Gunshine State Page 22

  A couple standing at the bar looked nervously at each other, moved away.

  ‘Didn’t you listen to him?’ said Chance. ‘He’s scared and wants out. We’re the only way that’s going to happen.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, whoever remodelled your face must have taken some of your brains as well. I mean, what the fuck have you become, man?’ Walsh looked away, disgusted.

  ‘That’s rich coming from a former terrorist.’

  ‘That was politics.’

  ‘Right, just a few lads bombing pubs and knee capping collaborators between pints.’

  ‘I wasn’t involved in either.’ Walsh’s voice assumed a strong Irish lilt.

  ‘Yeah, you just made people disappear in barrels of lye.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Gary, I signed on to help you locate your money.’

  ‘You did and we are.’

  ‘I didn’t sign on to tangle with a drug dealing Afghan warlord and his cronies.’

  ‘It’s not like you to back away from a fight, Liam. Obviously, I’m not the only one who’s changed.’

  ‘A man should know his limitations.’

  ‘What makes you think you know anything about my limitations?’

  ‘You listen to me good, Gary Chance. I’ve dealt with some crazy fuckers in my day. Libyans, the Protestant paramilitaries, hell, some of the people on my own side, but none of it comes close to the kind involved in the drug trade.’

  Walsh pointed at the Keffiyeh around his neck. ‘Do you know why I wear this?’

  Before Chance could reply, he pulled down the fabric to reveal the tail end of a jagged pink line.

  ‘This is what I got for my troubles last time I tangled with drugs. Scrawny little thing she was, too. Accompanied her boyfriend on a buy. He was getting mouthy, I turned my back on her, when I turned back she had a blade in her hand, slashed me good.’

  ‘Spare me the war stories, Liam.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of a fair fight, comrade, and if you have any doubts let’s go outside and I’ll prove it to you.’

  Chance needed Walsh, had come too far to run the risk of the Irishman pulling out. He had to keep him on his side.

  ‘Liam, I don’t like this any more than you,’ he said calmly. ‘The meeting with Dormer is set up for tonight. He has no reason to suspect it’s a set-up, that we’ll be waiting for him. We’ll take him and he’ll take us to the money.’

  ‘What makes you sure he’ll have the money and we’ll be able to get to it?’

  ‘He’ll have the money close by and easy to get in the event he ever needs to leave town in a hurry.’

  ‘What about the Afghan? What if he’s tooled up?’

  ‘Nothing the two of us can’t handle.’

  Chance wanted to get going, had things to organise before tonight. He placed a hand on Walsh’s forearm, like coaxing a reluctant lover. ‘We can do this. It’ll work. Then you’ll get your money and it’ll all be over.’

  Walsh drained his beer and placed the empty pot glass hard on the counter.

  ‘I just hope you know what you’re doing, comrade.’

  The last person to say that was Tavener, and he was dead. Chance hoped it would be different this time.

  EIGHT

  Chance stood on the side of the road, watched the taxi pull away. His breath made tiny clouds in front of his face. The traffic flowed past, a blur of red and yellow lights, framed against the cobalt blue dusk sky.

  He walked past a row of bare trees, turned into the motel’s red-brick courtyard. Most of the windows were illuminated, travellers and the overflow from the local homeless service hunkering down for the night.

  He paused outside his door, listened to the occupants in the next room argue while he fumbled for his key. He opened the door, navigated his way to his bedside table, felt for the light switch. The fluoro tube in the pelmet above the bed flickered to life.

  Chance sat on the bed, his body exhausted but his mind a mess of emotions. Fear, anticipation, most of all, impatience and deep longing for the night to be over.

  His stomach rumbled. He looked longingly at an empty pizza carton on the table on the other side of the room. He should have eaten at the bar. Now he’d have to make do with the vending machine near reception.

  Chance didn’t bother locking the room, went down the concrete stairwell. The glow of the vending machine was visible at the end of a corridor next to a sign with ‘Exit’ in red letters.

  He ripped the top off the chocolate bar, ate as he walked back. The light in his room had gone off. Not the first time. The wiring, like most of the fixtures in the aging motel, faulty. Chance swore under his breath. The last thing he felt like having to do was talk to reception, get someone up to fix it.

