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.
Nineteen
In Bargain City, Ivan Younger was pacing the storeroom floor, jabbing his finger, saying, ‘You’re a fuckwit. What are you?’ He stopped pacing. ‘You’re lucky they didn’t cut your throat. That’s what I would’ve done. Where you going?’
Sugarfoot shrugged. ‘Get my car back, then collect the take from Ken Sala.’
Ivan thought about it. ‘That, and nothing else. No more fucking adventures, understand? Drive straight here after. Stay out of Wyatt’s way. You’re not in the same league.’
Sugarfoot scowled. He’d been hearing nothing else all afternoon. Hours of listening to crap, being treated like shit. Worse, stuff about IQ, snide stuff he’d been hearing all his life. On top of being bashed twice in a week. They could all go and get fucked.
Sugarfoot buttoned up his coat. A good coat, ankle length, warm, concealing, mean-looking. He had this idea for a shotgun on a sling. Sawn off, it would weigh as little as six pounds. Just fold back the coat flap, whip her up, blam.
But just thinking about it seemed to pull at his bruised ribs and stomach. He grimaced in pain. Ivan said, his voice a shade kinder, ‘You all right? Want me to drive you there?’
‘I rang a cab. I’ll be all right,’ Sugarfoot said.
But he felt stiff and sore. His right eye was puffy, going black, almost closed. Blood crusted his ear and neck. His hair looked like a Victa had been through it.
Ivan touched his arm. ‘Look, mate, one day we’ll get back at the bastards, okay? They went too far. But as a favour to me now, stay out of their way.’
Mr Hotshot. Number one son. ‘Fuck off,’ Sugarfoot said.
He went outside to wait for the taxi. He could feel Ivan watching him from behind the advertisement-smeared plate glass window of Bargain City. He hunched deep into his coat. The wind was cruel on his ear.
A horn bipped. He looked up. A Silver Top, the ethnic driver giving him the once-over. ‘You been drinking? You chuck in my cab, mate, and you can clean it up.’
‘Get stuffed,’ Sugarfoot said.
‘Yeah, well you too, mate,’ the driver replied.
‘Let’s just go, all right?’ Sugarfoot said.
He gave directions to his place in Collingwood. ‘Wait here,’ he said. He went upstairs, unlocked the chest under his bed, and pocketed a flick-knife. He needed a handgun, and soon. Something small enough to tuck in his sock or conceal in his hand. What would be really good, though-apart from a sawn-off on a sling-would be to fire from high ground with his sniper’s rifle fitted with a scope. Bullets coming out of nowhere, this look of surprise on Wyatt’s face when his chest explodes. Other people looking around, taking awhile to work out what’s going on.
He went downstairs and told the driver to take him to Richmond. They cruised for fifteen minutes as he tried from memory to find the Customline. Wyatt had left Richmond Park, gone along Swan for a while, then up Burnley, then into side streets. It was all depressing.
‘Listen, pal,’ the driver said. ‘I’ll take you to Sydney if you like, but I got better things to do than cruise around Richmond.’
‘Any of your business?’ Sugarfoot said.
If he hadn’t been feeling so bad, he might have sorted the bastard out then and there. But they were slowing for a tight roundabout in the road and he saw an alley and a flash of red at the end of it. ‘You can stop here,’ he said.
The driver looked around, dismissing it. ‘Here?’
Sugarfoot scowled. The cunt probably lived in a two-storey red brick wog mansion in Sunshine. ‘Keep the change,’ he said, tipping two dollars. ‘Buy yourself a bar of soap.’
For a moment he thought he’d done it, but the driver gave him the finger and sped, tyres squealing, towards Bridge Road. Sugarfoot tried a grin with his bruised face and walked down the alley to his car and saw, bastards, lines scratched all over the duco. Around here it would be Vietnamese, got nothing better to do than damage other people’s property, walk by good car flesh with a knife blade or the edge of a coin. Cunt. Sugarfoot beat his fist on the Customline’s boot lid, then circled the car, trying to get calm, trying to tell himself at least they hadn’t let down the tyres or broken in.
He ground the starter, listening, waiting for the big motor to catch. It did, belching smoke, then settled, grumbling sweet as you like.
He half turned to look through the rear window and backed out, one hand on the wheel. Seated like that, he could feel pressure from the little knife in his pocket.
It was hassle on hassle. In Johnston Street he heard a siren and looked around and it was a cop car telling him to pull over. He quickly fumbled the knife out of his pocket and under the seat. He had his licence and a puzzled look ready when the two cops got out and came over to his door. ‘Anything wrong?’
Two constables, so young they had bum fluff on their faces. ‘Ace car,’ the first one said.
‘Didn’t steal it,’ Sugarfoot said. ‘I can show you the rego papers.’
The second cop said, ‘Relax. Just wanted a look. My mate here’s got a Galaxie.’
‘Fully restored. Did it myself,’ the first cop said.
Sugarfoot almost warmed to him. ‘Good cars, Galaxies,’ he said. Fucking crap cars.
He got out and the three of them walked around the Customline for a while. The cops said it was bad news about the scratches in the duco. Sugarfoot told them it was Vietnamese-that’s how he got beaten up, protecting his car- and the cops understood and clicked their tongues and told him to have a nice day.
He got to the Caribbean Apartments in Fitzroy in time to find Ken Sala in tears, the place a wreck, a bag half packed on the bed. He slapped Sala’s flabby cheeks and got some story about his being jumped by a couple of guys with guns.