Swifty Taylor and the Missing Child – Episode 8

Battered and Bruised, but Boxing On

 

In and out of consciousness, I supposed that I had dozed for hours, but I was disoriented and uncertain. When I finally came to for real, I found my phone on my lap, my wallet on the bed, and my back out of whack from sitting in the ancient chair. Were my ribs more than just bruised, or had they been broken? Either way, they felt like a kindergarten xylophone that a kid had played with a hammer. Suddenly there was an impatient knocking on the door of the motel room. For a moment I thought that Rogers had returned for an encore. At some point that I couldn’t remember, I must have called old mate Caspar, because it was he who burst through the door when he received no response.

 

“Swifty, you look in worse condition than a Victorian highway.” He stepped inside and locked the door behind him. His pallid features were impenetrable as he assessed my bloodied face. I wondered how bad I looked. “I barged into five rooms before I found yours. Believe me, your face isn’t the worst thing I have seen in this motel tonight.” He shook his head in disgust and gave me a look that suggested he had lost all faith in human nature. “What happens now, Swifty?” As questions went, it was a brain-teaser worthy of Mastermind. I responded: “For now, just take me home. I could do with a freshen up, a little think time, some shut-eye, and maybe half a bottle of Jameson.” We climbed into his car. As we drove away, in the side mirror I saw the flickering neon “Pal s Motel” sign mocking me as it disappeared into the distance, as if it had had the last laugh.

 

It was not often that I awoke and wished that I hadn’t. But today was one of those rare days. My body felt as if I’d spent the night sleeping in a cement mixer. Every muscle and sinew was sending a complaint to management. Rogers and his hired help weren’t artists with their fists, merely dedicated tradesmen. I shuffled to the bathroom mirror and was appalled by what I saw in the reflection. “The wounds of war, eh?” I muttered to myself. My phone was a laundry list of unanswered calls and missed messages. “I didn’t realize I was so popular,” I thought, bitterly.

 

I decided that the first call would be to Isabella, if for no other reason than it was time to clear the decks and move on from this whole sorry situation. On the fourth ring she answered. “Hello Swifty,” she said in a voice as smooth as a Jameson poured over ice. I paused intentionally. “We need to meet,” I said, “There have been developments.” Another pause. “You can come over to my place. You know where that is.” As tempting as the offer was, I knew that it would be a mistake. “No. I’ll meet you at 11 at the Cup and Crumb. I am in desperate need of a coffee.” She agreed with this arrangement, and I went back to scrolling through my messages. There was one from Laura, a simple love heart emoji with the words “Please call me.” She had always been the only one I had wanted. So why the hell was I procrastinating?

 

At the Cup and Crumb, I ignored the other punters who were staring at my face and ordered a coffee that was strong enough to remove paint. I took a seat at the back and watched Isabella Harris approach the café. Some women turn heads because they’re beautiful, others because they’re dangerous. Isabella managed to be both, without any apparent effort. She sat across from me, her gorgeous eyes almost popping out their sockets. She glanced about before asking “Did Rogers do this to you?” I tried my best to be nonchalant, but the pain was having its say. “It only hurts when I laugh,” I said, “and I haven’t been doing too much of that lately.” She snorted sourly. “I warned you to be careful.”

 

I laid out to her how I had been snatched from the side of the street like an Amazon parcel off a verandah, taken to a dump of a motel, and roughed up good and proper. But I also explained that I had extracted a financial agreement for her from Mick Rogers to end this whole mess. She sat silently, dignified, incredulous, but listening intently, not giving away anything, while the cogs in her mind ticked over. She had mulled it over enough: “It all sounds good to me, Swifty. I am going to take his money – and then I am going to run.” She rose from the seat and swanned out of the Cup and Crumb, with every eye in the joint following her.

 

In the evening, as I stretched out on the couch, nursing a finger or two of Jameson in a tumbler, my phone rang yet again. It was Isabella. “Swifty, the golden eagle laid its egg. I’m not sure how you did it, but you did. Thank you.” I assured her that it was her dossier of dirt that did the trick. She continued on in that breathy voice of hers: “I’ve decided to head out west.” Interesting! Werribee? Corio, perhaps? “I have friends in Perth.” She paused for effect. “Why don’t you come with me?” I returned her pause, like we were playing pause ping-pong. It was an offer almost too good to refuse. “It sounds interesting, Isabella. But in truth, I have a few loose ends to tie up right here.” She didn’t sound too disappointed. “Well, let me know if you change your mind…”