Garry Disher - Kick Back

Between twelve-thirty and one, sales assistants and managers straggled into Quiller Place from the Toorak Road shops. They sat in their cars to eat sandwiches or drove somewhere for lunch. Most were back by two.

Then came a wave of afternoon shoppers. Wyatt watched them above his newspaper, young mothers mostly, creeping down Quiller Place in glossy Range Rovers, Volvos and Mercedes wagons with ski racks. They parked in the street or the customer parking areas and locked their cars, braced for the chilly wind in Italian leather coats or bright ski parkas and high boots and gloves. They were away for long periods, and emerged from the lanes leading to Toorak Road laden with parcels. One or two with small children met lovers, mummy’s friend.

Five people visited Finn’s office. Wyatt tried and failed to guess whose clients they were. They were well-dressed-two yuppies and three smart, middle-aged women-and if they were distressed or in trouble you’d never know it from looking at them. He checked his watch each time: five minutes to the hour, five minutes to the half hour.

Did Anna Reid inspire trust in her clients? Suddenly Wyatt wanted to see and touch her. The feeling came so hard and strong that he realised he had been suppressing it. He remembered how it had been last night, her swinging hair and her long throat and the smell of her skin. Within minutes of his arrival she had been wearing nothing under her skirt and was hoisting herself onto the kitchen bench to let him nuzzle her while she held him there in the clamp of her gleaming legs, her back arched. It had been rich and humid and now Wyatt wanted her again. He tried concentrating, willing her to appear. But she did not, and he felt foolish.

Ten past three. No one paid Wyatt or his shabby car any attention. The people here were too self-absorbed for that. But he knew they were not so self-absorbed as to overlook a car that never moved, or a man who never shopped or picked up his wife or finished reading his newspaper. That’s why the three shifts each day, the three different vehicles.

At three-fifteen a police car turned in at the top end of Quiller Place. Two young constables, a man and a woman, examined both sides of the street. Wyatt started the Falcon, drove forward at an awkward angle, and, looking behind him, his arm stretched out along the seat, backed up as if to correct the angle.

He did this three times while the patrol car cruised along and out of the street. Nothing unusual-just someone who has muffed his parking.

Wyatt thought about it. A cop car on a side street in the middle of the afternoon? A regular beat? Just in case, he got out of the Falcon and stood out of sight near the ornamental shrubbery behind a bookshop. He would wait for Hobba there. If the cops came back, he would abandon the car and slip through to Toorak Road.

Fifteen minutes went by. At three-thirty Finn came out of his office, crossed Quiller Place, and went into the rear entrance of the cafe. His coffee break. Wyatt wrote down the time. The cops would have been back by now, surely.

When Hobba appeared, passing slowly down the street in the Econovan, Wyatt put away his notebook and got into the Falcon. He didn’t acknowledge Hobba but drove out of the street. He was hungry and thirsty and cold and the day wasn’t over yet.

If Ivan wants to drop his bundle, Sugarfoot thought, that’s his problem. No way am I going to just act as if nothing’s happened.

Once planted, the resolution grew. He could see three clear reasons for going on the offensive. One, settle his personal scores with Wyatt and Hobba. Two, recover Ken Sala’s take so they wouldn’t be out of pocket. Three, hijack Wyatt’s job and make some real money for a change.

But Ivan had him airing mouldy carpets and collecting small debts all day on Wednesday, so by the time he got to the saloon bar of the Kings Head and put out some feelers, the only thing available was an old.25 pistol with a silencer.

Even at home he couldn’t get any peace. Rolfe was in the kitchen mixing dried fruit and nuts for a bushwalk next weekend, and Tina was going on about how men never put the seat down afterwards, they always splashed and dribbled, and she for one felt revolted and in future someone else could clean the loo.

So Sugarfoot shut himself in his room, did a line of coke and turned on the box. He watched the Channel 2 news because (a) there were no ads, and (b) he liked the way Edwin Maher did the weather.

At seven-thirty he went downstairs. Tina was doing the washing-up. He wanted to say it wouldn’t hurt her to include him in the evening meal sometimes, but remembered it would be lentils, so he said what he’d come down to say: ‘Tina, are you going out tonight?’

She didn’t turn around. ‘Why?’

‘Can I ask a favour?’

‘Such as?’

‘Can I borrow your Kombi?’

This time she turned around. ‘What’s wrong with your car?’

Well they fucking know my car and I don’t want to get ambushed again. ‘Nothing,’ Sugarfoot said. ‘I told this mate of mine I’d help him shift some furniture.’

‘You’ve got a mate?’

He said bitterly, ‘Forget it,’ and turned to leave.

‘Come back, Sugar. I didn’t mean it.’ Her face was red, half remorseful. ‘When do you need it?’

‘Later tonight.’

She began shrugging and showing indifference-a typical woman thing, Sugarfoot thought. Finally she said, ‘I suppose it’s all right.’

‘Thanks.’

Couldn’t be a simple matter, though. Couldn’t just hand over the keys. He had to wait while she said, ‘Be careful with it. Plus if you could put some petrol in.’

Fucking do me a favour sometime. Sugarfoot took the keys from her outstretched hand. Then she seemed to notice him for the first time. ‘There’s something different about you. Have you had a haircut?’

‘You could say that.’

He turned around and left the room. Upstairs he watched a video. At nine o’clock he stuck the silenced.25 in his belt, put on his long coat, went downstairs, and started Tina’s Kombi.

By nine-thirty he was outside Hobba’s scungy Housing Commission flat on Racecourse Road. He had no clear plan, intending only to rely on surprise. He went up to the eighth floor, knocked, got no answer, and came down again. He didn’t want to miss Hobba, but he was also nervous that the ethnic kids might decide to firebomb Tina’s van.

Plus there was a lot of action going on. Police and ambulances up and down Racecourse Road, shouts in the darkness, hoons laying rubber in their panel vans, the police helicopter poking about with a searchlight.

Animals staggering home from the pub, pissing and chucking in the lifts and stairwells.

When Hobba hadn’t shown by midnight, Sugarfoot thought, maybe the bastards are all at Pedersen’s. Ten minutes later he was negotiating the tidy garden beds and gravel paths around Pedersen’s neat weatherboard house. He got in through the porch at the rear and made his way-flat against the wall, both hands on the.25, barrel next to his ear- through every room in the house.

Pedersen wasn’t home either.

He sat on a vinyl couch and thought about that.

They’ve done the job and Pedersen is out celebrating. He comes in late and tired. He’s just going to turn on the light when a voice comes out of the darkness: ‘Been out, have we? About that job you pulled… ‘

Pedersen paralysed, mouth open, a sitting target.

By 2 am Sugarfoot was thinking, bastard, he’s probably in Bali, getting his dick massaged on Kuta Beach.

He left, using the front door this time.

And felt his foot kick against something on the welcome mat. He crouched down to look. Just shows you, never jump to hasty conclusions. Two copies of the Herald-Sun, yesterday’s and today’s. Pedersen hasn’t been home at all. Nor has Hobba. They’ve gone to ground somewhere.