The Big Ask (13 page)

Time was, even a minor political flack could see himself as part of a larger project, something from which he could draw pride sufficient unto the day. But that day was long gone. My life's work was reduced to helping a clapped-out mediocrity retain his fragile grip on an office whose powers he was incapable of exercising. Not a lot of
amour-propre
to be derived from that. The moment had come to tell Angelo that I was popping outside for a little walk in the snow.

My requirements, after all, were modest. Employment that provided a modicum of self-respect, kept the bank at bay and the refrigerator stocked. Time to devote to the longneglected tasks of fatherhood, to cultivate my own garden. If I couldn't find an employer to replace Angelo, I could always work for myself, set up shop as a consultant. Use my contacts in the public sector to build a client base. Flog my experience as a bureaucratic fixer. The more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea. I could get a card printed.
Murray Whelan & Associates.
It always looked more impressive if you had associates. Maybe I might even get some.

It was past eight now. I rang Faye. ‘Naughty little sod,' she said. ‘Tell him to come visit Tarquin after school.'

Doubtless I'd be seeing a lot more of Tarquin from now on. I set the alarm for 1 p.m. and had just hit the hay when the phone rang. It was Agnelli's private secretary, Trish. ‘Are you coming into the office this morning?'

‘Not if I can help it.'

‘He's very keen to talk to you.'

‘About what?'

‘About eleven-thirty.'

I got out of bed and began drafting my resignation.

Transport House was a spit-coloured office tower at the western edge of the downtown grid. Its fifteen floors were dedicated to the administration of the public transport system, the undertaking of feasibility studies into the implementation of multi-modal ticketing systems and the issuing of fifty thousand weekly pay cheques. This work was conducted by men in comfortable trousers and women in bum-freezing skirts, who spent their coffee breaks standing on the pavement outside the main entrance, smoking the sort of cigarettes that come in packs of fifty.

The Minister for Transport's office was located on the top floor. When not fulfilling his obligations in the legislature, or conferring with his factional colleagues, its current tenant could usually be found there, in his ministerial suite, surrounded by ambitious schemers, cynical cronies and timeserving paper-shufflers. And me.

By the time I stepped into the elevator, showered and suited, a note for Red on the refrigerator door, I'd done my homework.

According to my calculations, taking into account the full gamut of accrued leave and sick days, unpaid overtime, severance pay and sundry other entitlements, the total sum due to me on resignation would amount to exactly four-fifths of five-eighths of fuck-all. Or approximately three months' wages, whichever was the lesser. Not much, after all my time with the firm. And now, with my mortgage rate topping 13 per cent, plus the additional outlay on Frosty Flakes and other juvenile sundries that would be required, my decision to quit was not ideally timed. So I'd torn up my letter of resignation. I had another strategy. I'd get myself sacked.

Dismissal would trigger various premature termination clauses in my contract, netting me six months' salary in lieu of notice. Double what I would get if I merely quit. Plus, if a new job proved elusive, the fact that I'd been laid off would entitle me to claim forthwith my birthright as an Australian citizen, a fortnightly dole cheque.

As I entered the ministerial suite, Trish glanced up from her keyboard. ‘Walk into a door or something?' She fluttered a yellow message slip in the air between us. ‘Your wife wants you to call her.'

‘My ex-wife, as well you know.' I crushed the slip into a ball and tossed it into the nearest WPB. Wendy was nothing if not predictable. She thought she'd have more luck convincing me to send Red back to Sydney if she got to me at the office, away from the boy's influence. ‘If she calls again, tell her I don't work here any more.'

‘You wish,' said Trish. ‘Go straight in. He's waiting for you.'

Angelo's Transport House office was bigger than the one at Parliament House but it was strictly utilitarian. Its only feature of note was the view, a panoramic vista that occupied one wall like a gigantic photorealist painting. In the middle distance, the cooling tower of the Newport power station was a gigantic cigarette, wisps of white wafting from its red-painted rim. Cars the size of ants crawled across the twisted parabola of the Westgate Bridge. A seething stratosphere pressed down upon this scene, the writhing clouds as black as Bible-binding.

