Garry Disher - Kick Back

‘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.’

‘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 later 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’