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

Wyatt examined
the spread pattern. Only three of his shots had hit the target, and well to the
left of centre. He was never that bad.

    This gun is shit.

    Bargain basement, Flood said. What
next?

    Wyatt didnt know the Sauer. The
Woodsman would be light and accurate but it was too long, too difficult to
conceal. Give me the Beretta, he said.

    It was a 15-shot Parabellum model,
blue steel construction, wood grip. It wasnt new, but it was clean and it didnt
jam. The spread pattern was tight and accurate. A maybe. But who knew what some
punk had used it for in the past?

    He consciously tried the Smith
&. Wesson last, and immediately felt at home with it. At 14 ounces the
weight was right, and it came with a natural rubber grip. It looked new.

    Part of a gun shop haul in Brisbane
last year, Flood murmured. Never been used.

    Got any more?

    Another six.

    Ill try it.

    The two-inch barrel would not mean
great accuracy over distance, but then, accuracy beyond 20 metres is doubtful
in any handgun. The raid on Finns office would be strictly close-range stuffif
it came to that, and it wouldnt. Wyatt fired the revolver rapidly. The pattern
was perfect.

    Ill take three, he said. And
ammunition.

    Three hundred and fifty bucks each
and Ill throw in a box of shells, Flood said. He was belligerent, expecting
Wyatt to haggle over the price. But all Wyatt said was, The numbers have only
been scratched off. Thats not going to stop the forensic boys. Got any acid?

    Flood nodded. Theres some
hydrochloric upstairs. He turned to make for the steps to the trapdoor.

    Just a moment, Wyatt said. Youve
got records for these?

    Flood paused reluctantly. In there.

    He was indicating a two-drawer
filing cabinet. I want them, Wyatt said.

    He reached out, keeping an eye on
Flood, and opened the cabinet. The filing system was simple: folders arranged
alphabetically according to gun name. This was Floods insurance. If ever the
cops traced a gun back to him, he would have something to offer them in
exchange for a reduced sentence.

    As expected, Flood had handled
dozens of Smith & Wessons. Details of each had been recorded in full on a
filing card: model type, serial number if present, description of the condition
of the gun, dates, provenance, and information about the purchaser. A small,
sealable plastic bag was stapled inside each foldertest slugs that Flood had
fired into a sawdust channel and kept to help identify the guns he sold.

    Flood watched Wyatt flip through the
folders. Aggrieved, he said, Youll fucking mess up me system.

    Wyatt ignored him. He found seven
recently dated folders for unused Smith & Wesson .38s. Brisbane Small
Arms, he said, reading from the first folder. These the ones?

    Flood nodded sourly.

    Wyatt burnt the cards and pocketed
the test slugs for disposal later. He left the other folders. They had nothing
to do with him.

    They went upstairs and coated the
filed serial numbers with acid. Flood then cleaned the guns and put them in a
shoe box inside a Safeway bag.

    Wyatt paid him and left the house.
On the verandah the dog groaned and stretched and lifted its tail.

    Quarter to twelve. Wyatt did not
return to Burnley Station but walked to the pavilion in Richmond Park where
Hobba would pick him up. The air was cold. A small boy, bloated in a coat and
scarf, walked unsteadily with his mother. A council gardener was hoeing weeds
along the paths.

    At five minutes to twelve the
gardener loaded his tools onto the back of a council truck. He got in and left.
At twelve oclock a white Holden turned off the Boulevard and stopped. Hobba
was driving.

    Wyatt left the shelter of the
pavilion and walked toward the Holden. He passed the childs mother, buckling
her son into the back of a Volvo station wagon. The only other vehicle around
was a massive 1950s car pulling onto the grass verge on the Boulevard. It had
tinted windows. Wyatt could hear the thump of its stereo.

    Wyatt opened the drivers door of
the Holden. Let me drive,