  Chance closed the door behind him and was halfway across the room when he noticed a smell cut through the stale air, a female scent, like vanilla. He froze. The light flickered back on. A woman sat on the bed with her back against the exposed brickwork, propped up with pillows, regarded him with strong, dark eyes.

  Chance stared at the woman, aware of sounds around him, shouting from next door, traffic. Her clothes, knee-length brown boots, designer jeans, a black roll-neck jumper and parka, looked expensive. She held a pistol level with his stomach.

  ‘What a fucking dump.’ She grimaced as she spoke. ‘Do the couple next door always argue like that?’

  ‘Yes.’ Something about her was familiar, Chance couldn’t tell what.

  ‘Gives me a bloody headache,’ she added.

  As his surprise receded, he remembered his Sig Sauer under the Bible in the bedside table drawer, wondered if there was any way he could get to it before she could kill him.

  ‘Looking for this?’

  With her free hand she reached into the pocket of her parka, produced his gun, let it dangle from her middle finger for a moment, and placed it on the bed next to her.

  ‘Sit, Mister Egan.’ She used the name he’d checked in under, mimed a smile. ‘Or whatever the hell your name really is.’

  The smile, it came to him where he’d seen it. The TV news he’d watched in the hotel in northern New South Wales. The female cop at the press conference about Gao’s murder. She flashed the same humourless smile at the media pack.

  ‘You’re the cop.’

  Her mouth opened and the barrel of the pistol dipped slightly before she regained her composure.

  ‘In the news report just after Gao was killed,’ Chance continued. ‘And your voice, you were one of the people in the bush, outside the caravan park in Yass.’

  He thought about using her surprise to go for his gun, but ruled it out, was more interested in finding out who she was and what she was doing in his room.

  ‘Chance?’ She stood up, looked at his face from several angles. ‘It can’t be, your face.’

  ‘An operation, it’s a long story.’

  ‘At least that would explain why you’ve been so hard to find. By the way, whoever was responsible for your surgery did a shit job.’

  ‘Thanks. You going to tell me what you’re doing here miss-whatever-your-fucking-name-is?’

  ‘Blake. Elyssa Blake.’ She chewed her lower lip, kept the gun trained on Chance’s midsection as she deliberated what to do. ‘That night in Yass, I lost a cop. He just disappeared like you and the others. You wouldn’t have any idea what happened to him?’

  ‘Maybe he ran away, joined that circus camped next to the caravan park.’

  ‘Viljoen? I don’t think so. Not the type.’ She shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter, didn’t much like him anyway.’

  Chance watched her eyes, reading her for clues.

  ‘Okay, I’ll play ball,’ she said. ‘Your trail went stone cold after Yass. But I did some digging, unearthed some leads on the other two people involved in the Surfers job, Dormer and his girlfriend, Sophia Lekakis.’

  The image of the blue plastic barrel and its rotting contents flashed through Chance’s mind.

  ‘According to my information, after what happ
ened in Surfers, Dormer and Lekakis went to Afghanistan for a while. They came back here a month ago. No sign of her, but through some contacts here I discovered Dormer is still in town. He’s hooked up with an ex-brothel owner called Carl Feeney. I’ve been keeping tabs on Feeney off and on for weeks.’ She shuddered. ‘Weeks, freezing my arse off, trailing him around various house parties. It’s made me tired and very grumpy.

  ‘So, imagine my surprise when in the early hours of this morning, I see you and your big mate, Walsh, bundle Feeney into the back of a car. I followed the two of you to that place in the city, the apartment building.

  ‘Your Irish mate, Walsh, he’s got a little bit of form with the local cops, an even more colourful history back in Ireland. But you, you’re a real mystery man. I’ve been following you all afternoon. Interesting tour it was, too, a secondhand white goods store, followed by a boat charter business in Williamstown. Planning a little trip?’

  ‘You could say that,’ said Chance.

  ‘Your turn to spill. What are Feeney and Dormer cooking up?’

  ‘You may have nothing to lose telling me what you’re doing here, but why should I tell a cop anything?’

