THE ASSET HUNTER

 A Novel by A Asset Hunter

Chapter 1.
I stood like a statue, swathed in black-ink darkness, surrounded by eerie, lonely silence.

My nostrils had been assailed by a peculiar, yet familiar stench, the decomposing corpse of an asset.

I groped for my torch, flicking the switch, releasing a narrow stream of silvery light across bristling blades of grass- a park, an asset, alive. I flipped open my notebook and wrote down my find.

Cautiously moving forward, breathing heavily, I spied a dark, swamp-like pool, the source of the odor.

I smiled to myself, relieved, it was not one of ours, the Avon River is the responsibility of the
Department of Water.

Catlike, I span around and moved towards a row of darkened buildings. I noted the time, 9 PM.

I stepped out into emptiness, my footsteps beating a hollow, sad refrain on the pavement asset lining Avon Terrace.

With heavy heart I recalled the lyrics of an Elvis song, ‘down at the end of lonely street at Heartbreak Hotel’.

Yet in this street, the hotel was already in darkness along with every other business.

For a second, I thought I could hear music, laughter, frivolity borne on a gentle breeze wafting through the town from the east.

It was nothing, just my imagination.

I remembered that the happiness enjoyed at the beautiful old house on the hill was soon to be a memory. Not my problem, not our asset, but I felt for those who had their own lovely asset removed through unprincipled principles.

I thought, the world can be a cruel place, when just a few curmudgeons could end the wedding bliss of many.

My eyes caught a shimmering light, a beacon in the blackness. I was drawn towards it like a moth to a flame.

I knew what it was, the jewel in the asset crown, the shining example of a modern asset, the Shire of York owned Tavern now known as the Forrest Oval Bar and Café.

Had it recently changed its name? Why? For what reason?  My care factor was as non-existent as cars in a local carpark I was instantly alert, the hairs sticking up on the back of my neck with excitement, recalling my past examination of forensic evidence. 

There were the photographs of noisy, crowded streets, cluttered with tourists. The dancing and singing, - the once cherished musical cacophony of jazz. Ethereal, yet tangible, liabilities. Thankfully shrouded in the mists of time- and soon to be forgotten.

I flipped open my notebook to where I had hastily scribbled ‘events’ noting the exciting sporting action of mixed social bowls, social twilight bowls and cricket training.

To cap it off was the $6 Kids Meals at the asset affectionately known as the YRCC, KFC.

Now I realized just how far forward York had advanced over a decade with assets like this.

Feeling the need to explore an actual asset, I entered the brightly lit bar. The hollow echo was familiar. The bar was empty.

No, not quite, huddled in a corner were two men- important men. Maybe they were once shire presidents, at least councillors.

I moved forward. One turned his head and snarled at me “Piss off- this is my bar and my town”!

Did he actually say that? - I can’t recall.

As I stepped back into the darkness something dawned on me.

With apologies to Raymond Chandler.

David Taylor.