Kick Back w-1 Page 7

  ‘Three handguns.’

  ‘Prices range from two hundred and fifty bucks. You good for it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll buy back after-half what you paid.’

  Wyatt nodded.

  ‘Next door,’ Flood said.

  He led Wyatt into the backyard and through a side door to the long shed. It was dark inside, the air heavy with the smell of oil. Dismembered machines, heavy lathes, copper tubing, iron scraps and metal shavings were scattered about the floor. Weak, wintry light barely penetrated the grimy windows in the roof. Everything was coated with grease and dust. Flood picked his way through the shed. It was an unlikely place for such small, precise instruments as guns. Wyatt was about to challenge Flood when Flood pulled back the corner of a dirty rug to reveal a trap-door. They climbed down into a long, narrow chamber.

  Wyatt understood. ‘Nice,’ he said.

  The armourer showed emotion for the first time. ‘Like it?’ He pointed at the walls, floor and ceiling. ‘Completely soundproof. The lining absorbs ricochets. The target’s down there.’ He indicated the overhead pulley system and the sandbags stacked at the far end. Rubbing his hands together, he said, ‘Let’s do business.’

  ‘Light, accurate, good stopping power,’ Wyatt said. ‘Untraceable.’

  ‘That’ll cost you,’ Flood said. ‘What sort of job you pulling?’

  Wyatt ignored him. He kept a.38 revolver at Shoreham and a Browning automatic in his car. They were for his protection when he wasn’t working. They were new, untraceable. He’d never used them. When he was working he’d buy a gun and discard it after the job. He used a different supplier each time. He never bought guns that might tie him to someone else’s job, someone else’s shooting. ‘Show me what you’ve got,’ he said.

  Flood unlocked a steel cabinet and began taking out handguns and arranging them in rows on the benchtop: Colt Woodsman.22 target pistol, 9 mm Beretta, Browning automatic, Smith amp;. Wesson.38 Chiefs Special, Walther PPK, and the first Sauer Wyatt had seen. The final gun was a chunky Uzi machine pistol the size of a heavy revolver.

  ‘Forget the Uzi,’ Wyatt said. ‘I’m not fighting a war.’

  ‘Good persuader,’ Flood said, but Wyatt was pulling on his latex gloves and reaching for the Browning. He wanted to compare it with his own. Like Flood’s other guns, it had been smeared with gelatin and sealed in a plastic bag. But that was recent; it hadn’t always been cared for. The butt showed traces of rust. A hand print was etched permanently into the barrel. The serial number had been scratched out with a file. But the clip was full. Wyatt shrugged. He would try it at least. ‘Ear plugs.’

  Flood handed him a pair of industrial earmuffs, then clipped a target to the pulley and sent it down to the end of the room. When Flood was out of the way, Wyatt positioned himself and snapped off several shots. The gun jammed.

  Flood was unembarrassed. He flicked a switch and the target came back to where they were standing. Wyatt examined the spread pattern. Only three of his shots had hit the target, and well to the left of centre. He was never that bad.

  ‘This gun is shit.’

  ‘Bargain basement,’ Flood said. ‘What next?’

  Wyatt didn’t know the Sauer. The Woodsman would be light and accurate but it was too long, too difficult to conceal. ‘Give me the Beretta,’ he said.

  It was a 15-shot Parabellum model, blue steel construction, wood grip. It wasn’t new, but it was clean and it didn’t jam. The spread pattern was tight and accurate. A maybe. But who knew what some punk had used it for in the past?

  He consciously tried the Smith amp;. Wesson last, and immediately felt at home with it. At 14 ounces the weight was right, and it came with a natural rubber grip. It looked new.

  ‘Part of a gun shop haul in Brisbane last year,’ Flood murmured. ‘Never been used.’

  ‘Got any more?’

  ‘Another six.’

  ‘I’ll try it.’

  The two-inch barrel would not mean great accuracy over distance, but then, accuracy beyond 20 metres is doubtful in any handgun. The raid on Finn’s office would be strictly close-range stuff-if it came to that, and it wouldn’t. Wyatt fired the revolver rapidly. The pattern was perfect.

  ‘I’ll take three,’ he said. ‘And ammunition.’

  ‘Three hundred and fifty bucks each and I’ll throw in a box of shells,’ Flood said. He was belligerent, expecting Wyatt to haggle over the price. But all Wyatt said was, ‘The numbers have only been scratched off. That’s not going to stop the forensic boys. Got any acid?’

