The stroll down Collins Street gave Lester a feeling of exhilaration that reminded him of all the emotions associated with Spring. A lovely day, the footpaths filled with tightly-clad birds heading briskly to or from some task in the labyrinth of two blocks that was Melbourne's (some said Australia’s) money market.
He seemed to be the only one with time to stroll, to look around, and to soak up the occasional shaft of warm sunshine that pierced its way between the glass and concrete towers. There were other things worth noting. The men were all - well, mostly, - in grey suits. It seemed nobody in this part of town had the sense to dress comfortable. Most of these sharp young 30-year-old financial genii wouldn't have the sense to cart their expensive 3-piece suits in out of the rain. He stopped suddenly, noting with malicious satisfaction how the elegantly contoured river of humanity found its way smoothly around him, to come gently to a halt at the red pedestrian light ten metres ahead. Remarkable, the adaptive processes built into the average pedestrian.
This was the place: he had selected Cortis & Carr with care. The name and reputation were prestigious, quite capable of handling an influx of cash in a short period of time without any fuss. On the other hand, judging by the Melbourne Stock Exchange's Annual Report, there were enough partners to match the activities of any one client. The building, 367 Collins, was a classical glass blockhouse of the 60's right next door to the old Exchange building itself, though in the days of the telephone that probably didn't matter. You could get an instant reaction wherever you were, as long as enough money was involved.
Walking across the broad tiled foyer, he visualised himself purposefully into the assumed role.
"I am a successful business exec. I've disposed of large sums for quite a while, but the Stock Market is a new experience. Nothing's definite, but I need to decide whether this vehicle can provide a profitable resting-place for funds over short periods. There's nothing to be nervous about; it's a fact-finding mission," he comforted himself nervously.
He set about a brief self-audit, as he pressed the "UP" button and was gradually joined by waiting members of the building's staff - he presumed - in their delightfully short minis, and sleek grey-3-piece strait-jackets.
"I'm collecting facts - we can't tolerate delays, screw-ups or uncertainty. This young bloke Mercer has to be prepared to get things done."
The lift started up gently as he gazed absent-mindedly at the bunch of buttons lit by his companions. He leaned over to push 20, and reviewed his story's credibility. The will was still in the hands of lawyers, but setting up his new business would take six weeks anyway. He intended to keep this new venture quite separate from the several other (successful) activities he controlled, and so at the moment a private address was desirable. It looked good, and he was confident of the details.
At the umpteenth stop, the seventeenth Floor, he surveyed the departure of an impeccably groomed individual and marveled at the stupidity of suits and ties. Everybody in this part of town was stuck with them, everyone but Lester.
Danger!
He stuck out like a sore thumb. He didn't look like a businessman - successful or otherwise. For all the visible detail, how could this cool dresser be about to invest several million dollars? Around here, he looked like a hick. He would be remembered, maybe suspected. It wouldn't do. He had a couple of minutes to the appointment time as the lift door slid open at the 20th floor. No, the only thing that Richard Mercer had on him so far was a false name, so he had months, if necessary, to do it properly.
He stood still. A recent arrival in the elevator had pressed the Ground button and he didn't have a better idea. He needed to think.
First, protect the contact he'd nearly compromised.
There was a public phone in the lobby.
"Mr Mercer is in conference presently. Can I take a message?"
Bastard! It was time for his appointment. Was there something wrong already?
No, just a busy man with an appointment over-run, or perhaps only a protective receptionist. Play it cool, no cause to panic.
"Please. I have an appointment with Richard, and I've been delayed. Would you give him my apologies, and let him know I'll phone later today to reschedule. My name is Conley."
"Thank you, Mr Conley. He is expecting you. Should I interrupt him now?"
She knows his appointments. It was only a protection ploy after all. Keep up the cover.
"No, I've had a small car accident, and it will take a while to work out some diary alternatives. Just give him my apologies."
That should be adequate, he mused as he merged again into the smartly-clad human river outside, and started into a couple of laps of the inner city block Queen, Flinders and Elizabeth Streets, and back past the Cortis offices far above.
What did he need to do now?
This time he scanned the passers-by analytically, building up in his mind a normal distribution of the dress code in lower Collins Streets - the money market belt. There would have to be a few changes.
Suit, shirt, tie, shoes - they were superficial, easy, and his modest bank balance could stand that. He - the central essence of Lester, (or should it be Roger?) - he was a problem, with his economical flowing stroll, the shoulder-length hair, the chewed stubs of fingernails and his immunity to hurry or discipline.
Did he really have to do something about his hair? Now? Was it really that serious a contact? His personal preferences were rebelling strongly, and this lifestyle choice was emerging months before he had anticipated.
He stopped at the shop window, had a good look at his reflection, and weighed the chances of a compromise. What if he had a well shaped trim? Could he mess his hair up again for work? It was too early for a clean break. There was the whole plan ahead yet.
He could be a rather eccentric millionaire. His hands were those of a nervous worker - and they had plenty of people like that in high finance. That impression, if it passed across well, would help to cover any inconsistencies he hadn't thought of.
Fred wouldn't expect him for an hour or so, which gave him the ideal opportunity for some shopping. He'd passed Henry Buck's, an expensive-looking men’s clothier, three times so far this morning, and suddenly its high-class exterior assumed a new significance.
Crossing Collins Street, he steeled himself and headed purposely in to find an adviser.
It took a few minutes to get the salesman thinking in terms of a totally new appearance. Once the education process had been put behind the pair of them, imaginative decisions came thick and fast, obviously driven by the man's burgeoning commission expectations. In the finish, he got to cufflinks, sox, tie bars - he covered them all before the credit query had to be faced. Lester saw that coming too, and defused the problem.
He paid by cheque - on the new personal account, - and arranged to have the mountain of parcels delivered next Monday.
"Quite satisfactory, sir. We'll be pleased to help again whenever you need." The salesman showed him solicitously to the door, and strode back to arrange accelerated clearance of the cheque. They both knew the score, but who knew that the other knew?
The hairdresser was a longer search. The task was a more sensitive one; Lester was keen to lose as little of his characteristic appearance as possible permanently, and a replacement Tuesday appointment - early - was a must. He spoke to two possible barbers before the third impressed him as being willing to enter the spirit of the thing: a temporary hairstyle.
Back at the site, Lester found himself possessed by an amazing surge of energy. This morning had represented zero progress, he'd nearly made a fool of himself, the setup had slipped about a week, and yet he felt for some mad reason like a victor.
Perhaps it was a feeling of having corrected the problem before it surfaced. Practically, he was $2285 poorer; but also, the newly invented tycoon was making sound, split-second decisions.
So on he ploughed with the current top tasks on the problem list. One of the Sydney General Managers needed a report sequence that the system kept barring. It might be a security access problem, but there were some indications that the file he wanted plain wasn't ready when he wanted it. Perhaps there was another way for the anonymous Mr Arthur to get satisfaction.
An hour or so of research in several manuals, and then a call to Mark West in Corporate Accounting verified the cause of the recurring failure to access that information.
"You're right, Lester. He can't have the numbers before the second work day, because they're not right. He might get a reasonable estimate from the Site Engineer's Report and the Admin at Concord though,"
It was time to write a problem report.
Next, please. No, the time was after eight - time to pack up and go home.