Gunshine State Read online

  ‘Walsh has given you my phone number.’ Chance swallowed his remaining scotch, replaced the glass on the drinks tray. ‘I’ll expect your call.’

  ‘Look forward to it, dear.’ Leigh grinned. ‘And remember, with that face I’ve got work for you, anytime you want it.’

  FIVE

  Chance untangled himself from the sheets, fumbled for the mobile phone. He glanced at the time on the illuminated screen, eleven in the morning, pressed ‘answer.’

  ‘I have some information,’ purred Leigh into his ear. ‘Come around this evening and I’ll reveal everything.’

  The line went dead.

  Chance lay on the bed, stared at the cheap popcorn texture on the ceiling.

  The fever had retuned something fierce last night, soon after Walsh had dropped him back at the hotel. Chance had no choice but to take his medicine, ride out the alternating waves of sweats and chills. He dozed off before dawn, serenaded by the sound of the couple fighting in the next room.

  A slash of grey light came through a crack in the heavy curtains. He sat up, rubbed his chest and belly. The room was cold but his skin felt hot and clammy.

  He lifted the phone above his face so the screen was looking down at him in the gloom, keyed in Walsh’s number.

  The city was deserted save for the last stragglers heading home from work. The Irishman was waiting on the corner of the laneway, fell into lock step with Chance as he turned and walked toward Leigh’s apartment.

  Angel answered the door sans Ray-Bans and his eyes were mean and beady. He patted them down without a word, led them up the stairs to the fifth floor.

  Leigh reclined on a brown leather punch-button settee, bathed in the dull glow from the bank of closed-circuit TV screens. She sat up as the two men entered. Chance and Walsh sat on either side of her. Angel stood in front of a set of shelves crammed with books, his thick arms folded across his chest.

  The screens beamed vacant spaces save one, a tiny black and white image of a male figure lying on a mattress in the middle of an otherwise empty room. Chance thought the figure had been dunked in black paint until he realised he was clad in a tight-fitting black rubber suit.

  Leigh followed Chance’s gaze, dismissed the image with a wave of her hand. ‘Don’t mind him. A business associate, likes to play breathing games.’

  ‘I didn’t know you provided on-site services.’

  ‘Every now and again, for particularly high-paying clients who like the personal touch.’ Leigh picked up a glass from a nearby coffee table, swirled the clear liquid around. ‘As I suspected, the establishment you asked me to look into was a cheap and nasty fly-by-night operation. Women from Korea, Thailand, and Taiwan, brought out on student visas, treated dreadfully.

  ‘The owner was a bottom feeder named Carl Feeney,’ Leigh passed Chance a piece of paper, a photocopy of Feeney’s driver’s license. He looked like a pimp straight from central casting, sunken eyes, receding hair, a hooked nose and dark goatee.

  ‘Carl’s business only lasted a year or so.’ Leigh drained her glass, motioned to Angel for another drink.

  ‘My sources tell me just before he closed up shop, Feeney acquired himself a new business partner.’ Leigh paused to accept a fresh drink, stared at Chance, a pencilled eyebrow cocked mischievously. ‘Bit of a mystery man, this partner, a former Australian soldier, then worked as private security in Afghanistan. I hear he’s cashed up and putting something big together.’

  Chance looked at Leigh expectantly.

  ‘Apart from that the well is dry.’ She sipped her drink. ‘Believe me, I had to call in quite a few favours just to get that.’

  ‘Any idea where we can find Feeney?’

  ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learned from all my years in the business, it’s that a hustler can always be depended on to be a hustler. It’s in their blood. They can’t help themselves. In addition to being a pimp, Feeney deals ecstasy at various house parties in the northern suburbs. There’s a big one coming up this Thursday night, most likely he’ll be there.’

  ‘I owe you, Vera. But I need your assistance with two other things.’

  ‘You do like to push, don’t you?’ Leigh sighed, flashed him a petulant look over the rim of her glass.

  ‘I assume you still have contacts in the pharmaceutical business?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. I need to talk to one of them. Someone discreetly.’

  ‘If they associate with me, they’re discreet. What else?’

  ‘Can you lend us the use of one of your basement rooms?’

