with gelatin and sealed in a plastic bag. But that was recent; it hadn’t 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 didn’t 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 wasn’t new, but it was clean and it didn’t 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 amp;. 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.’

‘I’ll 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 Finn’s office would be strictly close-range stuff-if it came to that, and it wouldn’t. Wyatt fired the revolver rapidly. The pattern was perfect.

‘I’ll take three,’ he said. ‘And ammunition.’

‘Three hundred and fifty bucks each and I’ll 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. That’s not going to stop the forensic boys. Got any acid?’

Flood nodded. ‘There’s some hydrochloric upstairs.’ He turned to make for the steps to the trapdoor.

‘Just a moment,’ Wyatt said. ‘You’ve 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 Flood’s 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 amp; 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 folder-test 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, ‘You’ll fucking mess up me system.’

Wyatt ignored him. He found seven recently dated folders for unused Smith amp; 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 o’clock 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 child’s 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 driver’s 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 long’s 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?’

Hobba shook his head. ‘You have,’ he said. ‘It’s your little mate.’