The Switch ‘I had a time of it, tracking you down,’ Brandon Wiley told Tony. ‘Anyone would think you don’t care about your old friends any more.’ ‘Right now, I am hoping to sell something,’ Tony said. ‘Well, maybe I can help you with that,’ Brandon said artlessly. ‘Are you going to finish those, by the way?’ ‘The bean cakes? Help yourself,’ Tony said. The motel’s maker hadn’t done a very convincing job. The fried shells were too dry, the insides half-cooked and gluey. ‘I had to skip breakfast. Too much work to do, too many people to see. These aren’t bad, whatever they are. Spicy,’ Brandon said, biting a bean cake in half. ‘You should give me the recipe – I could try them out on a few people I know in the food biz. Maybe they’ll catch on. You never know.’ He was dressed in a shabby black jacket and blue jeans, a plump middle-aged man with an untidy halo of curly black hair and the manners of an over-indulged child, half obsequious, half petulant.