  ‘I suppose so, but promise me no rough stuff.’ Leigh grinned. ‘Except when I’m not watching.’

  Chance looked at the tiny black figure on the closed-circuit TV screen.

  ‘I promise.’

  They were parked in a narrow side street, a no man’s land between the areas of the industrial past and its rapidly gentrifying future. Crash repair businesses and garages, a martial arts studio, factories and warehouses, everything covered in graffiti, including the two-story brick building where the house party was taking place.

  Walsh dozed in the driver’s seat while Chance watched the flow of people in and out of the building. More leaving this time in the morning than coming in, the steady thump of house music mixed with the noise of crowds moving about in the street. The occasional reveller peered into the car on their way past, saw him stare back, kept walking.

  Two hours and counting since Chance had followed Feeney up the stairs into a large space packed with people. The music, orchestrated by a DJ behind a turntable on a raised platform to the rear, made the entire building vibrate. Feeney moved through the crowded room like water on plastic. Several partygoers greeted the dealer like a long-lost friend.

  After confirming the front entrance was the only way in or out, Chance left Feeney talking to a dreadlocked blonde on a sofa, went back to the car.

  The radio was on, volume low. Late night talkback, someone complaining about the number of asylum seekers making it to Australia, their broad strine like the buzzing of an insect. He shifted his legs in the cramped space under the dash, tried to make them comfortable. He heard shouts, a bottle breaking against the footpath to the entrance to the party.

  Walsh stirred, sat up. ‘Anything happening?’

  ‘This doesn’t work out, we might be able to bag a job bouncing at gigs like this.’

  Walsh yawned, stretched. ‘No security?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘I thought that was illegal.’

  ‘Yeah, the shit you can get away with these days.’

  Chance was about to roll himself a cigarette when he noticed a figure exit the building and walk down the street toward them.

  ‘Heads up, it’s our man.’

  ‘Too easy,’ said Walsh as he got out of the car.

  SIX

  The concrete floor was painted black and black plastic sheeting covered the walls. Chance carried an orange bucket seat from the adjoining room, set it down next to the double mattress, the fabric ripped and stained. He couldn’t see the closed-circuit camera, but knew Leigh would be watching.

  Walsh made the last adjustments to the full rubber body suit that now covered the unconscious man up to his neck, like he’d been dipped in wet tar.

  ‘Shite.’ Walsh stood up, grunted. ‘Getting him into that suit was like wrestling with a greased pig.’

  Chance sat, glanced at his watch. The chloroform would wear off any moment.

  On cue, their prisoner groaned, moved his head from side to side. His eyelids fluttered, opened, became wide as he noticed the rubber suit, the two men in front of him. Muffled sounds escaped from under the ball gag strapped to his chin. He rocked from side to side on the grimy mattress, straining against the black nylon cuffs around his hands, his stifled shouts becoming louder.

  Chance slowly rolled a cigarette, gave Feeney time to take in his predicament.

  ‘Listen carefully, Carl,’ said Chance as he lit up. ‘It’s not you
we’re after. You’re small fry. It’s Dormer we want.’

  Feeney sat still, suspicion and panic battling in his eyes.

  ‘Nod if you understand.’

  Feeney shook his head vigorously up and down.

  ‘Good. Now before we begin you need to understand there’s no good cop, bad cop here. My friend here is bad cop.’ Walsh stood at the end of the mattress, arms folded, looked down at their captor. ‘I’m worse.’

  Feeney nodded.

  Chance exhaled. The smoke hung in air above the mattress. ‘You tell us what we want to know, you won’t get hurt.’

  He held up a black rubber gas mask, Like WWII surplus, but instead of a filter canister, a limp black rubber bladder bag was attached to the mouthpiece.

  ‘You don’t, we’ll put this on and play some breath-control games. You ever play breath-control games? The restriction of oxygen to the brain is supposed to lead to sexual arousal. The sound of their breath through the mask turns some people on. Others get their thrills by the eyeglass fogging up. Personally, I think it’s a bit fucked up, but whatever. One man’s pleasure and all that. Apparently, these things can be risky, even if you know how to use them. Not hard to lose consciousness and die.’

  ‘Like that fella, the singer from INXS, what was his name?’ said Walsh.

  ‘Michael Hutchence,’ said Chance.

