Almanac Fiction: Swifty Taylor and the Dead Coach (Episode 7)

 

My dad was a huge fan of acronyms. He was full of them. “P.O.Q.,” he would yell at me when I was getting on his nerves. Which was often. I wasn’t foolish, and learnt in a hurry that it was prudent indeed to make myself scarce when those letters were uttered. But the acronym of his that stayed with me was “C.Y.O.A.” It was brilliant in its simplicity. Cover your own a**e. First and foremost. I didn’t have many things to thank him for, but over the years, liberally applying that acronym of wisdom of his had saved me plenty of grief. Not that I could say the same for others.

Since receiving the invitational text from Jack Shepherd, I had turned over the facts of the case in my mind: Dean May, premiership-winning coach of the Pelicans, had died by apparent suicide off the end of the Ferguson St Pier; the premiership medal, which Dean literally wore close to his heart, was missing; Jack Shepherd, trucking magnate and Pelicans benefactor, owned a boat which was moored nearby; Laura May, Dean’s sister and my old flame, was still as beautiful as I remembered. And I couldn’t stop cursing the fact that I had let her go.

Another fact was that I was bearing the burden of a raging hangover, the direct result of being unable to deny myself a few fingers of Jameson the previous night. And then a few fingers more. I never had been one to do things by halves.

I had arranged to brunch with my mother at her house, even though I was in no mood to tolerate her prying. As usual, I gave her the bare minimum, which was really three-fifths of nothing at all. “I always said you would make a good spy, Swifty. You never gossip, never tell me any news. You don’t say much at all,” she remarked with exasperation. “Maybe it’s because I have never had much to say?” I responded. She pondered this for a moment, and tapped the table to the beat of the jazz playing on her stereo. I recognized it as Kind of Blue by Miles Davis, a favourite of both hers and mine. The direction of the conversation was then skilfully steered to her favourite subject: “Any lady friends on the scene? You are too handsome a boy to be on your own!” I tried my best not to roll my eyes, but my poker face game was strong. “Nothing on that front, mother dear. But when someone turns up, you will be the first to know”. I did not mind devoting a bit of my time with her at the expense of plenty of annoyance. After all, I only had one mother.

The days sure were getting shorter. Night was approaching as surely as the meeting with Jack Shepherd. A meeting that across it had ‘destiny’ written as boldly as ‘Sherrin’ is stamped upon a football. A stiffening on-shore southerly was blowing in to Williamstown. I trudged along the usually busy Esplanade promenade. It was virtually empty, and it must have looked like I was playing an awkward game of hopscotch as I dodged the dog turds. Of which there were plenty. I wandered along Cole Street, up and over the railway bridge, all of the houses with their blinds drawn to ward off the cold and the danger of the outside world. Nelson Place was a sad sight. These days, most of the shops along the strip were permanently closed. I got to wondering if they would ever re-open. Probably not.

As I approached the pier, the wind was howling, bitter against my cheeks. Salt spray was lashing the wooden boards as I slowly walked along them. No-one was following. Only a crazy man would be out on such a night. Every vessel was staining at its tether. Every rope was groaning at the unfairness of it all. The Mona Lisa was moored right at the far end of a smaller gantry. I walked along it tentatively, as jumpy as a puppet on a string. But who was the puppet-master? I had the feeling that I would soon be finding out.

 

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