Garry Disher - Kick Back

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.

Three-twenty-five. Time to cruise. ‘Hey, Ken,’ the guys would say on Lygon Street. ‘How’s tricks?’ He hadn’t seen the joke at first, but now he did, and knew it meant that he was accepted.

His buzzer rang. He put his eye to the spyhole. No-one there. The courtyard was empty.

‘Who is it?’ he said.

No answer.

It was the kind of thing kids were always doing. This one kid would come around delivering the Herald-Sun and ring on every bell whether the person took that paper or not. Ken opened the door. He’d soon sort the little bastard out.

It was the kind of thing that happens in a bad dream, the two men wearing balaclavas coming through the door at him. Something-the door?-split his lip open. The men punched him, pushed him against the wall, kicked the door shut. It was over in about five seconds.

Less than a minute later they had him in an armchair and one, a fat one smelling of mints, was waving a gun in his face, going, ‘Kenny, we want the cash.’

The other one, a slender, fluid, hard-edged looking guy, did a quick check of the other rooms and came back and leaned in the doorway. There was an air of stillness about him.

‘What cash?’ Ken said.

The hard-looking one stirred. He said, ‘He’s wasting our time. Take the place apart,’ and started to rip prints off the walls and tear the covers off the Penthouse magazine and the Stephen King paperback on the coffee table.

The fat one pulled out a knife and slit the grey and pink leather sofa, three thousand bucks in Scandinavia World.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Ken said. His voice squeaked a little. He tried again. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

The hard one said, ‘The cash. The week’s takings.’

‘You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for,’ Ken said. ‘I’m connected. There are going to be some pissed-off people as a result of this.’

‘So you admit to the cash?’ the fat one said.

‘There’ll be fucking trouble. Plus which’-and Ken’s treacherous voice rose again-’how the fuck am I going to pay them back?’

The hard one looked at him. ‘Just get the money.’

On the way out the fat one grinned and the hard one said, ‘Like the threads, Ken.’

It was three-thirty. They had been in and out in less than five minutes.

By four-thirty Wyatt was on the footpath outside a building near Queens Road, having his hand shaken by a man who said, ‘Mr Lake? Call me Rocky.’

Rocky drove a black Porsche Targa with a car phone and personalised plates. He wore a white shirt and a double-breasted suit sharp as a knife. He released Wyatt’s hand and clapped his palms together. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Short-term rental, fully furnished? No problem.’ He spoke urgently, his face too close, as if Wyatt’s only wish in life was to hear his words. ‘What firm you with?’

Wyatt mumbled a name. ‘Sydney based,’ he said. ‘Today I learned I’ll have to stay here for another three weeks, so I thought, why not the wife and kids as well? They’ll be down on the weekend. That’s why I need the extra rooms. Plus I’ll be doing a certain amount of entertaining, and you can’t do that in a hotel room.’

Rocky watched Wyatt’s face, fascinated. Then he couldn’t help himself and said, ‘Excuse me, I think the frames of your glasses are twisted.’

‘Yeah, damn things,’ Wyatt said.

There was a pause. Rocky clapped his hands together again. ‘Right.’ He indicated the building behind him, three storeys of pastel pink stone, and grey doors, window frames and entrance canopy. ‘We got several apartments available.’ He numbered his clean, white, ringed fingers. ‘You got your VHS, CD system, central heating, washing machine, two phones, proper down doonas. You got your intercom at the main entrance here, and your lock-up garage in the basement, room for two cars.’

‘Can I see the garage?’

Rocky looked surprised. Usually they wanted to see the apartment first. ‘Sure. No problem.’ He led Wyatt down a ramp to a large, dim, underground space. Along one wall were twelve steel garage doors. ‘Incredibly secure. The lift’s on the other side. I’ll show you.’

Rocky unlocked one of the steel doors, revealing an empty garage with space for two cars. It smelt faintly of old oil and exhaust fumes. He drew down the door, locked it, and opened a strong, plain wooden door set in the back wall. This led into a small passageway.

‘You got your lift,’ Rocky said, pushing a button. The lift arrived and Rocky took them to level two. ‘Got a nice corner apartment,’ he said. ‘Three bedrooms plus all I said before.’

It was apartment 8. Rocky took out a large bunch of keys, unlocked the door, and they entered the apartment. Wyatt walked to the main window, which looked down over Queens Road, the golf course and Albert Park Lake. Some mugs were out on the lake, one or two miserable sails bending in the wind. He turned away, examined the room, and went into the bedrooms and the bathroom. Rocky followed him, almost upon his heels, keys rattling, smelling nastily of aftershave.

It was like being in a resort hotel, like a beer baron’s wife’s idea of good taste. Pastel walls, glossy white wooden surfaces, terracotta ornaments, varnished cane and rattan, bright cotton cushions and chair coverings, Mexican rugs, vaguely Aboriginal prints on the walls, vases the colour and shape of candy chips.

‘You got your coffee percolator, your microwave,’ Rocky said, ‘for the wife.’

‘Very nice,’ Wyatt replied. ‘Quiet?’

‘Absolutely. Double glazing, thick walls, carpets in the corridors. You won’t hear a thing. No-one knocking on your door for a chat. Actually-’ Rocky coughed, a little embarrassed ‘-we’re not fully occupied at the moment.’

‘Things are tough everywhere,’ Wyatt said.

‘It’ll pick up,’ Rocky said. ‘Always does.’ He coughed again. ‘We would require a deposit, of course, if you were interested in taking the place.’

‘Full amount up front,’ Wyatt said, ‘in cash. That’s how I work.’ He got out his wallet.

Rocky opened and closed his mouth. ‘You’ll take it?’

‘I’ll take it.’

‘You won’t regret it. This is a quality facility’

‘Right,’ Wyatt said.

They went down to the street level and filled out the papers in Rocky’s car. ‘You want anything else, just call me,’ Rocky said, giving Wyatt his business card and keys for all the locks.

Wyatt went back inside and rang Pedersen with details of the evening’s plans. Then he made tea, settling down to wait for six o’clock when he would call Anna Reid and arrange to pick up the photographs. He felt impatient, and that surprised him.