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  GUNSHINE STATE

  Andrew Nette

  PRAISE FOR GUNSHINE STATE

  “Part heist novel, part revenge tale, Gunshine State is a searing action story in exotic locales populated by fascinating grifters and unsavory characters. You won't know where it's going next but you'll love getting there. Add this to your must read list.” —Eric Beetner, author of Criminal Economics and The Year I Died Seven Times

  “A tense, fast-moving, vividly-drawn thriller.” —Garry Disher, author of the Wyatt novels

  “A gritty slice of Down-Under noir, served lean and mean.” —Wallace Stroby, author of The Devil’s Share and Shoot the Woman First

  “A phenomenal, hard-as-nails thriller with more tight corners than a maze and a double cross around every one of them. I loved it.” —Timothy Hallinan, award-winning author of the Poke Rafferty and Junior Bender mysteries

  “A lean, mean, hard-boiled knockout.” —David Whish-Wilson, author of Line of Sight and Zero at the Bone

  “Gunshine State moves like a bullet. The prose is taught without sacrificing atmosphere, character or psychological depth. Brimming with evocative settings, sharp dialogue and vibrant characters, this novel firmly positions Nette as one of Australia’s leading writers of hard-boiled crime.” —Alex Hammond, author of The Unbroken Line and Blood Witness

  “Gunshine State is magnificent. Taut, tense—a tremendous thriller.” —Andrew Grant, author of False Positive and Run

  “Gunshine State is a breakneck ride from first page to last. Nette drags the reader into a sharply drawn world of dark motives and even darker morals. A must for lovers of hard-boiled crime fiction.” —Emma Viskic, author of Resurrection Bay

  “This brutal, hard-boiled thriller comes at you like a furious street brawler and pins you to the wall with a white-knuckle plot and authentic characters. Like a vicious left hook to the ribs it will leave you breathless.” —Leigh Redhead, author of Peepshow, Rubdown, Cherry Pie and Thrill City

  Copyright © 2016 by Andrew Nette

  Down & Out Books Edition: February 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover design by Zach McCain

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Gunshine State

  Chapter 1 of the next Gary Chance thriller, Orphan Road

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by the Author

  The Down & Out Books Publishing Family Library of Titles

  Preview from Bad Samaritan by Dana King

  Preview from The Devil at Your Door by Eric Beetner

  Preview from Second Story Man by Charles Salzberg

  To my mother, Judy Nette.

  You are much missed.

  IRON TRIANGLE

  The high-pitched whine of the power drill tore through the confined space of the back office. Chance winced at the noise, worried it could be heard on the street outside.

  ‘How much longer, Addamo?’ he said, his voice edgy.

  The man crouched on the floor with his back to him said nothing, his attention focused on a green metal safe the size of a three-drawer filing cabinet.

  They’d agreed, no more than two hours for the job. Just over forty minutes left. Chance pulled at the smooth stump where the little finger on his left hand had once been, leaned against a battered wooden desk. He picked up a sheet of A4 from the mess of paperwork, held it to the glow of the portable halogen lamp, read an order for glassware. He let the paper flutter to the floor, sniffed, the aroma of their sweat mingled with stale beer and fried food.

  ‘I thought all you needed was a stethoscope and a good pair of ears, like in the movies.’

  Addamo cut the power, swore in Italian. He looked over his shoulder, the olive skin on his face stretched tight and beaded with sweat.

  ‘We’ve been over this, already. All safes get shipped from the manufacturer with what they call tryout combinations. Ideally the owner resets it on delivery. Doesn’t happen as often as you think, but unfortunately, these folks are the exception.’

  ‘You said you might be able to guess the combination,’ said Chance. ‘The noise from the drill, someone might hear it.’

  ‘I could try to manipulate the lock, old safes like this one, tumblers on the inside, sometimes you can hear them falling into place, listen to the clicks as they move over the levers. My old man would’ve been able to do it, but I’m not half as good as he was.’

  Addamo ran a latex-gloved hand through his thick black curls. ‘The quickest way to get into the safe is to drill into the wheel pack. Then I’ll use this to watch the wheels as I spin the dial.’ He fossicked in a blue canvas sports bag on the floor, came up with a short length of tube, some sort of eyepiece on one end, held it in front of Chance.

  Chance didn’t recognise the instrument, shrugged.

  ‘It’s a borescope,’ said Addamo. ‘You insert the tube in the hole I’m drilling now, lets you see inside. Hopefully, it’s just a matter of lining up the notches and watching everything fall into place. Got it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Good. So, let me get back to work.’ He turned to face the safe, stopped halfway, looked back at Chance. ‘And stop standing over my fucking shoulder. You’re like a bad bloody smell. Go keep watch or something.’

  The drilling resumed as Chance closed the door behind him. The noise remained audible as he moved down a wide corridor, rooms running off it, kitchen, toilets, a large public bar. He glided the torch beam over the refuse of Lawrence’s farewell party, dirty glasses, strands of streamers draped over the tables. The street outside the large front window was empty.

