by Iain Ryan
The guard shook his head.
The waiter shook his head too.
Dannen scanned the room. A group of young men sat in a small lounge area by the door, wrapped in towels, wide-eyed. He put a finger up to his lips. The waiter moaned. Dannen let him catch his breath, then pushed him towards the hallway.
“I want to see Oscar. You too,” he pointed at the guard. “No one’s going to get hurt. Move. Both of you.”
They took him down the corridor and through a hatch to a long rectangular room rammed full of people. The crowd inside cavorted to a slow soundtrack of piped classical and they had it all laid out: buff young men braced to padded cross frames, old men in a play pens wearing nappies, two flabby guys rolling around in a wading pool full of what looked like champagne or piss. Moving between them were a team of women in red patent leather outfits, welding whips and paddles. Everywhere the eye travelled, someone was getting sprayed down or whipped or kissed or sucked or fucked. It was a Roman orgy.
Dannen stepped out into a clear part of the room with the gun and a murmur rippled through. Further down, a tall bald man peeled himself up off a couch.
“Sue!” he said. “Sue! What is this?”
Someone cut the music.
A woman dressed in business attire and blue surgical gloves appeared from the throng. “I’m guessing this is your five o’clock. He’s early,” she said.
The bald man came closer. “Jim’s friend, right? Okay, okay,” he said.
Dannen brought the gun up. “I’m looking for someone.”
“Isn’t everyone?” said the bald man. “I think you’re in the wrong place though. Unless—”
“You Oscar?”
The man nodded.
“I’m looking for Daniel.”
Oscar nodded over to the left side of the room. Dannen turned and looked. Daniel Aras was in the corner, squeezed in between two other naked men. The three of them were asleep standing up, their hands bound above their heads, looped through a silver steel ring attached to the room’s low ceiling.
“Wake him up,” said Dannen, pushing the waiter that way. The waiter started slapping Aras, yelling in his face. The man’s eyes opened.
“You okay Daniel?” Dannen kept the gun trained on Oscar.
“These people are sooooo wonderful,” said Aras, his voice purring.
A few of the guests smiled. The scene was getting weird and tense. Oscar chucked. “We look after our guests from the mainland,” he said.
“This guy needs to be at work tomorrow.”
“Well, you better take him, dear,” said Oscar. “Sue! Sue go clean him up.”
“No,” said Dannen. “We’re leaving now.”
Oscar sighed. “Suit yourself.”
As they slipped Aras into a black felt bathrobe, Dannen took a step closer to Oscar and pointed the gun directly into his left eye. The man didn’t like it much but he let it happen. “Now tell me where I can find Thomas Bachelard.”
“How would I know? I don’t even know who that is,” said Oscar. “You better leave. You’re overstaying your welcome. That’s never a good idea.”
They stared at each other.
Slowly, Dannen started to step back, gun still raised. He grabbed Daniel’s hand and the man stumbled along. As soon as they hit the hallway, the music restarted. The waiter came to the hatch and with one hand still held to his side and pushed the door closed.
Dannen moved through the crowds downstairs like a nightclub bouncer. He got back to the dingy and headed them into shore.
5
Whatever drug they gave Aras was good. He didn’t seem too disturbed by what had happened. He sprawled out in the back seat of the rental, slumping from one side to the other as the corners came.
Occasionally, he babbled:
“—and then I....
“—and you really shouldn’t…
“—oh my…
“—oh I see.”
Dannen put the headlights on. They came out onto the main road running through the island’s casino strip. They had the place turned up bright. The trim of a casino glowed red and green, the oversized roulette wheel mounted to the roof of another turned like a spaceship. Aras tripped to the lights. At an intersection, he wound down the window and put his head outside like dog. He stared into the soft glow of a neon sign: The Gold Point Hotel. In the distance, a tall metal shell of a building. As Dannen eased the car forward, Aras started acting up, “No! You shouldn’t. No, no! Four! Four! Oh, oh, oh.”
Dannen ignored it and put the car in gear.
Aras began punching the headrest from behind. “Oh! Oh! Oh!”
“Daniel.”
A fist came between the seats, narrowly missing Dannen’s jaw. Dannen braked and pinned his arm.
“No, no, no.” Aras struggled. “Look, look, oh, oh!” Aras snapped back and pulled his arm loose. He held it up. There on the inside of his wrist, someone had written a number in dark red lipstick. 405.
“The Gold Point, four-oh-five?” said Dannen.
Aras nodded.
He closed his eyes. A cartoonish smile crossed his face. He laid back into the seat and passed out.
A blonde opened the door of 405. She stood there in mismatched bra and panties and stammered through a comatose answer of, “What? Who?”
