I pointed out the Armani and Hugo Boss among us, but it was Dan who saw the bespoke houndstooth arrive and quietly join our group. “Remember, if it takes two men at every limb, do it,” said Richard, who had once been retained to offer arcane advice to four out of the top five financial institutions.
Exiting the concourse we split into three columns. Dan looked nervous in the grey morning light. It wouldn’t end like that team building exercise in Bundeena, I’d reassured him, and gave him two thumbs up as we quickened our pace. By the time we hit the zebra crossing, halting a taxi and a Star Casino courtesy van, there were hoots and cries from the lead suits.
We fell upon the homeless with the wrath of vengeful forefathers. Richard’s plan, transmitted to our Blackberry’s the night before, was a work of genius. One old Creole woman raised a garbled warning in French, but she was cut down by two former derivatives traders before the vague huddled shapes could stir.
I looked for Dan. He was wrestling a white-haired old man who had his teeth clamped on Dan’s left ankle. The sock was too silky to offer any protection. Five six seven times Dan hit the old man on the head with a collection box, but it was no good, the cardboard was rain-softened and the coins were flying loose.
That’s when Richard lifted up the last of the milk crates and threw it into the road and all the fight went out of them.
The park was ours.