The Dingo Dilemma

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"G'day," I said through the window to the bloke I'd nearly run down as I'd whizzed through the gates and into Kendall & Creeling's parking area. He moved out of the way, but didn't reply. I parked my dad's vintage red Mustang and hopped out. "Can I help you?"

Hands on hips, he was giving our building a concentrated look-see. He was a puny bloke, going bald fast, but his dark blue suit was expensive and he was wearing on his skinny wrist a Rolex watch, though it could have been a fake, for all I knew.

I joined him in his assessment of the pseudo-Spanish house that had been converted into offices. It wasn't all that long ago I'd seen it for the first time myself, having lobbed in from Australia when I inherited a controlling interest in my father's business.

The stucco walls were a bright, pinkish-ocher color, topped with a roof of fat, curved terracotta tiles. We were standing in what must have been the front garden-now a parking area. Still without saying a word, the bloke advanced to the small tiled courtyard that led to the entrance. In the center was a little fountain I'd recently had fixed, so it was cheerfully spurting a lacy column of recycled water. The black wooden front door had many brass studs and a heavy black metal lever instead of a door handle.

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