  Flood nodded. ‘There’s some hydrochloric upstairs.’ He turned to make for the steps to the trapdoor.

  ‘Just a moment,’ Wyatt said. ‘You’ve got records for these?’

  Flood paused reluctantly. ‘In there.’

  He was indicating a two-drawer filing cabinet. ‘I want them,’ Wyatt said.

  He reached out, keeping an eye on Flood, and opened the cabinet. The filing system was simple: folders arranged alphabetically according to gun name. This was Flood’s insurance. If ever the cops traced a gun back to him, he would have something to offer them in exchange for a reduced sentence.

  As expected, Flood had handled dozens of Smith amp; Wessons. Details of each had been recorded in full on a filing card: model type, serial number if present, description of the condition of the gun, dates, provenance, and information about the purchaser. A small, sealable plastic bag was stapled inside each folder-test slugs that Flood had fired into a sawdust channel and kept to help identify the guns he sold.

  Flood watched Wyatt flip through the folders. Aggrieved, he said, ‘You’ll fucking mess up me system.’

  Wyatt ignored him. He found seven recently dated folders for unused Smith amp; Wesson.38s. ‘Brisbane Small Arms,’ he said, reading from the first folder. ‘These the ones?’

  Flood nodded sourly.

  Wyatt burnt the cards and pocketed the test slugs for disposal later. He left the other folders. They had nothing to do with him.

  They went upstairs and coated the filed serial numbers with acid. Flood then cleaned the guns and put them in a shoe box inside a Safeway bag.

  Wyatt paid him and left the house. On the verandah the dog groaned and stretched and lifted its tail.

  Quarter to twelve. Wyatt did not return to Burnley Station but walked to the pavilion in Richmond Park where Hobba would pick him up. The air was cold. A small boy, bloated in a coat and scarf, walked unsteadily with his mother. A council gardener was hoeing weeds along the paths.

  At five minutes to twelve the gardener loaded his tools onto the back of a council truck. He got in and left. At twelve o’clock a white Holden turned off the Boulevard and stopped. Hobba was driving.

  Wyatt left the shelter of the pavilion and walked toward the Holden. He passed the child’s mother, buckling her son into the back of a Volvo station wagon. The only other vehicle around was a massive 1950s car pulling onto the grass verge on the Boulevard. It had tinted windows. Wyatt could hear the thump of its stereo.

  Wyatt opened the driver’s door of the Holden. ‘Let me drive,’ he said.

  Hobba moved across to the passenger seat and Wyatt climbed in behind the steering wheel. He started the engine, then jerked his head at the big car behind them. ‘How long’s he been there?’

  Hobba began to chew on a mint. ‘After I ordered the van I called in at my place to get a jacket. He picked me up there.’

  Wyatt put the Holden in gear. ‘Have you been treading on any toes lately?’

  Hobba shook his head. ‘You have,’ he said. ‘It’s your little mate.’

  ****

  Sixteen

  ‘That car of his sticks out like a sore thumb,’ Hobba said. ‘Dumb prick.’

  Wyatt turned onto the Boulevard and accelerated. ‘Bright enough to know he could find me by following you.’

  Hobba grunted. ‘Think Ivan put him up to it?’

  ‘We’ll soon find out.’

  A few minutes l
ater they were in back streets much like those in Burnley. Now and then Wyatt glimpsed Sugarfoot Younger’s massive red car in the rear view mirror, gingerly negotiating the humps and holes in the bitumen behind them.

  Hobba tossed a mint into his mouth. ‘What’s he want anyway?’

  Wyatt shrugged. ‘Get even with me.’

  ‘Muscle in on this job?’

  ‘That too.’

  ‘Why don’t we just waste the little prick?’

  It seemed to be a rhetorical question, but Wyatt treated it seriously. ‘It hasn’t become necessary yet. We can’t afford heat at this stage.’

  ‘He’s a mad bastard,’ Hobba said after a while. ‘He’s stupid, but dangerous with it. Gun happy.’

  Wyatt nodded. ‘Got Hoddle Street written all over him.’

  ‘Before Ivan took him on he was trying to be Mr Big, but he was just a jumped-up standover merchant. Ivan’s got him at his natural level. If a head needs kicking in, send young Sugar’

  Wyatt checked the rear view mirror again. He grinned. ‘I think Ivan’s trying to smarten him up. Like sending him with me on that insurance job last week.’