  Her eyes glittered mischievously and she smiled, genuine humour in it for the first time. ‘Who said I was still a cop?’

  Chance felt the atmosphere in the room shift as the comment hung in the air. He realised he still held the chocolate bar, took another bite.

  ‘In that case, put the gun down,’ he said, chewing. ‘We have a lot to talk about.’

  NINE

  The thin whispery rain was illuminated against the blackness in the tent of light from a nearby streetlight. The moisture on the windscreen cut visibility, made the world outside appear like it was melting. On the plus side, anyone looking in would find it hard to see the two of them sitting there.

  Chance cracked his window, lit a rollie, his eyes never leaving Feeney’s Commodore parked on the other side of the small square of park. Renovated terrace houses faced the park on three sides, a strip of shops, cafés, boutiques separated by a two-lane road on the other. Chance had spent his time in Melbourne north of the Yarra, always felt uneasy crossing the river to gentrified, affluent suburbs on the southern side of the city, like he set off against an invisible trip wire.

  Just after two and the place was deserted. If Feeney was on the level, Dormer should appear any moment.

  He started to go over the plan once more with Walsh, got nothing but grunts and dark looks from the Irishman for his trouble.

  The arrangement, at least the part Walsh knew about, was simple. When Dormer appeared, Feeney would get out of his car to meet him. Feeney’s excuse for meeting? He was nervous, wanted assurance that whatever Dormer was planning, everything was under control. Dormer might get pissed, but before he could do anything, Chance would be out of the car and walking across the park, the Sig Sauer in his hand. They’d get Dormer to take them to where the money was stashed. End of story. Chance particularly emphasised that Walsh was the wheelman on this job. Any rough stuff, Chance would take care of it.

  The two men fell into a tense silence until Walsh turned to his partner, eyebrows raised. A light blue Toyota turned off the main road. The two men pushed themselves down against their seats, watched, eye level with the bottom of the window as the vehicle prowled around the park, disappeared back onto the main road.

  ‘False alarm,’ Chance murmured, ground his cigarette out in the ashtray, just as the Toyota re-appeared, turned onto the street.

  ‘Doesn’t bloody look like it,’ said Walsh.

  The Toyota parked half a dozen cars behind Feeney’s Commodore and cut its headlights.

  They watched the pimp get out of his vehicle, a newspaper over his head to shield from the rain, walk toward the new arrival, get in the passenger’s side.

  Chance felt the pistol in the pocket of his jacket, made sure that the safety was off, was just about to make a move when he spotted a tall figure walking along the footpath on the other side of the park.

  Chance strained to get a better look. ‘Someone walking the dog?’

  ‘What kind of bloody eejit would walk their dog in this weather?’

  Chance winced, a sharp sensation in the pit of his stomach. ‘You’re right, something’s wrong.’

  Chance got out of the car, blinked as the rain hit his face.

  ‘You stay here,’ he said, slammed the car door.

  Chance wiped the water from his eyes, eased the pistol out of his pocket as he cut across the park.

  The tall figure stopped next to the Toyota, disappeared into the back as the headlights came back on and the engine started. Chance broke into a run as the car started, pulled away from the curb.

  Chance stopped, doubled back. Walsh already had the engine idling, turned to Chance as he climbed back into the passenger’s seat.

  ‘What was that about a simple fucking plan?’ said Walsh.

  ‘Don’t lose him.’

  The Irishman grunted, followed the Toyota’s red taillights down several side streets into a main thoroughfare heading to the city, weaved through the early morning traffic in an attempt to maintain their proximity.

  ‘Don’t lose the bugger, Liam, but don’t do anything stupid,’ said Chance. ‘We don’t want to get pulled over by the cops.’

  Walsh flicked him a murderous look. Both cars slowed down as they hit the city. Taxis lined the roadside. Knots of people stood on the sidewalk or queued to get into nightclubs and strip bars.

  The driver of the Toyota had to know he was being followed, but was disciplined, kept to the speed limit through the city. At several points, they got close enough for Chance to see the three figures illuminated in the Toyota’s interior, before their quarry pulled away.

  The Toyota turned into a stretch of road Chance knew would take them to the lightly populated sprawl of port facilities, refineries and container terminals at the city edge of the Western suburbs.