  ‘Aye, that’s the one.’

  ‘David Carradine, too.’

  ‘What, the fella from Kung Fu?’ Walsh looked at Chance askance. ‘You’re shitting me?’

  ‘Police found him in his hotel room in Bangkok, hanging by a rope in the closet.’

  ‘Never knew that.’

  ‘Sad day when you don’t learn something.’ Chance returned his attention to Feeney. ‘The unpredictability of the consequences, how it interferes with the body’s basic requirement for oxygen, is supposed to be part of the kick. It’s even more dangerous if you’re panicked or scared. And it should never, under any circumstances, be tried if you have a weak heart or respiratory problems. Have you got a weak heart, Carl?’

  Sweat popped on Feeney’s forehead as he stared at the mask.

  ‘Believe me, Carl, we strap this baby on and you die, we’ll dump your body in a cheap hotel room, rig a belt around your neck, maybe throw in a few sex toys, a bit of porn for effect. No one will be any the wiser.’

  Chance dropped the butt of his cigarette on the floor, ground it out with the heel of his boot.

  ‘If you’re happy to answer a few questions, nod.’

  Feeney nodded.

  Chance leaned over, undid the gag.

  Feeney gasped for breath. ‘Jesus fucking Christ, who are you people?’

  Chance leaned forward.

  ‘Carl, I ask the questions. Another outburst like that, you’ll be wearing the mask.’

  Feeney nodded. Chance smiled in return. He could get used to this S&M thing. Maybe a job in Leigh’s club wasn’t such a bad idea.

  ‘Tell us about Dormer.’

  ‘We met in Afghanistan. He was ex-army, doing private security. I was a construction contractor. We hooked up again when he got back to Melbourne.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  A wary look crept across Feeney’s face. Chance could tell he was thinking about how much to tell.

  ‘Don’t even think of omitting anything.’ Chance slapped the mask against his thigh. Feeney quivered at the sound.

  ‘Look, man, like I said, we met briefly in Afghanistan. We hung out together in Kabul, hooked up again in Melbourne. Nothing else to it.’

  Chance stood up, kicked the chair. It clattered across the room. ‘Grab his shoulders while I strap the mask on.’

  Walsh moved toward Feeney. The pimp squirmed, his body taut against the rubber suit.

  ‘Okay, man, fucking okay.’ Feeney looked between the two men standing over him. ‘He asked me if I wanted to go into business with him.’

  ‘What kind of business?’

  ‘Drugs.’

  Chance noticed the flicker of alarm on Walsh’s face, ignored it.

  ‘Keep going.’

  ‘He’s connected with some towel head in Afghanistan, bloke named Rashid Jan, a warlord who runs one of the provinces outside of Kabul. Sounds like a movie, right? But it’s true. Dormer said Jan was a wizened old guy in a turban, looked like you could blow him down if you wanted. But he’d been fighting for decades, first the Soviets, then the Taliban. Done a lot of bad shit.’

  ‘How did Dormer meet Jan?’

  ‘He was working security one night on a roadblock on the outskirts of Kabul. An SUV approached and wouldn’t stop, so they fired on it. The passengers were some low-level Afghan official and his family. All dead. Turns out, the official is a distant relative of Jan’s. Jan sends a minion to summon Dormer to a meeting. Dormer figures Jan’s going to shake him down for compensation, but instead the old man starts going on about how soon all the Western soldiers will be gone from Afghanistan and it’ll be back to the days of every man for himself. Jan needs money for guns and he’s only got one thing to sell.’

  Chance remembered walking through a valley of opium poppies back in Afghanistan, the pink flowers a blast of colour in the lunar landscape. In a country without even the most basic infrastructure or welfare services, poor farmers regarded opium resin as currency. It was easy to store and kept for years.

  ‘Jan’s been shipping heroin to Europe,’ continued Feeney, ‘but there’s too much competition now, he wants to open up a new market.’

  ‘In Australia?’

  Feeney nodded, scratched at his face with his cuffed hands.

  ‘He asked Dormer if he’d like to go into business with him. Only catch, Dormer has to provide seed money to fund his end of the operation.