Angelo was standing in front of the window, hands clasped behind his back, Napoleon crossing the Alps. Neville Lowry sat primly on the edge of a chair, knees crossed. His hairless pate was glowing like an oiled halo.

Angelo waved me inside with an impatient gesture. ‘You see the cartoon?' he said, rocking on his toes. ‘Made me look like an idiot. Cabinet meets this afternoon and I want to demonstrate that I'm taking action to nip these leaks in the bud. I've decided to make an example.'

Neville moved his attention to a point beyond the clouds. To the hole in the ozone layer, perhaps, or an orbiting satellite. Angelo, too, turned to the window, avoiding eye contact with me. I waited, very alert, my mouth suddenly dry. Did I dare hope, I wondered, that the head to drop into the basket would be mine?

Angelo turned to face me. ‘Nev here has agreed to accept full responsibility,' he said. ‘I've just terminated him.'

Neville smirked and gave me an amiable shrug. For a man whose cue-ball head was rolling across the carpet, he was inexplicably buoyant.

‘In six weeks,' continued Agnelli, ‘when the dust has settled, he'll be taking up a new position within the department. Deputy director, Corporate Communications. Not a political appointment, you understand. A purely administrative one.'

I understood all right. Nev Lowry wasn't responsible for the leak. He'd simply used the opportunity to engineer a move from the political to the civil service payroll, thus ensuring job security beyond the election. ‘Such self-sacrifice,' I said. ‘It borders on the heroic.'

‘Ours not to reason why,' said Neville, standing up. ‘Ours but to take a long overdue holiday. Anything you want me to bring back from Bali?'

‘Tropical ulcers,' I suggested.

‘Just try to look a bit more contrite, Nev,' said Agnelli. ‘At least until you're out of the building. And shut the door on your way out.'

I sank into the sofa, wondering if I shouldn't be considering a similar game plan. Angelo resumed his imperial stance before the window. ‘Any advance on the Haulers front?' he demanded.

‘I might have found a taker,' I said. ‘A bloke named Donny Maitland is putting together a rank-and-file ticket. Reckons he can tap into the disaffection with the incumbent regime.'

‘You think he can knock off Sharpe and McGrath?'

‘That's about as likely as the water-fuelled jumbo jet,' I said. ‘Still, he's hard to frighten and he might have some impact, given the resources.'

‘Then see that he gets some. Bury the cost in the policydevelopment budget, call it industry research or something. How does ten grand sound?'

Like enough to get Donny's little show on the road, pay for some printing and postage. ‘I'll get onto it,' I said, standing up.

Angelo waved me back down. He began pacing, sure sign that he was screwing himself to some sticking point. What absurdity now, I wondered? Upon what madcap mission was I about to be dispatched? ‘I saw you speaking with Lyndal yesterday at that community arts crap,' he said. This was both a question and an accusation.

‘She's an asset to the team,' I said.

‘Get your hand off it, Murray,' said Angelo. ‘There's backstabbing afoot out there, I'm sure of it. I could feel it in the atmosphere.'

‘You're being paranoid,' I said.

‘I'll be as paranoid as I like,' he said. ‘Anyway, it's not paranoia. It's instinct. When you've been in politics as long as I have, you sense these things. Somebody is plotting to knock me off.'

Jesus, I thought. Hark to the man. He's dragged me out of bed to pour oil into the storm-tossed teacup of his ego.

‘Face it, Angelo,' I said. ‘Nobody in their right mind wants to talk to you. You're a bully and an unprincipled careerist. You take your constituents for granted and treat your employees like shit. Frankly, it's a miracle you're not still chasing ambulances for a living, you slimy arsehole.'

Angelo slapped his hands together, rubbed them energetically and beamed at me. I tried again. ‘You think I'm joking, don't you,' I said harshly. ‘Well that just proves what a dopey cunt you really are.'

Insubordination. Personal abuse. Sexist language. He'll have to fire me now, I thought.

Ange looked even more pleased. ‘You're absolutely right,' he enthused. ‘That's the great thing about you, Murray. You're the only one who's prepared to be up-front with me. None of these toadies'—he flapped his wrist vaguely— ‘none of them would ever talk to me like that. That's why I know I can trust you implicitly. You're the only one who tells it like it is. Which is why I wanted to talk to you today. I want you to do something for me. It's a big ask, I know. But you're the only one I can turn to. The only one I know I can truly rely on.' He paused dramatically.

