Kick Back

Twenty-seven

On Thursday morning, Hobba took the eight-thirty to twelve-thirty shift, Pedersen went out to buy the two-way radios, and Wyatt picked up the transfers. They were fancy transfers, the bogus company name in futuristic black lettering. He was applying them to the sides and back of the van, smoothing out the wrinkles and air pockets, when Pedersen returned with the radios.

‘We’ll test,’ Wyatt said.

He closed the steel garage door on Pedersen and walked up to the street level. He let a taxi pass, then pressed the transmit button. ‘How’s that?’

Pedersen’s voice erupted, sharp and distorted: ‘Loud and clear’

‘Okay.’

In the lock-up again, Wyatt helped Pedersen remove their prints from the van. From now on they would wear gloves. The van’s papers were untraceable, but both Pedersen and Hobba had served time, so their prints were on record.

They worked in silence. It didn’t seem to suit Pedersen. Wyatt could feel the sideways looks. Eventually Pedersen said, ‘Know the first thing I’m going to do with my cut?’

Wyatt felt no curiosity about Pedersen. He was interested only in how solid Pedersen was. But he said, keeping it light, knowing Pedersen wouldn’t matter after tomorrow, ‘New wardrobe?’

Pedersen scowled, brushing his hands on his japara. ‘Four-wheel-drive, something with a bit of style, like a Range Rover.’

‘Then you’ll need a different hat,’ Wyatt said. ‘Nice Akubra with a broad brim. Plus moleskins and riding boots.’

‘What am I, a fucking mountain cattleman?’ Pedersen waved his John Deere cap and might have stepped out of a film about a small town in Texas. ‘What about you?’ he said.

This was meaningless small talk and Wyatt hated it. He could never think of things to say or reasons to say them. ‘This and that,’ he said.

Pedersen’s face tightened. He stared at Wyatt. ‘You’re a close bastard, good at all this-’ he gestured at the van, the job ahead of them ‘-but a cunt to work with. Try unwinding. A bloke likes to know who he’s working with.’

Wyatt spoke quietly, the words flat and cold. ‘Let me down and I’ll kill you. You’d do the same to me. That’s all we need to know about each other.’

Pedersen watched Wyatt, nodding knowingly. It was a way of saying that Wyatt didn’t have all the answers.

Wyatt swung into the van’s driver’s seat. ‘We’ve got work to do.’

Pedersen locked the garage door behind them and got into the passenger seat, sitting close to the door. He didn’t speak. He opened the street directory and began noting alternative routes between Finn’s office and the safe house.

Wyatt said, ‘If possible, avoid major intersections, right-hand turns, pedestrian crossings, road works.’

Pedersen did not look up. ‘I done this before.’

‘Make a note of times: for each leg, duration of traffic lights, anything.’

Pedersen pulled back his sleeve, revealing a Timex on his broad, corded wrist. He wrote down the time, ten o’clock.

The traffic was medium to heavy. Wyatt drove along St Kilda Road and then into Toorak Road. He crossed Punt Road and Chapel Street, turned right into the side street connecting with Quiller Place, and parked adjacent to the T-junction.

‘We can do it two main ways,’ Pedersen said. ‘Either go back the way we came, or go via Commercial Road. Both mean lights and trams. There would be a right turn to get onto Commercial, and a right turn if we went back on St Kilda Road.’

‘Side streets?’

Pedersen looked at the map. ‘They’re mainly one-way. We’ll have to choose the right ones.’

Wyatt didn’t like side streets. They meant stop signs, roundabouts, speed humps, people reversing out of driveways. He said, ‘We’ll try the main roads first.’

During the next two hours they timed the main routes twice, first at a cautious speed and then pushing it, Wyatt anticipating lights, trams, gaps in the traffic. Pedersen read the map, looked out for cops-and for Sugarfoot Younger.

They were beaten by the trams, the constant picking up and letting down of passengers. Frustrated, they watched small cars slip past while their big van idled uselessly, waiting for the trams to move on. In Toorak Road, matrons in furs manoeuvred Rolls Royces in front of them, and there were delivery vans double-parked outside the boutiques. In Chapel Street council workers were digging trenches.

‘No choice,’ Wyatt said. ‘Has to be side streets.’

Pedersen looked at the map and they tried again. By midday they had their route. It was a compromise, making use of the main streets and a system of narrow residential streets. After three runs, Wyatt had the trip down to twelve minutes. Pedersen, gloomy for so long, suddenly grinned. ‘Home and dry before they even raise the alarm.’

Wyatt pulled on the hand brake.. ‘Twelve-fifteen. Time for your shift.’

The grin faded. ‘All go, eh, Wyatt?’