Kick Back

Twenty-Two

By eight-thirty that evening, Wyatt and Pederson were watching cars hiss along Chapel Street in dismal rain. An Alfa and then a BMW paused outside Henri’s Bistro and drove on again, looking for somewhere to park. Five minutes later the occupants were back, running in the rain, getting their feet wet, ruining their composure.

Pedersen was sour about it. ‘It wouldn’t hurt these guys to drop their chicks off and then park.’

‘There’ll be a gentleman along soon,’ Wyatt said.

They were standing under the awning of a shoe shop two doors down from Henri’s. They wore hired navy-blue uniforms, gloves and caps, decorated with enough gold braid to unnerve the Queen. In his pocket Wyatt had a dozen cards, printed with the words ‘Valet Parking’. In smaller type at the bottom was a disclaimer: ‘The management takes no responsibility for loss or damage’. He got a kick out of that.

‘What’s wrong with these fuckers?’ Pedersen said. He was hyped-up, cracking his knuckles, pacing back and forth.

‘Take it easy,’ Wyatt said.

Pedersen sniffed. ‘I do safes, not this shit.’

Wyatt turned to examine him, his face expressionless. ‘There’s no guarantee we’ll score. Waiting’s part of the job, you know that.’

‘Yeah,’ Pedersen said. ‘In the rain.’

Wyatt said nothing. There was always someone who got jumpy before a job. There was always someone not as solid as you’d like. Always some personal problem, some quirk, but if you spent all your time ironing it out, you’d never get anything done. He just hoped Pedersen was sound in the long run.

‘This is a bummer,’ Pedersen went on. ‘We could give the money you took off that pimp to Eddie Loman and owe him the rest. Let’s pack it in.’

‘A few minutes, okay?’

Then out of the corner of his eye Wyatt saw Pedersen place something on his tongue and snap it back like a lizard with a fly.

‘Oh terrific,’ he said, slamming Pedersen against the wall. ‘Hobba said you were clean. You said you were clean.’

‘Only an upper, to focus me.’

‘Focus on this. You want a hand on your shoulder inviting you to come down to the station and turn out your pockets? What else are you on?’

‘Nothing. Take your fucking hands off me.’

With a contemptuous gesture, Wyatt released him. They stood far apart, and waited, and the rain fell.

‘Listen Wyatt, I’ve gone off the hard stuff, okay?’

Wyatt seemed to ignore him. Then he shifted position. ‘I’ll only say this once. If you’re on anything when we do the job, or try to cross me in any way, you’ll be part of the food chain before you know it.’

Pedersen scowled and began to bounce on the balls of his feet.

Then he stopped, suddenly alert. ‘Check this.’

‘I see it.’

A white Mercedes 380 SE had pulled out of the line of traffic and stopped, brake lights flaring, outside Henri’s. Thirty seconds passed. The people in the Mercedes seemed to be conferring.

‘This is it,’ Wyatt said. ‘Stay with me.’

They approached the car, umbrellas up, just as the woman in the passenger seat turned up her collar and reached to open her door. Pedersen said, ‘Allow me, ma’am,’ opening the door, holding his umbrella over her.

Wyatt tapped on the driver’s window. The window whispered part-way down.

‘We have valet parking now, sir,’ Wyatt said. ‘Here is your receipt. Hand it in after your meal and someone will fetch your car for you.’

‘I don’t know,’ the driver said. He was overweight, grunting with exertion. He seemed to be suspicious, so Wyatt steeled himself to run.

‘How much is this going to cost me?’ the man said.

The woman stirred under Pedersen’s umbrella. ‘For God’s sake, Neil, give him the car. It’s wet. I’m going inside.’

‘It’s a free service, sir,’ Wyatt said.

The driver got out, showing the effort. ‘If there’s one scratch on this, just one, I’ll have your balls.’

‘You won’t see a thing,’ Wyatt said.

‘Can you drive one of these? It’s not some Japanese tin can, you know.’