  ‘I wasn’t crazy on the idea, competing with the established traffickers. I mean, those dudes play for keeps.’ Feeney’s sweaty, taut face glanced between his captors as he spoke. ‘But Dormer’s a fucking nut job. I tell you, the way he talked about Iraq and Afghanistan, dude enjoyed the war. I was worried what he’d do if I said no.’

  ‘If Dormer’s some sort of Jack Reacher, what’s he need a low-life pimp like you for?’ Walsh said.

  ‘I have my uses,’ Feeney shot back, his pride offended. ‘He’d raised some of the money needed to finance his end of the drug operation, needed more. The proceeds from the sale of my business covered the gap. I’ve also got useful contacts, networks, you know, from getting girls out here.’

  ‘How did Dormer bankroll his end?’ Chance asked, already anticipating the answer.

  ‘He ripped off some old gangster on a job they were doing together in Surfers Paradise.’ Feeney’s head swivelled between his two captors. ‘I didn’t have anything to do with it. Only reason I’m involved in all this is because he’d kill me if I said no, like he did the chick involved in the Surfers business.’

  Chance knelt, leaned close enough to Feeney to smell his stale breath. ‘You mean the woman whose body is decomposing in the barrel out near the airport?’

  Feeney sniffed, on the verge of tears.

  ‘Man, I swear, I didn’t have anything to do with that. After the Surfers job, Dormer shot through to Afghanistan with the woman, stayed with Jan until things cooled down. She really didn’t dig it. After they returned to Melbourne, she told Dormer she didn’t want anything more to do with him and his business, so he had Ahmad kill her.’

  ‘Who in fuck’s name is Ahmad?’ said Walsh.

  ‘One of Jan’s cousins. He came out to help supervise the Australian end of things. Dude’s fucking scary, man. The two of them, Ahmad and Dormer, they hunted down this old Asian guy, some loose end from the Surfers Paradise job, tortured him, recorded it on film. Dormer smiled when he told me about it, said it was just like how the Taliban did it back in Afghanistan.’

  Feeney licked his lips as he spoke, his voice becoming high pitched. ‘Listen, you want my help to get payback? Just tell me what you need me to do. Anything. I’ll d
o it. I just want to get out of this.’

  Chance stared at the man cowering on the filthy mattress. He rolled a cigarette, heart beating hard in his chest as he processed the information. He glanced at Walsh as he lit up. The Irishman hadn’t moved, but Chance could read the pissed-off look on his face. This was not what he’d bargained for.

  ‘Do you know where Dormer lives?’

  ‘Hell no, Dormer’s weird about people knowing that shit. All I’ve got is a phone number. I need to talk, I call. He comes, usually with Ahmad in tow.

  ‘Walsh, pass me Feeney’s mobile. Carl here is going to make a call for us.’

  SEVEN

  ‘You know, comrade, if I had a piece of wood I’d beat some bloody sense into you for getting involved in this,’ said Walsh, voice low to avoid being heard by other bar patrons. ‘Then I’d use it on myself for agreeing to help you.’

  ‘I believe Feeney.’

  ‘Then you’re even more of a fucking eejit than I thought.’

  Chance and Walsh had stood silently while Feeney, still clad from neck to toe in the rubber suit, made the call to Dormer. Feeney played his part well. Chance’s stomach churned as he listened to the faint sound of Dormer’s voice on the other end of the phone.

  Chance paid for the beers, downed half of his in one go. The mid-winter sky cast a shaft of dull light through the large window of the public bar. He was relieved to be out of the cramped, timeless confines of Leigh’s basement.

  He wanted a smoke, tried to distract himself by looking around the bar. Once one of the most dangerous pubs in the city, now transformed beyond recognition. Polished floorboards and smooth surfaces, the old menu—sausage and mash, rissoles and gravy—replaced by shared degustation platters and a lengthy wine list. The waterfront clientele long gone, in their place sharply dressed men and women. The only danger now, a heated argument about real estate prices.

  ‘If it’s about your money, don’t worry,’ said Chance. ‘You’ll get your share. Vera, too.’

  ‘Ah, don’t give me that shite. Sure I want the money, but I also want to live. Feeney’s a pimp and a dope pusher, that’s a mighty untrustworthy combination in my book. What’s to say it’s not a setup?’