Garry Disher - Kickback (Wyatt Novel)

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Kick Back

[Wyatt 01]

By Garry Disher

Scanned & Proofed By MadMaxAU

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One

Wyatttensed. A silver BMW had emerged from the driveway of the Frome place. Theheadlights plunged, then levelled, as the car entered Lansell Road. Wyattcounted heads: Frome driving, wife next to him, kids in the back. He checkedthe time8 pmand watched the BMW disappear in the direction of Toorak Road.

Lets go, Sugarfoot Younger said.

He reached for the key in theignition but before he could turn it Wyatts fingers closed like a steel clampon his wrist. He looked around. The eyes were close and remorseless in Wyattsnarrow face. We wait, Wyatt said.

Sugarfoot jerked free his hand. Whatthe fuck for?

People forget things, Sugar. Theyfeel cold and come back for their coats. We wait.

Aaah, Sugarfoot Younger said.

He lit a cigarette. The matchflared, illuminating his blockish face, his disgust with the world and Wyattand all this buggerising around. He pitched the match out of the window andbegan 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 areaction from the still figure next to him, never strike while the ironshot.

Wyatt ignored him. He hadnt wantedthis, hadnt known that Ivan Younger would be sending his brother along. Hecranked down his window. It was a cold evening, the air smelling of plants anddamp soil. There were few cars about, fewer pedestrians. They were watching theFrome place from the front seat of a Yellow Cab, and no one was looking twiceat it, parked innocently, its headlights on.

A few minutes later, when twoelderly women entered the street from a nearby house, their faces and hairdirty white in the street lights, Wyatt said, Switch on the interior light andstudy the street directory. Avert your face.

Avert? Sugarfoot said. Speak English.

The women shuffled past the YellowCab. When Wyatt turned in his seat to watch them, his bony nose cast a hookedshadow across the flat planes of his face. He saw the women stop at a smallMorris sedan. After some confusion about keys and who would drive, the womengot into the car and drove away. They wouldnt remember two men in a taxilooking for an address.

Sugarfoot switched off the insidelight and closed the street directory. Come on, Wyatt. We couldve done theplace by now. He flicked away his cigarette.

Another five, Wyatt said.

He watched the street. He would waitall night if a job required it. Hoons like Sugarfoot Younger got jumpy before ajob. They were never as solid as youd like. They swallowed uppers andblundered in and made mistakes. Which is fine, he thought, if youre notworking with them.

In the seat next to him, Sugarfootsighed and shifted his heavy limbs. He wore Levis, a denim jacket, a redbandana knotted at his throat, and calf-length tooled leather boots. He wouldhave worn his Stetson hat if Wyatt hadnt kicked up a fuss. He brushed his palmagainst the stubble on his chin. Apparently struck by the sound and thesensation, he did it again.

Hes going to start yapping again,Wyatt thought, glancing at the lightless, shallow eyes. He wont be able to helphimself.

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

He watched Wyatt, waiting for aresponse. Wyatt said nothing, merely lifted his wrist to check the time. Likeall his movements, it was fluid and economical.

Theres this film about them,Sugarfoot said. The Long Riders. About how they were always gettinghassled, so they hit back. They did trains, banks, whatever. I got the video athome.

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

Theres this long scene near theend, Sugarfoot said. The gang hits a bank in Northfield, MinnesotaThe GreatNorthfield, Minnesota Raidbut theyve been set-up. Its filmed in slow motion,he said. He paused. Orchestrated, he said, as if testing the word. Itsorchestrated. Second by second, every shot in close-up. He shot the windscreenwith his finger. Pow. Theres this sort of fantastic thunk when theslugs hit.

Again Wyatt failed to respond.Sugarfoot, annoyed now, said, Ivan reckons youre a hotshot at banks and armouredcars and that.

Wyatt continued to watch the sparsetraffic and the Frome place behind its screen of English trees. Sugarfootgestured abruptly. If youre so good, how come youre doing this pissyinsurance job for him?

Good question, Wyatt thought. Hesensed, without turning around, that Sugarfoot had his head cocked at asmart-arse angle. He was not surprised when Sugarfoot said, I mean, its notwhat youd call heavy-duty. Lose your nerve?

Wyatt noted the time on his watch.

Ah well, Sugarfoot said airily, Ivanreckons youll learn me some tricks of the trade, so I guess I better bepatient.

Wyatt stiffened. But he saidnothing. It could wait.

Course, you could bebankrolling a big job, Sugarfoot said, watching Wyatts face. Maybe withHobba?

Put your gloves on, Wyatt said.

Sugarfoot pulled on latex gloves andstarted the engine. Come on, Wyatt. Is it a bank? Armoured van? You going tolet me and Ivan in on it?

Just drive, Wyatt said, takinggloves 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 taxistyres rumbled expensively over the gravel surface. Well-tended trees arcedabove. Then the taxi emerged from the darkness onto a paved area at the frontof the house, where a small-leafed wall ivy crept like a stain towards theupper levels of the house. A light was on above the door.

Park here, Wyatt said. Do whattaxis do, lights on, engine running.

You told me that.

Im telling you again.

Sugarfoot braked, shifted the gearlever into Park and both men drew balaclavas over their faces. They got out. AsWyatt pressed the illuminated buzzer set into the door frame, he murmured, Remember,shes old, shes only the housekeeper

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

Wyatt held up his hand. A curtainhad twitched at a window. The housekeeper was there, just as Ivan Younger hadbriefed him. That meant the alarm system was off. The housekeeper would see thetaxi, 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 shestruggled for breath and pressed back against the wall. Her hair seemed tospring into grey, untidy clusters. Powder had smudged the lenses of herglasses. She wore slippers. She smelt of sherry.

We dont want to hurt you, Wyattsaid gently. Well be in and out in five minutes. But we have to tie you upfirst, do you understand? He turned to Sugarfoot. Got the tape?

Sugarfoot patted his pocket.

Wyatt turned back to thehousekeeper. Well use parcel tape. It doesnt bite in like rope. He alwaysexplained what he was doing. It calmed people, made them less unpredictable. Wellsit you in a chair, he said, so youll be comfortable. Unfortunately we haveto put tape over your mouth. Do you understand?