Kick Back

Twenty-Six

If Ivan wants to drop his bundle, Sugarfoot thought, that’s his problem. No way am I going to just act as if nothing’s happened.

Once planted, the resolution grew. He could see three clear reasons for going on the offensive. One, settle his personal scores with Wyatt and Hobba. Two, recover Ken Sala’s take so they wouldn’t be out of pocket. Three, hijack Wyatt’s job and make some real money for a change.

But Ivan had him airing mouldy carpets and collecting small debts all day on Wednesday, so by the time he got to the saloon bar of the Kings Head and put out some feelers, the only thing available was an old.25 pistol with a silencer.

Even at home he couldn’t get any peace. Rolfe was in the kitchen mixing dried fruit and nuts for a bushwalk next weekend, and Tina was going on about how men never put the seat down afterwards, they always splashed and dribbled, and she for one felt revolted and in future someone else could clean the loo.

So Sugarfoot shut himself in his room, did a line of coke and turned on the box. He watched the Channel 2 news because (a) there were no ads, and (b) he liked the way Edwin Maher did the weather.

At seven-thirty he went downstairs. Tina was doing the washing-up. He wanted to say it wouldn’t hurt her to include him in the evening meal sometimes, but remembered it would be lentils, so he said what he’d come down to say: ‘Tina, are you going out tonight?’

She didn’t turn around. ‘Why?’

‘Can I ask a favour?’

‘Such as?’

‘Can I borrow your Kombi?’

This time she turned around. ‘What’s wrong with your car?’

Well they fucking know my car and I don’t want to get ambushed again. ‘Nothing,’ Sugarfoot said. ‘I told this mate of mine I’d help him shift some furniture.’

‘You’ve got a mate?’

He said bitterly, ‘Forget it,’ and turned to leave.

‘Come back, Sugar. I didn’t mean it.’ Her face was red, half remorseful. ‘When do you need it?’

‘Later tonight.’

She began shrugging and showing indifference-a typical woman thing, Sugarfoot thought. Finally she said, ‘I suppose it’s all right.’

‘Thanks.’

Couldn’t be a simple matter, though. Couldn’t just hand over the keys. He had to wait while she said, ‘Be careful with it. Plus if you could put some petrol in.’

Fucking do me a favour sometime. Sugarfoot took the keys from her outstretched hand. Then she seemed to notice him for the first time. ‘There’s something different about you. Have you had a haircut?’

‘You could say that.’

He turned around and left the room. Upstairs he watched a video. At nine o’clock he stuck the silenced.25 in his belt, put on his long coat, went downstairs, and started Tina’s Kombi.

By nine-thirty he was outside Hobba’s scungy Housing Commission flat on Racecourse Road. He had no clear plan, intending only to rely on surprise. He went up to the eighth floor, knocked, got no answer, and came down again. He didn’t want to miss Hobba, but he was also nervous that the ethnic kids might decide to firebomb Tina’s van.

Plus there was a lot of action going on. Police and ambulances up and down Racecourse Road, shouts in the darkness, hoons laying rubber in their panel vans, the police helicopter poking about with a searchlight.

Animals staggering home from the pub, pissing and chucking in the lifts and stairwells.

When Hobba hadn’t shown by midnight, Sugarfoot thought, maybe the bastards are all at Pedersen’s. Ten minutes later he was negotiating the tidy garden beds and gravel paths around Pedersen’s neat weatherboard house. He got in through the porch at the rear and made his way-flat against the wall, both hands on the.25, barrel next to his ear- through every room in the house.

Pedersen wasn’t home either.

He sat on a vinyl couch and thought about that.

They’ve done the job and Pedersen is out celebrating. He comes in late and tired. He’s just going to turn on the light when a voice comes out of the darkness: ‘Been out, have we? About that job you pulled… ‘

Pedersen paralysed, mouth open, a sitting target.

By 2 am Sugarfoot was thinking, bastard, he’s probably in Bali, getting his dick massaged on Kuta Beach.

He left, using the front door this time.

And felt his foot kick against something on the welcome mat. He crouched down to look. Just shows you, never jump to hasty conclusions. Two copies of the Herald-Sun, yesterday’s and today’s. Pedersen hasn’t been home at all. Nor has Hobba. They’ve gone to ground somewhere.

The trouble with being a loner is, you can’t have guys watching until someone, somewhere, shows himself. Sugarfoot drove the Kombi back to Collingwood, feeling tired and depressed. Another big day tomorrow.