  The rain stopped as they crossed back over the Yarra. On one side of the road, a rail yard with lines of idle freight cars on the tracks. On the other, the lights on the huge cranes that were used to pick up containers off visiting ships in the nearby port.

  The Toyota sped up. Walsh put his foot down hard on the accelerator, passed a slow-moving semi-trailer, followed. With a squeal of tires, the Toyota entered a maze of deserted streets lined with container facilities. It swerved, came to a sudden stop twenty metres in front of them.

  A man appeared over the top of the car. He had a bearded, gaunt face creased in concentration. He reached one arm across the roof, his hand wrapped around a metallic shape.

  ‘Jesus Christ, he’s got a gun,’ yelled Chance.

  Walsh spun the steering wheel hard right, as Gaunt Man fired. Chance heard the ping of metal being impacted, braced himself as a chain-link fence on the side of the road reared up in front of them. The car bounced as it hit the curb, came to a stop on the nature strip.

  Chance gave the Irishman a quick glance. He was unhurt. Chance turned in his seat, the Toyota framed in the rear window. Gaunt Man, still leaning over the roof, sighted them with his pistol. Chance fumbled with the seat belt clasp, heard the sound of an approaching vehicle.

  Gaunt Man heard it, too, swivelled his head in the direction of the noise, as a black four-wheel-drive roared out of a side street. The big car swerved just as its rear connected with the side of the Toyota. The force of the impact sent Dormer’s vehicle onto its side. The four-wheel-drive did a hundred-and-eighty-degree turn and came to a standstill, its front stoved in. The sound of the collision lingered in the air.

  Chance and Walsh stepped onto the nature strip, walked cautiously toward the wreckage. Shattered glass crunched under their feet. Someone moved about in the cabin of the four-wheel-drive. A woman climbed out, stood unsteadily, as if she were facing a heavy wind. There was no sign of movement from the overturned Toyota.

  ‘About time you showed up,’ said Chance.

  Elyssa Bla
ke bent over slightly, one hand on the bonnet, the other on her hip, looked up at Chance from under several strands of long black hair that had come undone from her ponytail.

  ‘Fuck you and the horse you rode in on,’ she said and breathed deeply. ‘I just totalled a brand new rental car, saving your arse.’

  Walsh shot Chance a confused look. ‘Do you know this doll?’

  ‘Who the hell you calling ‘doll,’ Paddy?’ Blake put both hands on the small of her back, stretched.

  ‘I’ll make the introductions later,’ said Chance over his shoulder as he walked toward the overturned car.

  Gaunt Man lay on his back on the road surrounded by a pool of dark liquid. Dormer’s Afghan business partner. His dusky skin, etched with lines, bushy eyebrows, coarse beard tinged with white, reminded Chance of the local men he’d seen around the Australian base at Tarin Kwot. There was no doubt he was dead, the lower half of his body crushed under the car. His dark eyes stared lifelessly at the night sky, his arms stretched, Christ-like. One hand still gripped the pistol.

  ‘Ahmad’s down,’ said Chance. ‘What about the others?’

  Blake crouched on the ground next to Chance. ‘Feeney’s dead, broken neck.’ She stood stiffly. ‘Wasn’t wearing a seat belt.’

  ‘Walsh, what about Dormer?’

  ‘Aye, we’re in luck, bugger’s alive.’

  Dormer moaned as the Irishman helped him upright. A patch of Dormer’s straw-coloured hair was matted with blood, one of his arms hung stiffly in his black leather jacket.

  ‘We can make a deal.’ Dormer appraised his three captors. ‘I’ve got money.’

  Chance smiled. ‘I’ll bet you have.’

  Blake and Walsh sat in the front, Chance in the back with Dormer.

  The initial offer of a deal rebuffed, Dormer spoke only to give directions. He had a broken wrist, the arm immobilised in a crude sling Blake had fashioned out of a T-shirt they found in the boot of Walsh’s car. Although Dormer looked too banged up to be a threat, Chance rested the Sig on his knee just in case. He avoided eye contact with Dormer, stared instead out the window at the empty streets.