Kick Back

Nineteen

In Bargain City, Ivan Younger was pacing the storeroom floor, jabbing his finger, saying, ‘You’re a fuckwit. What are you?’ He stopped pacing. ‘You’re lucky they didn’t cut your throat. That’s what I would’ve done. Where you going?’

Sugarfoot shrugged. ‘Get my car back, then collect the take from Ken Sala.’

Ivan thought about it. ‘That, and nothing else. No more fucking adventures, understand? Drive straight here after. Stay out of Wyatt’s way. You’re not in the same league.’

Sugarfoot scowled. He’d been hearing nothing else all afternoon. Hours of listening to crap, being treated like shit. Worse, stuff about IQ, snide stuff he’d been hearing all his life. On top of being bashed twice in a week. They could all go and get fucked.

Sugarfoot buttoned up his coat. A good coat, ankle length, warm, concealing, mean-looking. He had this idea for a shotgun on a sling. Sawn off, it would weigh as little as six pounds. Just fold back the coat flap, whip her up, blam.

But just thinking about it seemed to pull at his bruised ribs and stomach. He grimaced in pain. Ivan said, his voice a shade kinder, ‘You all right? Want me to drive you there?’

‘I rang a cab. I’ll be all right,’ Sugarfoot said.

But he felt stiff and sore. His right eye was puffy, going black, almost closed. Blood crusted his ear and neck. His hair looked like a Victa had been through it.

Ivan touched his arm. ‘Look, mate, one day we’ll get back at the bastards, okay? They went too far. But as a favour to me now, stay out of their way.’

Mr Hotshot. Number one son. ‘Fuck off,’ Sugarfoot said.

He went outside to wait for the taxi. He could feel Ivan watching him from behind the advertisement-smeared plate glass window of Bargain City. He hunched deep into his coat. The wind was cruel on his ear.

A horn bipped. He looked up. A Silver Top, the ethnic driver giving him the once-over. ‘You been drinking? You chuck in my cab, mate, and you can clean it up.’

‘Get stuffed,’ Sugarfoot said.

‘Yeah, well you too, mate,’ the driver replied.

‘Let’s just go, all right?’ Sugarfoot said.

He gave directions to his place in Collingwood. ‘Wait here,’ he said. He went upstairs, unlocked the chest under his bed, and pocketed a flick-knife. He needed a handgun, and soon. Something small enough to tuck in his sock or conceal in his hand. What would be really good, though-apart from a sawn-off on a sling-would be to fire from high ground with his sniper’s rifle fitted with a scope. Bullets coming out of nowhere, this look of surprise on Wyatt’s face when his chest explodes. Other people looking around, taking awhile to work out what’s going on.

He went downstairs and told the driver to take him to Richmond. They cruised for fifteen minutes as he tried from memory to find the Customline. Wyatt had left Richmond Park, gone along Swan for a while, then up Burnley, then into side streets. It was all depressing.

‘Listen, pal,’ the driver said. ‘I’ll take you to Sydney if you like, but I got better things to do than cruise around Richmond.’

‘Any of your business?’ Sugarfoot said.

If he hadn’t been feeling so bad, he might have sorted the bastard out then and there. But they were slowing for a tight roundabout in the road and he saw an alley and a flash of red at the end of it. ‘You can stop here,’ he said.

The driver looked around, dismissing it. ‘Here?’

Sugarfoot scowled. The cunt probably lived in a two-storey red brick wog mansion in Sunshine. ‘Keep the change,’ he said, tipping two dollars. ‘Buy yourself a bar of soap.’

For a moment he thought he’d done it, but the driver gave him the finger and sped, tyres squealing, towards Bridge Road. Sugarfoot tried a grin with his bruised face and walked down the alley to his car and saw, bastards, lines scratched all over the duco. Around here it would be Vietnamese, got nothing better to do than damage other people’s property, walk by good car flesh with a knife blade or the edge of a coin. Cunt. Sugarfoot beat his fist on the Customline’s boot lid, then circled the car, trying to get calm, trying to tell himself at least they hadn’t let down the tyres or broken in.

He ground the starter, listening, waiting for the big motor to catch. It did, belching smoke, then settled, grumbling sweet as you like.

He half turned to look through the rear window and backed out, one hand on the wheel. Seated like that, he could feel pressure from the little knife in his pocket.

It was hassle on hassle. In Johnston Street he heard a siren and looked around and it was a cop car telling him to pull over. He quickly fumbled the knife out of his pocket and under the seat. He had his licence and a puzzled look ready when the two cops got out and came over to his door. ‘Anything wrong?’

Two constables, so young they had bum fluff on their faces. ‘Ace car,’ the first one said.

‘Didn’t steal it,’ Sugarfoot said. ‘I can show you the rego papers.’

The second cop said, ‘Relax. Just wanted a look. My mate here’s got a Galaxie.’

‘Fully restored. Did it myself,’ the first cop said.

Sugarfoot almost warmed to him. ‘Good cars, Galaxies,’ he said. Fucking crap cars.

He got out and the three of them walked around the Customline for a while. The cops said it was bad news about the scratches in the duco. Sugarfoot told them it was Vietnamese-that’s how he got beaten up, protecting his car- and the cops understood and clicked their tongues and told him to have a nice day.

He got to the Caribbean Apartments in Fitzroy in time to find Ken Sala in tears, the place a wreck, a bag half packed on the bed. He slapped Sala’s flabby cheeks and got some story about his being jumped by a couple of guys with guns.

He picked up the phone. ‘Ken, old son,’ he said, punching the number for Bargain City, ‘you’re in deep shit.’