Kick Back

Two

Sugarfoot was leaning against the door of the Yellow Cab. He saw Wyatt come out and tossed away his cigarette. ‘Where’s the jewellery and stuff?’ he said.

Wyatt ignored him. He stepped on the cigarette, picked it up and put it in his pocket. He felt close to the edge. He said savagely, ‘We’re leaving everything behind. Get in and drive.’

Sugarfoot waited a couple of beats, letting Wyatt know he’d comply if it suited him, he’d been tongue-lashed by experts, then got behind the steering wheel. Wyatt slid into the passenger seat, shut his door and stared ahead through the windscreen.

Sugarfoot drove them through Toorak and towards the Yarra. ‘Ivan’s going to be pissed off,’ he said, keeping it light. ‘What’s the problem?’

Wyatt felt his head throbbing. He waited for it to ease. ‘What did you do to her?’

‘Who?’

Wyatt waited until they had braked to a stop at the MacRobertson Bridge roundabout, then reached across, jerked the pistol out of Sugarfoot’s belt, and jabbed it under Sugarfoot’s rib-cage. ‘Keep driving,’ he said. When they were through the roundabout and on the bridge, he said, ‘We’ll start again. What did you do to the woman?’

Sugarfoot wheezed painfully. ‘Nothing. What d’ya mean?’

Wyatt jabbed again. ‘She’s dead. You killed her.’

Sugarfoot gulped and shook his head. ‘No, mate. Not me.’

‘You frightened her,’ Wyatt said. ‘It killed her. Anyone caught handling stuff from that house would be an accessory to murder.’

‘Hardly touched her,’ Sugarfoot said, rolling his shoulders uncomfortably. ‘It was the way she was looking at me. You know.’

Wyatt sat back, turning his bleak face to the window. On the other side of the bridge, Sugarfoot turned left and followed the down-ramp to the South Eastern Freeway. The taxi despatcher’s voice faded in and out above the static on the taxi radio. The meter clicked: thirty-five dollars, thirty-six dollars, thirty-seven.

It was Friday night, the traffic heavy. As if nothing had happened, Sugarfoot began a patter: ‘Look at the way that prick’s driving… Get your eyes mended… You’ll do me, sweetheart.’

They crossed the river again and followed it to the approach roads for the Westgate Freeway. Wyatt looked out at the night. Ahead of them, the lighted bridge loomed, curving right, and in the darkness it seemed unfamiliar to him, like a bridge in someone else’s city.

On the bridge Sugarfoot fell silent for the long descent into Footscray. When he spoke again, he sounded self-conscious, as if asking for recognition. ‘That painting,’ he said, ‘was a Tom Roberts, worth a fortune. Ivan fenced one last year’

Wyatt ignored him. He’d met aerobics instructors and plumbers who now ran galleries, so nothing the Youngers knew about art surprised him. Eventually he said, ‘It wasn’t on the list Ivan gave me, meaning it wasn’t insured, meaning there was no point in taking it.’

‘Fucking list,’ Sugarfoot said.

He slowed the taxi. They were outside Bargain City, his brother’s secondhand bulkstore on a flat, windy street off Williamstown Road. A St Vincent de Paul op shop was on one side, a video library on the other. Cars were double-parked in the street, their drivers returning or borrowing videos.

‘Go around the back,’ Wyatt said.

Sugarfoot drove into a laneway and parked behind a white Statesman at the rear door of his brother’s storeroom. A band of light showed under the door. ‘Wait here,’ Wyatt said. He got out, knocked on the storeroom door, and waited.

A high, constricted voice said, ‘Yeah?’

‘It’s us,’ Wyatt said, his face to the door. A key was turned, a bolt slid back. The door opened and Ivan Younger asked, ‘Go all right?’

Wyatt didn’t reply. He nodded at the taxi, ‘This taken care of?’

‘The day driver takes it out tomorrow morning, same as usual,’ Ivan said. He walked over to the cab and leaned in at the driver’s window. ‘Park it out the front, Sugar, then come in the back way.’

Wyatt followed Ivan inside. The storeroom was large, grey and gloomy, constructed of cement blocks and steel girders. Metal shelving lined the walls. Cardboard boxes had been stacked on the floor next to gutted armchairs, warped table-tops and scratched stereo cabinets. The only light in the cheerless room came from a neon strip in the ceiling.

‘So,’ Ivan Younger said. ‘Go all right?’

Wyatt regarded him bleakly. He had worked with Ivan Younger before. Ivan believed in diversity. For a fee he’d provide false papers, explosives, guns, plastic surgery, floor plans, maps of security systems, a ‘legitimate’ set of wheels. He had contacts in Telecom who set up telephone diverters in his SP joints. He gave twenty cents in the dollar for hot televisions and home computers. He was a middle man in insurance scams, negotiating a cut of the victim’s refund or, as in tonight’s job, the reward money. He had insurance clerks in his pocket, along with cops and magistrates probably. And just lately there were rumours he’d bought into the vice operations of a Sydney syndicate expanding its Melbourne base.

