Free Wyatt - 01 - Kick Back by Garry Disher Page A

and yawned squeakily. Its tail flapped. Wyatt pressed the buzzer.

    A voice crackled on the intercom. Yeah?

    Flood?

    Yeah.

    I rang you last night, Wyatt said.

    He heard shuffling footsteps behind
the door and sensed an eye at the peephole. Two locks were opened. The door
swung back. Flood, a small, gloomy man dressed in overalls, said nothing but
turned and shuffled back into the house. The air was hot and stale and smelt of
toast and pipe smoke. Wyatt followed Flood through a poky sitting-room where
gas flames flickered in an ancient heater, to a kitchen at the back of the house.
The ceramic sink was chipped and yellowed. Beaten fruit-tin lids had been
nailed over cracks in the linoleum. A nervy black cat eyed Wyatt from a wooden
kitchen dresser.

    I asked around, Flood said. The
word is, youre okay.

    Wyatt said nothing.

    Flood shrugged. He had a staved-in
face. Whisker tufts grew high on his cheeks as if he shaved without a mirror. A
thin brown rime coated his lips. Suit yourself, he said. He sat down. There
was another chair but Wyatt remained standing. What are you after?

    Three handguns.

    Prices range from two hundred and
fifty bucks. You good for it?

    Yes.

    Ill buy back afterhalf what you
paid.

    Wyatt nodded.

    Next door, Flood said.

    He led Wyatt into the backyard and
through a side door to the long shed. It was dark inside, the air heavy with
the smell of oil. Dismembered machines, heavy lathes, copper tubing, iron
scraps and metal shavings were scattered about the floor. Weak, wintry light
barely penetrated the grimy windows in the roof. Everything was coated with
grease and dust. Flood picked his way through the shed. It was an unlikely
place for such small, precise instruments as guns. Wyatt was about to challenge
Flood when Flood pulled back the corner of a dirty rug to reveal a trap-door.
They climbed down into a long, narrow chamber.

    Wyatt understood. Nice, he said.

    The armourer showed emotion for the
first time. Like it? He pointed at the walls, floor and ceiling. Completely
soundproof. The lining absorbs ricochets. The targets down there. He
indicated the overhead pulley system and the sandbags stacked at the far end.
Rubbing his hands together, he said, Lets do business.

    Light, accurate, good stopping
power, Wyatt said. Untraceable.

    Thatll cost you, Flood said. What
sort of job you pulling?

    Wyatt ignored him. He kept a .38
revolver at Shoreham and a Browning automatic in his car. They were for his
protection when he wasnt working. They were new, untraceable. Hed never used
them. When he was working hed buy a gun and discard it after the job. He used
a different supplier each time. He never bought guns that might tie him to
someone elses job, someone elses shooting. Show me what youve got, he said.

    Flood unlocked a steel cabinet and
began taking out handguns and arranging them in rows on the benchtop: Colt
Woodsman .22 target pistol, 9 mm Beretta, Browning automatic, Smith &.
Wesson .38 Chiefs Special, Walther PPK, and the first Sauer Wyatt had seen. The
final gun was a chunky Uzi machine pistol the size of a heavy revolver.

    Forget the Uzi, Wyatt said. Im
not fighting a war.

    Good persuader, Flood said, but
Wyatt was pulling on his latex gloves and reaching for the Browning. He wanted
to compare it with his own. Like Floods other guns, it had been smeared with
gelatin and sealed in a plastic bag. But that was recent; it hadnt always been
cared for. The butt showed traces of rust. A hand print was etched permanently
into the barrel. The serial number had been scratched out with a file. But the
clip was full. Wyatt shrugged. He would try it at least. Ear plugs.

    Flood handed him a pair of
industrial earmuffs, then clipped a target to the pulley and sent it down to
the end of the room. When Flood was out of the way, Wyatt positioned himself
and snapped off several shots. The gun jammed.

    Flood was unembarrassed. He flicked
a switch and the target came back to where they were standing.