  He turned the handle on a heavy door at the end of the corridor, stepped into the square of uneven packed dirt used as a car park at the rear.

  Chance stood next to a dumpster, strained to hear the drill. The only sound was the thrum of crickets and the night breeze passing through a line of gums nearby. The knot in his stomach unwound slightly; he savoured the humid air on his arms and face.

  When Lawrence had first introduced them, Chance thought Addamo was a flashy Italian twentysomething male with too much attitude and not enough brains.

  Lawrence had clapped Chance on the back after the Italian had left. ‘Don’t worry about him. When it comes to the job, he’ll be a hundred percent reliable. His dad was a locksmith in town, a solid guy, taught the kid everything he knew.’

  Lawrence was right. Addamo was good. He’d got them inside without any problems, calm and professional. Chance rolled a cigarette, chuckled. He was the one out of practice after eight months of low-key living, driving trucks around the Iron Triangle, the ore-producing region of South Australia bounded by the towns of Port Pirie, Port Augusta, and Whyalla, a part of the country that hovered in a no man’s land between mining boom and rust belt.

  He’d worked in a mining camp in West Australia before that, as far away from his previous employer as he could get. Good money, but Chance had quickly grown tired of the daily regimen of drug testing, limited alcohol intake, and strict rules, every move he made dictated by corporate margi
ns and risk prevention.

  Lawrence, a union organiser in Port Pirie, had tried to recruit Chance soon after he arrived. Chance said he wasn’t interested. Didn’t see the point. Told Lawrence as much. No hard feelings, Lawrence said, maybe another time.

  ‘Not likely,’ said Chance.

  Lawrence had sought Chance out a few months later, found him drinking in his favourite Port Pirie pub.

  ‘I’m still not interested in joining the union,’ Chance said as Lawrence slid onto a bar stool next to him, ordered two beers. Lawrence’s face was older, more grizzled, his eyes ringed with dark circles.

  ‘To hell with the union, I’ve got a business proposition you might be interested in.’

  Lawrence’s wife, Port Pirie born and bred, had been diagnosed with cancer. The likely cause was the largest lead smelter in the world, its stack visible across town. It supplied a lot of jobs, also poured forty tonnes of lead into the air each year. The result was higher than usual incidences of asthma, kidney failure, brain disease, and cancer. You can’t see lead poisoning, but you can see unemployment, the refrain every time someone questioned the wisdom of allowing the smelter to poison the air.

  The doctor told Lawrence the cancer had started in his wife’s liver, spread to her lungs and brain, gave her six months to live, a year tops. Lawrence quit his job to look after her full-time, needed money.

  The annual conference of the South Australian branch of his union would take place in town in a week’s time. They were going to throw him a farewell bash to mark his years of service. The venue was a large, family owned pub in town. Every conference delegate, union people from Port Pirie and surrounds, would be there. They’d drink the place dry.

  The party would be on a Saturday night, the takings stashed in an old safe in the back office until they could be deposited on the Monday. Lawrence wanted Chance to help him rob it.

  ‘You want to knock off your own farewell party?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s exactly what I want to do.’ Lawrence stared at Chance with rheumy eyes. His lower lip quivered slightly. ‘I’ve got bills to pay while I look after Faye, and my savings and superannuation aren’t going to cut the mustard. The money in that safe will include bar takings, the bistro. If nothing else, it’ll give me some breathing space until I can think of what to do next.’

  ‘How come you know so much about this place?’

  ‘Represented some of the staff there, job before this one.’

  ‘So your information is old.’

  ‘There were no alarms back then and the place has the same owner, old school, never thought he’d need to spring for electronic security, patrols, anything like that.’ Lawrence grabbed a paper serviette from a pile on the bar top, took a biro pen from his shirt pocket, sketched the layout as he spoke. ‘There’s a window of opportunity between one and six a.m. when the money will be in the safe. All we’ve got to do is go in and get it.’

  ‘Who’s going to get us inside and take care of the safe?’

  ‘Got someone lined up, son of an old mate. Knows his shit.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve got it sorted, why do you need me?’

  ‘Mate, I’ll hardly be in any condition to help, and the other guy can’t do everything. Need you to keep an eye out, whatever else is needed.’

  ‘Why me?’

  Lawrence gave Chance a knowing smile, ordered two more beers. ‘Something about you made me think you’d be open to the idea.’

  Chance flicked the butt of his cigarette into the darkness, about to go back inside when he heard a noise.

  He stepped into the shadow of the dumpster, was enveloped by the sickly sweet organic smell of rotting garbage. He held the long-barrelled flashlight parallel with his leg, ready to strike.

  The sound came closer. Footsteps. A figure passed in front of him, a man, headed for the back door.

  Chance stepped out of the shadows, the torch above his head.

  The man wheeled around, arms outstretched.

  Chance grabbed Lawrence’s jacket, pulled him back into the shadows.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ hissed Chance. ‘I could have hurt you.’