  ‘Sort of work experience,’ Hobba said, enjoying this. He almost never saw Wyatt smile. ‘Writes it up afterwards, three-hour exam at the end of the year’

  ‘TAFE certificate after two years,’ Wyatt said.

  They drove deeper into the back streets, peering into alleys and lanes. Wyatt said, ‘Go all right at Loman’s?’

  ‘Beautifully,’ Hobba said. ‘He gave me three sets of fake ID. Tomorrow he’ll have a van ready with clean papers, plus some handcuffs, a drill and bits for Max, and C4 plastic if we need to blow the safe.’

  ‘Hassle you over the money?’

  ‘I gave him the thousand,’ Hobba said. ‘Like you said, all he needed was a sweetener. He’s expecting another six and a half within the week.’

  Wyatt nodded. ‘How about the transfers?’

  ‘Ready tomorrow. ‘Compatible Computer Servicing’. Black letters on a white background.’

  ‘Good. What about Max?’

  ‘Watching Finn, like you wanted. We’re going to need cars though, Wyatt. You can’t watch a place on foot. People notice you.’

  Wyatt nodded. There was a give-way sign ahead. He slowed for it and entered another narrow street. Hobba lit a cigarette and threw away the match. ‘Try there,’ he said suddenly, pointing to an alley.

  Wyatt slowed, but accelerated again. ‘Too open.’

  After a while, Hobba said, ‘How come it’s never straightforward, Wyatt? You ever wondered that? I mean, is it because we’re bent? God looks down, sees what we’re doing, and sends Sugarfoot along to fuck us around? I often wonder.’

  ‘Could be testing us,’ Wyatt said.

  ‘What’s the point? We’ve already failed. Nuh, God likes to fuck you around. Take a bloke, he’s a pillar of society, wife and kids, church on Sunday-if he fucks up you can bet he’s got something going on the side.’ Hobba finished his cigarette and popped another mint. ‘Check this one,’ he said, pointing ahead.

  Wyatt braked. They were at the entrance to a narrow, cobblestoned, dead-end back alley lined by high rusty fences. The cottages and sheds on either side were boarded up and empty-looking. He glanced in the rear view mirror; the red Customline was two blocks behind them. He drove a short distance beyond the entrance, shifted into reverse, and backed into the alley. He reversed for fifty metres and stopped, keeping the engine idling. No windows overlooked the alley. No-one was about. They slid down in their seats so that the car looked to be empty.

  ‘Entering now,’ Hobba said, listening to the Customline rumbling towards them. He raised his head a fraction to look. Sugarfoot Younger, surprised to see no-one sitting in the Holden, had driven far into the alley.

  ‘Go!’ Hobba said.

  Wyatt slammed his foot on the accelerator. The Holden leapt forward. They saw the look of alarm on Sugarfoot’s face and saw him turn his head desperately and begin to reverse. The big car swerved erratically. Suddenly its rear bumper caught a pole and the car slewed and stopped. Wyatt did not reduce speed. He swept through the gap and braked a short distance beyond the red Customline, effectively boxing it in between the street and the walled-in end of the alley.

  He took a Smith amp; Wesson from the shopping bag and gave another to Hobba. ‘He could be carrying,’ he said.

  They crouched and moved down on either side of the Customline. Sugarfoot wound down his window but otherwise didn’t move. The heavy motor belched and muttered.

  Wyatt stopped at the back door. ‘We only want to talk,’ he said. ‘Leave your gun there and come out. Otherwise we put holes in your nice car.’

  There was a movement in the car. ‘Did you see that?’ Hobba said. ‘Little prick gave us the finger.’

  Wyatt released the safety catch on his revolver. ‘Let’s take him.’

  They rushed the two front doors, keeping low.

  But Sugarfoot gave them no trouble. He turned off the engine as they began to move, and they found him staring defiantly ahead, his hands on a magnum revolver in his lap.

  ‘Out you get,’ Wyatt said, opening the driver’s door. ‘We want to talk to you.’ He reached for the magnum. ‘Jesus Christ, a replica.’

  Wyatt stood back as Sugarfoot got out of the car. He saw strength in the bulky frame, but no grace, agility or swiftness. ‘Why’re you tailing us?’

  ‘Get fucked.’

  Hobba reached out for Sugarfoot’s ear and jerked on it. His hand came away with the earring. Sugarfoot flinched, then straightened, putting his hand to his bloodied ear.

