Kick Back

Thirty-three

Sugarfoot was up at eight that morning, surprising Rolfe at his muesli and Tina in the bathroom, tugging closed the plastic shower curtain. ‘I won’t look,’ he said, catching a flash for the first time, and not too bad either.

‘Put the seat down after,’ she yelled. ‘Watch your aim.’

Sugarfoot took his time, playing the stream in the bowl. He lifted his head and called, ‘Hey, Teen.’

‘What?’

‘Can I borrow the van again?’

Sounds of angry soaping. ‘When?’

‘Now. This morning. My mate’s getting rid of his bookshelves.’

He half expected her to say, ‘Can read, can he?’ but she said, ‘All right, but I need it lunchtime.’

‘No worries.’ He shook the drops off into the bowl. She yelled, as if she’d been peeking, ‘Don’t dribble.’

So he flushed, making her water run scalding hot.

By quarter to nine he was parked behind bushes in the Housing Commission car park. The flats loomed like rock slabs on a cold plain, the window glass distorting the wintry morning sun like icicles. From where he sat, Sugarfoot could see anyone who entered or left Hobba’s block. At this hour, plenty of people were about, going miserably to work or the Vic Market in rusted cars, or walking to the tram stop. There were kids in parkas, fucking ethnic kids all brushed and combed, a sure sign they had parents working two jobs to buy a house out in the suburbs.

He took the stinking lift to the eighth floor, saw that Hobba hadn’t come home yet, and went downstairs again. The flats created a wind tunnel and he had to hunch over against the gusting air and kick away paper scraps that clung to his shins.

It was chilly in the Kombi, the vinyl seat grim and unyielding. He sat there shivering in his long coat, wondering if he could risk crossing the road to buy a vanilla slice and takeaway coffee. Not even nine-thirty and he might have a long wait ahead of him.

He got out and ran across to the cafe, holding his forearm against his waist to keep the little.25 in place. He was back in three minutes. The coffee was only lukewarm and the vanilla slice smaller than usual, stale and shrunken-looking, but they made him feel better.

Thirty minutes later the coffee and the coldness got the better of his bladder.

No public toilet anywhere. He couldn’t risk going to the pub on the corner: too far away and he might miss Hobba.

That left the flats. Piss in the lift like everyone else. He got out of the van, locked his door, looked around and started walking.

And halfway across open ground, in broad daylight, he felt something hard press against his troubled kidneys, and heard Hobba say softly, ‘It’s a gun, cowboy. Don’t stop. Just keep walking.’

Sugarfoot’s first impulse was to put up his hands. To control them he put them in his pockets, but Hobba struck at his elbows with the gun barrel. ‘Keep them where I can see them. You carrying?’

Sugarfoot cleared his throat. ‘In my belt, under my coat.’

‘Give it to me later.’

They approached the grimy, massive columns at the base of the nearest block of flats. Ten o’clock, and no one around. Sugarfoot said, ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Shut up,’ Hobba replied.

‘Ivan knows I come here this morning, if anything happens to me.’

Hobba jabbed with the gun. ‘I said shut up.’

‘Ivan’s got contacts. Anything happens to me, you’ve had it.’

‘Sugar,’ Hobba said wearily, ‘your brother thinks you’re a fuckwit.’

‘Yeah, well he was pretty riled when he saw what you did to me the other day.’

‘But he told you to stay away, right? If he knew you were here he’d say, “Go ahead, waste the little prick”.’

Sugarfoot fell silent, suspecting it was true. They were under the building now, in a cheerless region of wind gusts, crumbling damp stucco and drifts of food scraps. Suddenly, no-one was about, not even a building supervisor, not even a Turkish widow going to the shops.

‘Stop there,’ Hobba said, and Sugarfoot felt an arm go around him, find the.25 and release him again. ‘Okay, over to the lift.’

‘Where we going?’

‘The roof.’

They stood and waited for the lift to come down. Sugarfoot looked sidelong at Hobba, taking in the plump left arm protectively clasping a soft black weekender bag. Hobba’s right hand was in his coat pocket and Sugarfoot saw the clear outline of a gun there. Hobba’s large head was set determinedly. Sugarfoot remembered the earring and the ponytail. He felt his heart begin to pound.

Get him talking, take his mind off it. ‘The news said ten thousand bucks, but it was more, right? Wyatt only goes for big jobs.’

Hobba ignored him. He had pushed the button to call the lift and was standing where he could shoot if Sugarfoot turned on him or tried to run. Sugarfoot said, ‘Look, be reasonable, let’s work something out. What say you and me hit Pedersen and Wyatt?’

‘You’d be better off praying,’ Hobba said. Then he seemed irritated with himself for responding and his face closed up.

‘I only wanted to be part of the original deal,’ Sugarfoot said. ‘That’s all.’

Hobba went up on his toes, back on his heels, waiting for the lift to come down.

‘People on the top floor will hear the shot,’ Sugarfoot said, wondering if there would be anyone at home on the top floor, then realising Hobba had something else in mind, like his outline in chalk on the ground.

The lift was coming down now, non-stop, no passengers.

‘Look, please,’ Sugarfoot pleaded.

He heard it at the same time as Hobba did, teenage kids in stretch jeans and moccasins shouting in the stairwell, pouring out of the building. They resembled apes in the zoo but just now Sugarfoot was pleased to see them. He charged, yelling, arms windmilling, flinging them onto and around Hobba.

Five seconds later he was around the corner and crossing the car park. Behind him, curses, cries of ‘Out of my fucking way’ and ‘Gis a look in the bag, mate.’

Sugarfoot fumbled open the door of Tina’s Kombi, got in, and floored it, rocking back and forth in his seat as if urging greater speed, wishing he were in the Customline, leaving snakes of rubber at every stop light between here and Bargain City.

No way was he going home.