Dannen pushed past her. The suite was dark. They had the TV on and he could see Thomas Bachelard in there. He was on the bed asleep, on his back.
Dannen hit the lights and slapped him.
The Bachelard kid stirred.
The blonde said something and without even really looking, Dannen pulled his gun and pointed it in her direction. She started screaming. The kid woke fast after that. Dannen grabbed him by the face and said, “Hi Thomas.” He turned to the woman and said, “Go sit in the bathroom.”
She did it. She started crying the moment she was in there, the sound bouncing around the tiles.
“Shut the fucking door,” said Dannen.
It closed.
Dannen took a bottle of water from the minibar and threw it to Bachelard. The kid sat up a little and took a sip.
“I work with your Dad. He wants me to give you something.”
“Oh yeah?”
Dannen handed over the envelope. “Open it.”
Bachelard was a piece of work. He took the envelope and flicked it across the room. “I don’t need any advice from him,” he said.
Dannen picked up the envelope in his fist and punched the kid with it. He didn’t see it coming. He curled himself up and started to cry. They were both crying now, in unison.
“Jesus,” said Dannen.
He grabbed Bachelard by the hair. “Open it.”
The kid nodded. Slowly, he pulled a single white index card from the envelope and read it. When it was done, he handed it over. “Happy now?”
Dannen looked at the note. It was marked with a single word: STOP. He said, “Have a nice life Thomas.”
6
Dannen pushed the car as hard as it would go. They were under the bay now, kilometres down in the tunnel. Aras came to about halfway across. He was still out of it but his voice sounded better. “You weren’t wrong,” he said. “You really weren’t. It’s pretty...interesting, over there.” He wiped his face, taking deep breaths. “I’m going to need a bathroom in a bit.”
The tunnel bowed upwards. Dannen could see a small pinprick of white light ahead. “Not long now.”
As the tunnel opening approached, Dannen pushed the island back into his memory. Then, they were out and the toll centre spotlights blasted down. Dannen slowed the car. He checked his face in the mirror: a dot of red blood sat under his eye. It must have landed on him when he punched the kid. He wiped it away.
He paid the toll.
The boom gate lifted.
7
Senator Bachelard stood by the window and stared out at the grey Canberra spring. He wore a faded cardigan that Dannen recognised as his office coat. The room was as icy as ever. “How’d
he look?”
“Not great,” said Dannen. “He’s shacked up with some hanger-on.”
“And the message?”
“He got it.”
The senator turned around. “Did you read it?”
Dannen nodded. “Good advice,” he said. “Is there be anything else? I’ve filed an invoice with the finance people for the balance.”
“I saw that,” he said. The Senator’s eyes narrowed. The invoice was for twice what he initially quoted. Dannen figured that Aras needed a raise, and he was taking one for himself as well. Dannen was through with it. He decided to price himself out of this particular market. There were other projects, other senators, other rich old men.
“Did you think it was harsh?” said the Senator.
This was a test.
“Father of the year material,” said Dannen, just to seal the deal.
“Okay, that’ll be all.”
“Yeah.” Dannen went to the door and waited a moment. He watched the Senator sit back down at his desk. The man slipped a file from the pile and opened it. He seemed beyond distraction. It struck Dannen then that Bachelard’s office was like a morgue.
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About the Author
Iain Ryan grew up in the outer suburbs of Brisbane, Australia. He predominantly writes in the hardboiled/crime/mystery genres and his work has been previously published by Akashic Books Online (New York) and Crime Factory (Melbourne). Four Days, his first novel, saw release in November 2015 via Broken River Books.
Praise for Four Days:
"One day, someone will come up with a word which goes deeper and darker than 'noir', and it might fit this debut novel. For now, the French word will have to do. If you are a fan of the genre, read this book. It won't take you very long, but it will leave its mark." -- David Prestidge, CrimeFictionLover.com
"Read this, and thank me when it's on your best-of-the-year list. A hell of a debut." --William Boyle, author of GRAVESEND and DEATH DON'T HAVE NO MERCY
"Iain Ryan has learned the lessons of the modern maestros James Ellroy, Ken Bruen and James Sallis, but his poetry and cadence is completely Australian." -- Peter Doyle, author of THE BIG WHATEVER and CITY OF SHADOWS
"Pure in its darkness, and perfect in its terror, Four Days is a brilliant debut." -- David Whish-Wilson, author of ZERO AT THE BONE and LINE OF SIGHT
"There are many Australian crime novels waiting to be written. With the publication of Four Days, there's one less. Finally, noir fiction that does justice to the sleaze and corruption of Queensland in the eighties." -- Andrew Nette, author of GHOST MONEY and GUNSHINE STATE (forthcoming)
Contact The Author
To contact Iain visit IainRyan.com.
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