‘Neil,’ the woman said.

‘Coming, coming,’ the fat man said. Wyatt escorted him to the shelter of the awning above Henri’s front door and watched him follow the woman inside.

‘Let’s go,’ Pedersen said.

Pedersen drove, Wyatt directing, to a public car park where Wyatt picked up the Holden. Then he led Pedersen across the city to Sydney Road. Both cars drove steadily, obeying all the road laws.

They came to a suburb of narrow streets, where small factories huddled between workers’ houses and the street lights were faulty or broken. Wyatt parked the Holden a few metres beyond a set of steel doors in a brick wall. A strip of light showed underneath the doors, and a small sign on the wall said ‘AP Motors’.

Wyatt got out and walked back to where Pedersen waited in the Mercedes. ‘This is the place,’ he said.

He walked up to the doors, knocked once, paused, knocked three times, and heard bolts being drawn back. A voice called out, ‘Bring her in. Quick about it.’

Wyatt signalled to Pedersen to drive in. He followed the Mercedes into the shed and helped a man in overalls to close the steel doors.

He looked around. The set-up looked professional. A number of late-model Holdens, Falcons and Hondas were being dismantled. Some battery-powered ignition drills lay on one bench, among tins of corrosive solution for removing serial numbers.

The man who had opened the steel doors waited in the shadows. Two other men stood motionless at the back of the shed. A fourth man stepped out from behind a Jaguar XJS, saying, ‘Merc, eh? Lovely’

He wore overalls open to the waist, and gold chains of various lengths around his neck. He stood before the Mercedes, regarding it with his hands on his hips.

‘Very nice. I’m Ray. Which one of you is Lake?’

‘I am,’ Wyatt said, ignoring the proffered hand. He did not introduce Pedersen.

Ray looked from one to the other. ‘Well, you’re both a bundle of laughs,’ he said, and he began to examine the Mercedes. He sighted along the panels, dropped to the floor to peer at the chassis, and lifted the bonnet and poked about with a small torch. Finally he took a small magnet from his pocket and fastened it randomly on the body of the car. Satisfied there was no rust filler under the paintwork, he said, ‘Very clean.’

‘We know that,’ Pedersen said. ‘What’s your offer?’

‘Hold your horses, sonny Jim. Buyer beware, eh?’

‘So? You’ve checked it out, now make us an offer.’

‘I’m dealing with Lake,’ Ray said. ‘Lake, tell Chuckles here to shut up.’

Ray’s three assistants moved out of the shadows. ‘Let’s all calm down,’ Wyatt said. He felt very tired. He turned to Pedersen. ‘Take it easy, okay?’

‘Ask him what his offer is.’

Ray pointed. ‘You got a lot to learn about doing business, pal. We go in the office, break out the Scotch, talk it over, nice and civilised.’

‘Fuck that.’

‘Lake, my boys are going to sort your friend out in a minute.’

Wyatt stepped close to Ray and said softly and rapidly, ‘I’m sorry, Ray. You know how it is. He’s a good driver, but he’s no good with people.’

‘The cunt’s high as a kite. He’s going to turn up in the river one day’

Wyatt nodded. ‘He’s got a shitty personality. Look, we’ll pass up on that Scotch. I don’t trust him to keep his cool. So, if you’d like to make us an offer?’

Ray thought about it. He made a what-can-I-do? gesture. ‘Five thousand. Best I can do.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ Pedersen said. ‘I heard that. What a fucking rip-off.’ He was jumpy now from the upper. ‘These fetch bloody a hundred grand in Sydney.’

Ray was beginning to turn nasty. ‘At this stage in the process it’s a buyer’s market. Plus which you’re outnumbered. Five thousand, take it or leave it.’

Wyatt told him they’d take it.

Later, when Pedersen started laughing in the Holden, whooping and singing ‘Some fun tonight’, Wyatt came very close to calling the whole thing off.