Garry Disher - Kick Back

‘It’s us,’ Wyatt said, his face to the door. A key was turned, a bolt slid back. The door opened and Ivan Younger asked, ‘Go all right?’

Wyatt didn’t reply. He nodded at the taxi, ‘This taken care of?’

‘The day driver takes it out tomorrow morning, same as usual,’ Ivan said. He walked over to the cab and leaned in at the driver’s window. ‘Park it out the front, Sugar, then come in the back way.’

Wyatt followed Ivan inside. The storeroom was large, grey and gloomy, constructed of cement blocks and steel girders. Metal shelving lined the walls. Cardboard boxes had been stacked on the floor next to gutted armchairs, warped table-tops and scratched stereo cabinets. The only light in the cheerless room came from a neon strip in the ceiling.

‘So,’ Ivan Younger said. ‘Go all right?’

Wyatt regarded him bleakly. He had worked with Ivan Younger before. Ivan believed in diversity. For a fee he’d provide false papers, explosives, guns, plastic surgery, floor plans, maps of security systems, a ‘legitimate’ set of wheels. He had contacts in Telecom who set up telephone diverters in his SP joints. He gave twenty cents in the dollar for hot televisions and home computers. He was a middle man in insurance scams, negotiating a cut of the victim’s refund or, as in tonight’s job, the reward money. He had insurance clerks in his pocket, along with cops and magistrates probably. And just lately there were rumours he’d bought into the vice operations of a Sydney syndicate expanding its Melbourne base.

Now he was staring at Wyatt. ‘Where’s the stuff?’

Keeping well clear of him, Wyatt stood where he could watch the door to the alley and the door through to the showroom. He did it automatically, in the way that he also avoided lifts, call boxes and other confined spaces, stood back from a door once he’d knocked on it, used crowds for protection, avoided unlighted areas. It was like breathing.

Ivan said again, ‘Wyatt? The stuff?’

Wyatt watched him warily. Ivan Younger was older than Sugarfoot, about forty; cleverer, less belligerent, more assessing. His bald head gleamed in the storeroom’s meagre light. He compensated for baldness with a bushy, grey-streaked moustache. He wore baggy linen trousers burdened with fussy pockets, and a bulky, brightly coloured pullover. His tasselled Italian shoes snapped on the cement floor. He reminded Wyatt of some sleek predator.

Ivan folded his arms across his thick chest, and leaned back against the bench. ‘Is something wrong?’

Wyatt’s narrow face seemed to sharpen. ‘What do you fucking think?’

‘Tell me.’

‘Straightforward job, experienced lookout, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Except there’s this hidden agenda,’ Wyatt said. ‘We have a young punk who wants to learn a few tricks so he’ll be useful to his older brother, and the older brother thinks, why not send him out on a job with a pro?’

Ivan Younger shifted uncomfortably. ‘Thought it would do him good,’ he said, his high voice a register higher. ‘What did he do?’

‘Later,’ Wyatt said. ‘Give me my fee.’

Ivan pointed at a corner safe. ‘It’s in there. I want the stuff first.’

‘Haven’t got it.’

Ivan stared at him. ‘Did you get into the place?’

‘Oh, we got in all right,’ Wyatt said.

‘Don’t fuck around. How come there’s no stuff?’

‘My fee.’

‘No way. You deliver, you get paid, that was the deal. If you’re holding out for more, you can just fuck off.’

Wyatt stood lightly on the balls of his feet, his fists ready. He kept half an eye on the alley door. He said, ‘We left the stuff behind.’

‘What the fuck for? You-’

Sugarfoot Younger stepped in from the alley. He was carrying a painting, another small one, a plain wooden frame this time. ‘Hey, Ive? He tell you what happened? Got cold feet and left the stuff behind. I snuck this out, but.’ He began to cross the storeroom towards them.

‘What do you mean?’ Ivan said. ‘There were no paintings on the-’

He stopped. Wyatt had stepped behind Sugarfoot and was jerking savagely on the ponytail. He had the pistol in his other hand. He motioned at Ivan with it. ‘You move and I’ll blow his brains out’

Sugarfoot struggled. He had the blockish body of a weightlifter but his large limbs lacked flexibility, his arms bowed out at the sides and he was a head shorter than Wyatt. ‘Get him, Ive,’ he said, grunting the words.

Wyatt ground the pistol barrel under Sugarfoot’s jaw, cutting off his voice. The pressure on the ponytail forced Sugarfoot’s head back. The painting clattered onto the floor.

‘You want him to learn things?’ Wyatt said. He tugged hard on the ponytail in punctuation. ‘Here are some basic lessons. One, obey orders. Two, know your part. Three, no guns unless the job demands it. Four-’

He released the ponytail, stepped back, and raked the pistol across Sugarfoot’s face.

‘Stay out of this,’ he said, gesturing at Ivan again. He drove his knee into Sugarfoot’s groin, let him double over, then smacked the butt on the back of his neck. Sugarfoot collapsed, dry-retching.

Wyatt prodded with his foot. ‘Four, know your limitations. You’re a punk.’

He stepped back and pocketed the pistol.

Ivan Younger relaxed. ‘In other words,’ he said, ‘he fucked up.’

It was an attempt at humour, but Wyatt took out the pistol again. ‘My five thousand.’

‘Fuck you.’

They stood and stared at each other. Wyatt thought about it. Stand-offs wasted time. He didn’t want the antagonism, and the longer he hung around here the riskier it would be. Still holding the pistol, he bent down and picked up the little painting and took it across to a deep stainless steel sink.

Ivan said, ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

Wyatt ignored him. He smashed the glass with the pistol butt, snapped the wooden frame and dropped the painting into the sink.

‘Jesus Christ, Wyatt.’

He watched dully as Wyatt doused the painting with methylated spirits and set fire to it. ‘A Whiteley,’ Ivan said. ‘Know what one of them’s worth?’

Wyatt knew Whiteleys. If he wanted, he could steal job-lots of Whiteleys in every house in Toorak. He watched the painting turn to ash, said, ‘Stay away from me,’ and let himself out into the night.

Ivan watched Wyatt go, feeling vaguely dissatisfied. He’d backed him down on the five thousand dollars, but it was a hollow victory. Wyatt wasn’t someone you’d normally cross. He told himself he did it because of the guy’s arrogance and the way he’d thumped Sugar.

He leaned down and twisted his brother’s ear. ‘Get up.’

Sugarfoot patted at him feebly.

‘Get up. I want to know what happened tonight.’

Sugarfoot put his weight on his hands, then his knees, and finally stood. He swayed groggily, touched his face and took his hands away. They were sticky with blood. ‘Look what the cunt did to me.’

‘I’ll do worse if you don’t fucking tell me what happened.’

Sugarfoot shrugged, his loose, pouchy face growing sullen. ‘The maid, whatever. One minute she’s all right, the next minute she carks it.’

‘Jesus H. Christ.’

‘Must’ve had a dicky heart.’

Ivan stared at his brother. ‘You didn’t help her along, of course?’

‘No. I swear-’

‘Ah, fuck off, I don’t want to hear about it.’

Ivan leaned against the workbench, concentrating hard. Wyatt wouldn’t talk. But the insurance clerk would have to be sweetened in case he developed a conscience.

Fucking Sugar. A grade-A fuckwit. That Whiteley painting could have put them all in Pentridge.