Almanac Fiction: The Search for the Shield (Episode 5)

 

In Episode 5 of “The Search for the Shield”, Swifty Taylor takes a break from sleuthing.

 

Despite the fact that I was working this case pro bono, the footy club’s committee had requested my presence at a meeting. To update them on my progress, they said. To offer up to them any theories that I may have. Well, I had a theory or two, but I was also armed with a few questions myself. Like, how could a club like ours, with such a rich and proud history, misplace an artefact as important as the Tony Williamson Shield? Sure, it wasn’t as valuable as the Maltese Falcon, and I was no Humphrey Bogart, but it certainly had meaning to those whose names were on it.

When I awoke after a fitful and most unrefreshing night’s sleep, it was to that slightly depressing feeling that I was getting nowhere. In recent times I have found that whenever I wake in this mood, the best tonic is not a nip of Jameson, but to reach for the bedside radio and tune in to the ABC. For, no matter how bad I am at my job, the morning newsreader is unerring in her ability to remind me that there is always someone worse at their job. Listening to her bumble her way through a five-minute news bulletin, sounding like English is a language is as foreign to her as Swahili, is for me a failsafe morning pick-me-up. I decided that I needed to re-set and take a break from chasing red herrings and running into brick walls. And what better way to do that than spend some time relaxing and watching the passing parade from a barstool in one of Williamstown’s less salubrious establishments? And maybe, just maybe, some morsel of information might fall into my lap at the same time.

In a token effort to reduce my carbon footprint, I decided to walk. The truth was my car was almost out of gas, and I wasn’t exactly flush with funds. When I strode through the door of Eagle’s Lair I was greeted by a sneering barman who made a show of disdainfully glancing at his watch. He slowly wiped the bar-top with a well-worn cloth. I resisted the temptation to remind him that, even though I was early, ultimately it was people like me who were paying his wages, and that maybe he should show me a little more respect. I demurred, but instantly regretted doing so when he made a vague sound in his throat which might have been amusement. Or wind. Or maybe he was just clearing his throat. Despite having a chip on his shoulder the size of a boarding-house pudding, he was surprisingly perceptive. “Jameson?” he inquired. “No, the sun is only just over the yardarm. How about you just pour me a beer instead.” I made this request knowing full well that every beer on tap here tasted like it was piped in directly from the water of the murky harbour which lay beyond the windows.

The only other punter in the joint was a fellow known around the traps as Mr T. I had no idea what he did for a living, but he gave off an air of self-importance. He was known to use Eagle’s Lair as his office, setting up his laptop on the best table in the bar. Tapping away at the computer keys, when his wine glass emptied he would hold it up for old mate Chippy, who would rush over to top it up from his finest bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

Because it was a Friday, it was only a matter of time until patrons would begin rolling in like oranges. It was a poorly designed pub, and it filled quickly and uncomfortably. Many of the faces were familiar to me. The crowd was a curious and eclectic collection of the town’s finest and no-so finest. Eagle’s Lair was reputed to be the Tinder capital of Williamstown, a place where couples could meet, acquaint themselves, and then stealthily move off to bigger and better things. Whenever I caught sight of a couple who were awkwardly struggling to connect, I fought the urge to tell them to just cut to the chase. Then there were the shadier customers in the crowd: those partaking in activities which the long arm of the law might well have frowned upon. I suspected that the wallopers did, in fact, know that these activities were going on. How could they not?

I spotted Harold before he saw me. He was whispering in the ear of an older bloke who had a face as pock-marked as a welding bench. The older bloke was nodding in acquiescence – a deal of some sort being earnestly discussed. I had known Harry since he was a champion young footballer with the world seemingly at his feet. But he had decided that there was an easier path to riches, a path that offered even brighter lights. But it was a path that was not entirely legal. He had taken to quoting lines from The Godfather and telling anyone who would listen that cash was king. I finally caught his eye.

“Can I interest you in anything, Mr Taylor?” he asked me, as he meandered by the stool I had commandeered many hours earlier. Barstools were now at a premium amid the heaving throng. I carried a torch of resentment for him, filthy that he had turned his back on his mountain of football talent, when players like me had to scrap for every possession. I shook my head sadly. “Harry, Harry, Harry,” I said, channeling the long-ago bell-boy who had happened upon a wasted George Best and companions. We both knew that when the siren sounded in the game he was now playing, he would be in a cell in the big house.

He leant forward and whispered in my ear. “I keep hearing rumours about a shield, Mr Taylor. Have you found it yet? No? Well…I might just have some intel about what you are looking for.”

I looked down at my lap. And maybe, just maybe, I saw a morsel falling into it. 

 

Note: The Swifty Taylor series first appeared earlier this year in the Williamstown CYMS FC coterie group weekly newsletter.

You can read Part 1 Here.

You can read Part 2 Here

You can read Part 3 Here

You can read Part 4 Here

 

You can read more from Smokie HERE

 

To return to The Footy Almanac home page click HERE

 

Our writers are independent contributors. The opinions expressed in their articles are their own. They are not the views, nor do they reflect the views, of Malarkey Publications.

 

Do you enjoy the Almanac concept?
And want to ensure it continues in its current form, and better? To help keep things ticking over please consider making your own contribution.

Become an Almanac (annual) member – CLICK HERE