Garry Disher - Kick Back

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 street 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.

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.