  ‘Just wanted to see how things were going.’ The words slurred as they came out of his mouth. His eyes had a glassy sheen and the alcohol on his breath cut through the stink of the rotting garbage. ‘Jesus, Gary, relax, there’s no one else around.’

  Chance let him go. Lawrence swayed slightly, put a hand on the dumpster to steady himself. ‘Calm down, mate. I put this job together, got a right to see how it’s going.’

  ‘This is not a union site visit. It’s a bloody robbery.’

  Lawrence belched, set his jaw defiantly.

  ‘At least get out of sight,’ Chance said, spinning the older man around and directing him toward the back door.

  Addamo had stopped drilling, knelt in front of the safe, one eye pressed against the borescope, twisting the combination dial.

  ‘We’ve got a visitor,’ said Chance.

  Addamo wiped away the sweat on his face with his forearm, did a double take at Lawrence’s presence.

  ‘This some sort of joke?’

  ‘Dickhead here decided he wanted to check up on us.’ Chance made no effort to control the irritation in his voice.

  Addamo looked at Chance, one eyebrow raised.

  Lawrence swivelled his head between the two men. ‘I just wanted to see how everything was going, where’s the harm in that? I put this job together, I figured—’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Chance.

  Lawrence went quiet.

  ‘I’m nearly there, Gary,’ said Addamo. ‘Ten minutes, twenty tops, reckon I’ll be in.’

  Chance shone a beam at the corner of the room, between the desk and wall. ‘Sit there,’ he told Lawrence.

  Lawrence regarded the space sullenly, opened his mouth to speak.

  ‘Don’t say anything.’ Chance cut him off. ‘Another word, I swear, I’ll knock you out, leave you here for the owner to find in the morning.’

  After a few minutes of watching Addamo work, the tension in the small room felt unbearable. Chance flicked a dark glance at Lawrence, stepped into the corridor, paced up and down.

  On his fourth or fifth pass by the doorway to the public bar he noticed a vehicle parked on the street outside. Chance moved closer to the front window, saw a mustard coloured Holden that had seen better days. ‘Fucking Lawrence,’ he whispered, just as another car pulled up behind it.

  The second car was white, brand new, with a logo on the driver’s door, a shield with a lightning bolt running through it. A man got out of the car. He wore black pants and a white shirt with a patch on the shoulder featuring the same logo as the car door.

  Chance hated private security guards; in his experience, ex-cops or try-hards looking to prove something. He watched in horror as the man walked around the Holden, shone his torch inside and then into the front window of the pub.

  Chance crept out of the public bar, jogged down the corridor, threw open the door to the back office. Addamo had the safe open, was scooping money into a green plastic garbage bag, looked up.

  ‘We’ve got to go. Now.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Lawrence parked his car out the front. It’s attracted attention, a security guard, he’s coming in.’

  ‘I swear, I didn’t know they had security,’ said Lawrence.

  Chance didn’t bother replying. ‘Take what we have, leave the rest,’ he said to Addamo.

  Addamo glanced regretfully at the safe, grabbed the plastic bag and stood up.

  They were a few metres from the back door when the overhead light came on and a gravelly voice behind said: ‘Stop right there. Won’t warn you again.’

  Chance stopped, raised his hands.

  ‘Turn around,’ said the voice.

  Chance and Addamo did as they were told. Lawrence didn’t move.

  The security guard stood at the far end of the corridor. He held his pistol i
n both hands, stepped slowly toward them.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Chance saw Lawrence fumble with something in the belt of his trousers, realised it was a gun. Lawrence drunkenly turned.

  Chance pushed Addamo to the floor, followed after him.

  Three shots rang out. Two came in return, followed by silence.

  Chance opened his eyes. Lawrence stared lifelessly at him across the threadbare carpet. Acrid smoke hung in the air above the corridor. The security guard writhed on the floor at the far end of the corridor, clutched a spreading red stain on his shoulder with one hand, grasped for his pistol several feet away with the other.

  Addamo was already up and out the back door with the money.

  Chance leaned over, felt the flaccid skin around Lawrence’s neck for a pulse, got nothing. He cursed his former partner’s stupidity, flew out the door after Addamo.

  The Italian reached his vehicle parked behind a row of shrubs. A car engine coughed into life, headlights illuminated the stretch of dirt in front of it. Chance jumped into the passenger’s seat.

  Port Pirie would be too hot after this and whatever they had made out of tonight’s job wouldn’t last long.

  It looked like he’d have to go back to work for the Chinaman.

  GUNSHINE STATE

  One

  His plane landed in Brisbane mid-afternoon. Chance got a cab, gave the young Indian driver the address.

  They tailed a white four-wheel-drive pickup for most of the freeway, its rear loaded with PVC piping, two stickers on the back bumper bar: ‘Australia: if you don’t like it, leave’ and ‘All is great in the Sunshine State’.

  No sunshine today. Rain all morning, more forecast, the sky a slab of swollen cloud, the air thick and humid. Two and a half hours in the air and his entire world had changed. No red dust, no signs sprayed with shotgun pellets, no huge domed expanse of blue, far as the eye could see.