Shooting Star
“In the VIP carpark under the Great Southern Stand, tense in the stomach, I took the soft-leather Louis Vuitton bag out of the boot of Noyce’s Mercedes, felt for his tiny mobile phone in my inside jacket pocket.
‘Mr Calder?’ A fair-haired young man in a business suit, club tie. He put out a hand. ‘I’m Denzil Hobbes. I’ve been asked to meet you.’ Noyce had arranged the parking and the reception. It seemed a Carson company had a corporate box in the stand. Orlovsky was doing it harder. Not a Merce...des but his old Holden Premier, not a VIP parking spot but a long walk from across the river to a public entrance.
‘It’s pretty much a full house,’ Hobbes said. ‘I’ve got someone holding a seat for you. We can go up in the lift.’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘I’ll walk. Just show me the stairs.’ ‘They’re ramps actually,’ he said. ‘One in ten incline, very easy climbing. You haven’t been here before?’ ‘No.’ ‘I’ll show you the one to take. Ramps take eight abreast.MoreLess
‘Mr Calder?’ A fair-haired young man in a business suit, club tie. He put out a hand. ‘I’m Denzil Hobbes. I’ve been asked to meet you.’ Noyce had arranged the parking and the reception. It seemed a Carson company had a corporate box in the stand. Orlovsky was doing it harder. Not a Merce...des but his old Holden Premier, not a VIP parking spot but a long walk from across the river to a public entrance.
‘It’s pretty much a full house,’ Hobbes said. ‘I’ve got someone holding a seat for you. We can go up in the lift.’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘I’ll walk. Just show me the stairs.’ ‘They’re ramps actually,’ he said. ‘One in ten incline, very easy climbing. You haven’t been here before?’ ‘No.’ ‘I’ll show you the one to take. Ramps take eight abreast.MoreLess
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