THE LIAR KING

A stately old heritage building,

With tiny windows,

Near the cenotaph,

The dingy room was so small

It was crowded by a coffee table.

Water glasses half-empty.

Inroduced by his business partner –

A man with shifty eyes

And the pointed face of a weasel,

Or perhaps a ferret,

A badly groomed tickler

From a bogan background.

He seated himself a little way away -

Intent on covering his back? -

Occupying the only walled corner.

He offered a limp hand

And a silent greeting of sorts –

A slight curl of his pursed lips.

His pet ferret did all the talking

About nothing that was new –

Just the same old stuff.

Hedge funds, New York, Hong Kong,

Now for Australia.

Another slight twist of the mouth

As the story was told.

Then compliments for me

From the snout of the weasel.

He seemed bored.

I decided to cut it short.

I knew little about hedge funds anyway.

That admission got his interest.

The weasel asked

About my connections.

Got him more animated –

He even leaned forward.

Signals I could not see.

Then farewells began

And he stood.

He was very short,

With a solid build.

His large head almost gave him

The appearance of a garden gnome.

His face was still expressionless.

Large brown eyes said nothing

And barely moved.

I was determined to make him speak

To get a sense of the man.

I looked him straight in the eye

He seemed uncomfortable –

A genuine introvert,

Simply shy, I thought,

Preferred to let others

Speak and schmooze.

Asked if he was from New York.

“I’m Canadian.”

His voice was deadpan

And dour,

No evidence of humour -

A hedge fund manager.