‘I want you to nominate for preselection for Melbourne Upper.'

That damned invisible hearing aid was on the blink again. ‘You're quitting parliament?' I said.

‘Don't be ridiculous,' Ange scoffed. ‘I just don't want to leave anything to chance with my renomination. If you run against me, it'll help split any potential opposition. Then you swing your support behind me in the final ballot and bump me over the line. Simple.'

Sure it was simple. It was the oldest trick in the political book.

‘Like I said, it's a big ask. But I'm worried, Murray. I wouldn't suggest it otherwise.'

I sat there, speechless, staring at him.

‘Don't interrupt,' he said. ‘I know what you're going to say. You're going to say that I might be worried, but that you'll be the one at the rough end of the pineapple. End of the day, I'll be back in parliament, you'll be the man who knifed his boss, got the sack. After all, I can hardly keep you on my staff after you declare your intention to run against me. Stands to reason. So there's not much incentive in it for you.'

‘Not much,' I agreed.

‘That's why I'm prepared to make it worth your while.'

A crack opened in the clouds and a beam of sunshine fell upon the container gantries of Appleton dock. Don't move, I told myself. You'll break the spell.

‘You're shocked, I can see,' said Angelo. ‘Please, don't be offended. I know I can't buy your integrity, but I'd be grateful if you give me this opportunity to express my appreciation for your years of loyal service. You know I can't guarantee your job security beyond the election, but at least I can cushion the blow, money-wise.'

‘Money?' I said, as though the filthy subject never crossed my mind.

‘Your current employment contract provides for, what, three months' pay in case of dismissal?'

‘Six,' I said, a mere point of information.

Angelo was undeterred. ‘We'll make it nine. Nominations for preselection close in two weeks. Plenty of time for us to amend the relevant clauses. Then wham, bam, ink's barely dry and you decide to run against me—which is your prerogative as a party member. And I give you your marching orders—which is my right as your employer. You pocket the payout and away we go.'

‘Nine months' severance pay?' I closed my eyes and squeezed thumb and forefinger across them. Any second I was going to wake up, find myself at home in bed, realise this was all a dream.

‘Okay then, twelve,' said Ange quickly. ‘A year's pay, lump sum. How's that for a golden parachute?'

Why did I need a parachute? I'd sprouted wings. I tried to look riven.

‘I know what you're thinking.' Agnelli was a veritable clairvoyant this morning. ‘You're thinking that you'll have a job until the election anyway. But keep in mind there's a lot of pressure on me to cut costs. Other ministers are shedding staff.'

Act now, in other words, to avoid disappointment. ‘Suppose I agree,' I said tentatively. ‘Hypothetically speaking. For this to work we'll have to put up a pretty good show. I'd need to have a really proper go at you.'

‘Absolutely,' said Angelo, moving in for the kill. ‘Boots and all.'

‘In that case, I'll have campaign expenses. Phone bills, entertainment, postage.'

‘Chicken-feed,' said Ange. ‘I'll pay out of my own pocket. A grand, shall we say?'

The fucking cheapskate had just donated ten times that to Donny out of government funds. ‘Two,' I said, feeling generous, ‘and it's a deal.'

I extended my hand and he nodded in its vicinity.

‘Amend your contract and have it on my desk for signature by the close of business,' he said. ‘And mum's the word, okay?'

Trish buzzed to say Angelo's next appointment had arrived, a senior official from the Railways Union. I got out while the going was good and went into my office, a cubicle adjacent to the ministerial document-shredder.

Once I'd located my job contract, it took me all of five minutes to pencil the new details into the margins, ready for retyping. Then I pulled out the phone book, found the listing for Maitland Transport, highlighted the address, copied the details to a cheque requisition form, added the relevant budget codes and marked it for immediate payment. Not a bad day's work, all up.

I was about to take the paperwork out to Trish when she buzzed me. ‘There's a gentleman here to see you,' she said. ‘A Noel Webb.'