Now he was staring at Wyatt. ‘Where’s the stuff?’

Keeping well clear of him, Wyatt stood where he could watch the door to the alley and the door through to the showroom. He did it automatically, in the way that he also avoided lifts, call boxes and other confined spaces, stood back from a door once he’d knocked on it, used crowds for protection, avoided unlighted areas. It was like breathing.

Ivan said again, ‘Wyatt? The stuff?’

Wyatt watched him warily. Ivan Younger was older than Sugarfoot, about forty; cleverer, less belligerent, more assessing. His bald head gleamed in the storeroom’s meagre light. He compensated for baldness with a bushy, grey-streaked moustache. He wore baggy linen trousers burdened with fussy pockets, and a bulky, brightly coloured pullover. His tasselled Italian shoes snapped on the cement floor. He reminded Wyatt of some sleek predator.

Ivan folded his arms across his thick chest, and leaned back against the bench. ‘Is something wrong?’

Wyatt’s narrow face seemed to sharpen. ‘What do you fucking think?’

‘Tell me.’

‘Straightforward job, experienced lookout, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Except there’s this hidden agenda,’ Wyatt said. ‘We have a young punk who wants to learn a few tricks so he’ll be useful to his older brother, and the older brother thinks, why not send him out on a job with a pro?’

Ivan Younger shifted uncomfortably. ‘Thought it would do him good,’ he said, his high voice a register higher. ‘What did he do?’

‘Later,’ Wyatt said. ‘Give me my fee.’

Ivan pointed at a corner safe. ‘It’s in there. I want the stuff first.’

‘Haven’t got it.’

Ivan stared at him. ‘Did you get into the place?’

‘Oh, we got in all right,’ Wyatt said.

‘Don’t fuck around. How come there’s no stuff?’

‘My fee.’

‘No way. You deliver, you get paid, that was the deal. If you’re holding out for more, you can just fuck off.’

Wyatt stood lightly on the balls of his feet, his fists ready. He kept half an eye on the alley door. He said, ‘We left the stuff behind.’

‘What the fuck for? You-’

Sugarfoot Younger stepped in from the alley. He was carrying a painting, another small one, a plain wooden frame this time. ‘Hey, Ive? He tell you what happened? Got cold feet and left the stuff behind. I snuck this out, but.’ He began to cross the storeroom towards them.

‘What do you mean?’ Ivan said. ‘There were no paintings on the-’

He stopped. Wyatt had stepped behind Sugarfoot and was jerking savagely on the ponytail. He had the pistol in his other hand. He motioned at Ivan with it. ‘You move and I’ll blow his brains out’

Sugarfoot struggled. He had the blockish body of a weightlifter but his large limbs lacked flexibility, his arms bowed out at the sides and he was a head shorter than Wyatt. ‘Get him, Ive,’ he said, grunting the words.

Wyatt ground the pistol barrel under Sugarfoot’s jaw, cutting off his voice. The pressure on the ponytail forced Sugarfoot’s head back. The painting clattered onto the floor.

‘You want him to learn things?’ Wyatt said. He tugged hard on the ponytail in punctuation. ‘Here are some basic lessons. One, obey orders. Two, know your part. Three, no guns unless the job demands it. Four-’

He released the ponytail, stepped back, and raked the pistol across Sugarfoot’s face.

‘Stay out of this,’ he said, gesturing at Ivan again. He drove his knee into Sugarfoot’s groin, let him double over, then smacked the butt on the back of his neck. Sugarfoot collapsed, dry-retching.

Wyatt prodded with his foot. ‘Four, know your limitations. You’re a punk.’

He stepped back and pocketed the pistol.

Ivan Younger relaxed. ‘In other words,’ he said, ‘he fucked up.’

It was an attempt at humour, but Wyatt took out the pistol again. ‘My five thousand.’

‘Fuck you.’

They stood and stared at each other. Wyatt thought about it. Stand-offs wasted time. He didn’t want the antagonism, and the longer he hung around here the riskier it would be. Still holding the pistol, he bent down and picked up the little painting and took it across to a deep stainless steel sink.

Ivan said, ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

Wyatt ignored him. He smashed the glass with the pistol butt, snapped the wooden frame and dropped the painting into the sink.

‘Jesus Christ, Wyatt.’

He watched dully as Wyatt doused the painting with methylated spirits and set fire to it. ‘A Whiteley,’ Ivan said. ‘Know what one of them’s worth?’

Wyatt knew Whiteleys. If he wanted, he could steal job-lots of Whiteleys in every house in Toorak. He watched the painting turn to ash, said, ‘Stay away from me,’ and let himself out into the night.