Almanac Fiction: Swifty Taylor and the Errant Husband (Episode 3)

 

Episode 3: Luck, Lies, and Lanyards – Swifty attends a conference

 

My mother had always possessed a sense of timing that a regretful politician might describe as ‘unfortunate’. And last night had been no different, my phone buzzing with importance just as I was weighing up whether I should casually approach the man I was surveilling and strike up a conversation. Although I had told her I would be out of town for a week or more, my mother wanted to make it known that she urgently needed a light globe changed and that one of her kitchen cupboard doors was sticking. I told her that I would put these items on my ‘to do’ list, as I had watched Max McDonald down a beer then return to his digs – alone. No progress was being made on that front, but I had to keep reminding myself that it was still early days.

 

I woke early and was feeling more refreshed. The air travel ensured that I’d slept heavily enough, but there was still the issue of the relentless tropical heat. When I had first checked into my room, I had eyed the air-con suspiciously and was immediately dismissive of its capabilities. But it had battled on gamely throughout the night, pumping out enough cool air to make me comfortable – and plenty of CO2 emissions to make the greenies less so. There was only one destination I considered for breakfast, and minutes later I was plonked at a streetside table in Café Diva, scrolling through the morning’s news feed on my phone.

 

 

 

 

The waitress from yesterday was soon standing tableside. “You’re sitting outside today?” she queried lightly. “The scenery out here is delightful.” I paused for a moment before I looked at her earnestly and added “But that’s not to say that there is anything wrong with the scenery indoors.” She was smirking as I went on: “Besides, there are too many mirrors inside – it felt like they were peering right through me, searching for my soul.” It had been intended as a throwaway line, but she half raised an eyebrow and responded thoughtfully: “And if those mirrors did happen to be searching? Would they find a soul?” I gazed up at her while shielding my eyes from the morning sun. “I would like to think so, but I really couldn’t say.”

 

 

 

 

After I wolfed down the pancake stack (banana, maple syrup, and roasted almonds, hold the ice-cream), I walked a short distance down the street and entered the tropically named ‘Club Tropical Resort’. The lobby was airless and deserted, apart from a young man behind a check-in desk who had a Mediterranean look about him. I mustered up every ounce of bonhomie within me. “Hello, Eduardo!” He was in equal parts thrilled that I knew his name, and confused that he didn’t recognize my face. He’d obviously failed to recall that behind him, pinned to the wall, was a calendar cum roster with half a dozen names scribbled in black Texta. I had taken a punt that ‘Eduardo’ was the name that best fit his face. And, bingo, it seemed that my losing streak was over.

 

“Eduardo, I am looking for my good friend Max…Max McDonald. I had a brief catch-up with him last night. He told me that he is staying here, and I was hoping that we could meet up tonight. What room is he staying in?” He looked down at the book on his desk, not registering that the lines I was feeding him were as sincere as election promises. “Mr McDonald, the merchant banker, is staying in room 311. But I don’t think that he is in, Mr…?” I responded: “err, Taylor. Swifty Taylor. You don’t happen to know where he is?” As Eduardo began to shake his head, he stopped as suddenly as if he had been struck by lightning. At the very least, he had experienced a lightbulb moment. “I believe he is at the finance conference at the Peninsula Hotel. He mentioned it to me this morning when he left.” I thanked my new friend Eduardo, and walked out onto the street.

 

The humidity was uncompromising, the refulgence almost blinding. And as I hadn’t brought much with me in the way of spare clothes, walking was not an option. I booked an Uber. If someone were to suggest I pick two words that were the antithesis of my very reason for being, ‘finance’ and ‘conference’ might well be the words I chose. It was just prior to midday when I strolled purposefully into the opulent foyer of the Peninsula Hotel, and the knowledge that I would never be able to afford a room in a hotel of such salubriousness caused a pang of sadness to wash over me. Outside the conference room was a table with a number of unclaimed lanyards strewn about it. I grabbed one and put it around my neck. Funnily enough, it didn’t make me feel like a merchant banker.

 

 

 

 

You can read more from Smokie (and about Swifty Taylor) HERE

 

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