Garry Disher - Kick Back

Wyatt tensed. A silver BMW had emerged from the driveway of the Frome place. The headlights plunged, then levelled, as the car entered Lansell Road. Wyatt counted heads: Frome driving, wife next to him, kids in the back. He checked the time-8 pm-and watched the BMW disappear in the direction of Toorak Road.

‘Let’s go,’ Sugarfoot Younger said.

He reached for the key in the ignition but before he could turn it Wyatt’s fingers closed like a steel clamp on his wrist. He looked around. The eyes were close and remorseless in Wyatt’s narrow face. ‘We wait,’ Wyatt said.

Sugarfoot jerked free his hand. ‘What the fuck for?’

‘People forget things, Sugar. They feel cold and come back for their coats. We wait.’

‘Aaah,’ Sugarfoot Younger said.

He lit a cigarette. The match flared, illuminating his blockish face, his disgust with the world and Wyatt and all this buggerising around. He pitched the match out of the window and began to pull at his hair, caught in a stubby ponytail at the back of his head. ‘First lesson,’ he said, huffing a smoke ring at the windscreen, testing for a reaction from the still figure next to him, ‘never strike while the iron’s hot.’

Wyatt ignored him. He hadn’t wanted this, hadn’t known that Ivan Younger would be sending his brother along. He cranked down his window. It was a cold evening, the air smelling of plants and damp soil. There were few cars about, fewer pedestrians. They were watching the Frome place from the front seat of a Yellow Cab, and no one was looking twice at it, parked innocently, its headlights on.

A few minutes later, when two elderly women entered the street from a nearby house, their faces and hair dirty white in the street lights, Wyatt said, ‘Switch on the interior light and study the street directory. Avert your face.’

‘Avert?’ Sugarfoot said. ‘Speak English.’

The women shuffled past the Yellow Cab. When Wyatt turned in his seat to watch them, his bony nose cast a hooked shadow across the flat planes of his face. He saw the women stop at a small Morris sedan. After some confusion about keys and who would drive, the women got into the car and drove away. They wouldn’t remember two men in a taxi looking for an address.

Sugarfoot switched off the inside light and closed the street directory. ‘Come on, Wyatt. We could’ve done the place by now.’ He flicked away his cigarette.

‘Another five,’ Wyatt said.

He watched the street. He would wait all night if a job required it. Hoons like Sugarfoot Younger got jumpy before a job. They were never as solid as you’d like. They swallowed uppers and blundered in and made mistakes. Which is fine, he thought, if you’re not working with them.

In the seat next to him, Sugarfoot sighed and shifted his heavy limbs. He wore Levis, a denim jacket, a red bandana knotted at his throat, and calf-length tooled leather boots. He would have worn his Stetson hat if Wyatt hadn’t kicked up a fuss. He brushed his palm against the stubble on his chin. Apparently struck by the sound and the sensation, he did it again.

He’s going to start yapping again, Wyatt thought, glancing at the lightless, shallow eyes. He won’t be able to help himself.

As if on cue, Sugarfoot lounger said, ‘You know Jesse James? The outlaw? Well, get this, he had these two brothers in his gang, and their last name was Younger.’ He tipped back his head at Wyatt. ‘I reckon that makes me and Ivan the second Younger brothers.’

He watched Wyatt, waiting for a response. Wyatt said nothing, merely lifted his wrist to check the time. Like all his movements, it was fluid and economical.

‘There’s this film about them,’ Sugarfoot said. ‘The Long Riders. About how they were always getting hassled, so they hit back. They did trains, banks, whatever. I got the video at home.’

Wyatt had heard about this cowboy fixation. It probably accounted for the name Sugarfoot, a name from an old television show, but he hoped somebody was being ironical when they gave that name to Bruno Younger. Bruno Younger was the right age for a cowboy punk, about twenty-one, but he was a heavy-featured vicious boy and Wyatt could not imagine him robbing a train on horseback.

‘There’s this long scene near the end,’ Sugarfoot said. ‘The gang hits a bank in Northfield, Minnesota-The Great Northfield, Minnesota Raid-but they’ve been set-up. It’s filmed in slow motion,’ he said. He paused. ‘Orchestrated,’ he said, as if testing the word. ‘It’s orchestrated. Second by second, every shot in close-up.’ He shot the windscreen with his finger. ‘Pow. There’s this sort of fantastic thunk when the slugs hit.’

Again Wyatt failed to respond. Sugarfoot, annoyed now, said, ‘Ivan reckons you’re a hotshot at banks and armoured cars and that.’

Wyatt continued to watch the sparse traffic and the Frome place behind its screen of English trees. Sugarfoot gestured abruptly. ‘If you’re so good, how come you’re doing this pissy insurance job for him?’

Good question, Wyatt thought. He sensed, without turning around, that Sugarfoot had his head cocked at a smart-arse angle. He was not surprised when Sugarfoot said, ‘I mean, it’s not what you’d call heavy-duty. Lose your nerve?’

Wyatt noted the time on his watch.

‘Ah well,’ Sugarfoot said airily, ‘Ivan reckons you’ll learn me some tricks of the trade, so I guess I better be patient.’

Wyatt stiffened. But he said nothing. It could wait.

‘Course, you could be bankrolling a big job,’ Sugarfoot said, watching Wyatt’s face. ‘Maybe with Hobba?’

‘Put your gloves on,’ Wyatt said.

Sugarfoot pulled on latex gloves and started the engine. ‘Come on, Wyatt. Is it a bank? Armoured van? You going to let me and Ivan in on it?’

‘Just drive,’ Wyatt said, taking gloves from the inside pocket of his thin, tan leather jacket.

Sugarfoot drove away from the kerb, across the street, and into the steep driveway of the Frome place. The taxi’s tyres rumbled expensively over the gravel surface. Well-tended trees arced above. Then the taxi emerged from the darkness onto a paved area at the front of the house, where a small-leafed wall ivy crept like a stain towards the upper levels of the house. A light was on above the door.

‘Park here,’ Wyatt said. ‘Do what taxis do, lights on, engine running.’

‘You told me that.’

‘I’m telling you again.’

Sugarfoot braked, shifted the gear lever into Park and both men drew balaclavas over their faces. They got out. As Wyatt pressed the illuminated buzzer set into the door frame, he murmured, ‘Remember, she’s old, she’s only the housekeeper’

‘Lesson number two,’ Sugarfoot said, ‘listen to the same shit over and over again.’

Wyatt held up his hand. A curtain had twitched at a window. The housekeeper was there, just as Ivan Younger had briefed him. That meant the alarm system was off. The housekeeper would see the taxi, take the security chain off, and come out to investigate.

They waited. When the door opened, Wyatt pushed through, Sugarfoot crowding in behind him.

‘Oh,’ the housekeeper said.

Her hand went to her heart and she struggled for breath and pressed back against the wall. Her hair seemed to spring into grey, untidy clusters. Powder had smudged the lenses of her glasses. She wore slippers. She smelt of sherry.

‘We don’t want to hurt you,’ Wyatt said gently. ‘We’ll be in and out in five minutes. But we have to tie you up first, do you understand?’ He turned to Sugarfoot. ‘Got the tape?’

Sugarfoot patted his pocket.

Wyatt turned back to the housekeeper. ‘We’ll use parcel tape. It doesn’t bite in like rope.’ He always explained what he was doing. It calmed people, made them less unpredictable. ‘We’ll sit you in a chair,’ he said, ‘so you’ll be comfortable. Unfortunately we have to put tape over your mouth. Do you understand?’