  ‘Answer the man,’ Hobba said.

  ‘You two and Max Pedersen got a job on.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  Sugarfoot Younger’s face creased in exasperation. ‘I’m not bloody stupid. If the great Wyatt pulls a small job he’s got to be bankrolling a big one.’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ Wyatt said.

  Sugarfoot looked down and muttered, ‘That was a cunt act, belting me in front of Ivan.’ He looked up again. ‘I want to be in on this job. I’ve got skills.’

  ‘You fucked up once, you’ll fuck up again. We’re taking you home to Ivan.’

  ‘He’ll fucking kill me. Give us a go, Wyatt. I’ll drive, keep a lookout, whatever.’

  ‘Lie down on the ground,’ Wyatt said.

  Hobba grinned. Sugarfoot, panicked, said, ‘Jesus, no need for that. I won’t tell. Just let me go.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Wyatt said. ‘No-one’s going to shoot you. Just lie there on your stomach.’

  Sugarfoot, afraid now, settled onto the damp cobbles. When Hobba rested a foot on his back, he uttered a small, shocked cry.

  ‘Don’t be a sook,’ Hobba said. He began to prod Sugarfoot with his shoe. ‘What’s with the pony tail and the earring, Sugar?’ he said. ‘Eh? You a poofter?’

  ‘Fuck you. I’ll fucking get you cunts. I’ll track the three of youse down.’

  ‘Leave it,’ Wyatt said wearily. He pulled on Hobba’s sleeve. ‘I want a word.’

  A short distance away he muttered, ‘We can’t waste time with this. We’ve got work to do.’

  ‘Waste him,’ Hobba said. ‘You heard him, he’ll just keep hassling us.’

  ‘Then we’d have Ivan’s hoons after us. We don’t need that. Throw a scare into him and let him go.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  Meanwhile, pain was beginning to register above Sugarfoot’s fog of dreams and grievances. He raised his head from the ground. ‘I’m fucking bleeding to death here.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Hobba said. He swiftly crossed to Sugarfoot and, taking a knife from his pocket, knelt down and sliced off the pony tail. He showed Sugarfoot the blade and the hair. ‘See this? If I see you again, even by accident, I’ll slice off your balls. Then I’ll start on your face.’ He stood up and kicked Sugarfoot’s ribs. ‘Now piss off.’

  Sugarfoot scrambled to his feet and made for the stre
et in a stumbling run. He didn’t look back.

  They watched him go. ‘What a prick,’ Hobba said. ‘I didn’t mean he had to leave his car behind.’

  Wyatt was still, concentrating hard. They needed a safe house now, till the job was over. Without one they risked being found by the Youngers.

  But they had a job to do in Fitzroy first.

  ****

  Seventeen

  Of the four thousand prostitutes in Melbourne, nine hundred work in legal brothels. Escort agencies, street trade, and a thriving cottage industry account for the remainder.

  Two were run by Ken Sala. Cher and Simone operated out of a two-bedroom townhouse in the Caribbean Apartments, a converted bluestone factory in Fitzroy, turning tricks for clients in hotel rooms or in the townhouse itself. On a good weekend they could each pull in fifteen hundred dollars, and another fifteen hundred during the week. Ken, who lived in one of the adjacent apartments, gave back only a third, but he paid all their bills and didn’t steer any creeps their way, so they weren’t complaining. Anyway, as he was always reminding them, he was just a cog. He pocketed a thousand bucks in commission and the remainder went to some syndicate in Sydney.

  It was three in the afternoon and Ken was starting a new day. First he did the paperwork for the weekend’s takings. The deal was, he collected from Cher and Simone on Monday, did all the paperwork on Tuesday, and waited till the bagman came around in the evening to collect.

  Five thousand, six hundred bucks. About average. There was a travel agents’ convention starting Friday, so things would pick up a bit then. He stuffed the money into a cash box, locked it and shut it in the bottom drawer of his desk.

  Every afternoon at this time he liked to wander down Lygon Street. He’d tried Brunswick Street but the style there was more your ponytails, ‘fifties gear and anaemic punk birds dressed in black. Lygon Street was more his scene. He went into his bedroom and put on the baggy electric-shimmer trousers with the pleated front, a black silk shirt, a drape jacket with broad shoulders and discreet checks, and low profile Italian slip-ons so slight they felt like slippers. He finished by gelling his hair. He looked at his face. Not one you’d mess with.