The Big Ask (4 page)

‘Too late for that,' said Angelo. ‘Sharpe's got a long memory and he's a man who knows how to nurse a grudge.'

Agnelli was referring to an encounter during his preparliamentary incarnation as an industrial relations lawyer. Acting on behalf of the Construction Labourers' Union, Ange had successfully sued the Haulers after several of their members, cement-truck drivers, crossed a CLU picket line at the urging of Haulers' officials. In the ensuing scuffle, a CLU member was drowned in wet concrete. No criminal charges were ever laid but Ange won the CLU handsome civil-action damages, which it used to foil attempts by the Haulers to poach its members.

‘Howard Sharpe came here for a test of strength,' said Angelo, standing up and buttoning his voluminous midriff into his waistcoat. ‘And that's exactly what he's going to get.' He inflated his shoulders, tugged downwards to firm the fit of his suit, adjusted the knot of his tie and stiffened his upper lip. ‘Time to grasp the nettle.'

‘The United Haulage Workers isn't a nettle,' I muttered, falling into step. ‘It's the spinning blade of an electric blender.'

The entrance hall of Victoria's Parliament House is paved with mosaic tiles in the pattern of the state bird, a forest-dwelling litter-fossicker. The ceiling of this grand vestibule is so high that you can get a crick in your neck just trying to find it. It is a space designed to impress. The three representatives of the United Haulage Workers did not look impressed. They rose as one from a padded bench and advanced to meet us.

‘Gentlemen,' declared Agnelli. ‘What a surprise. Just happened to be in the neighbourhood, I suppose. Thought you'd drop in and say hello. Very considerate of you.'

Howard Sharpe was a florid-faced, obese man in his early sixties. His belly preceded him in a bullish, self-satisfied way and his bibulous nose seemed to be glowing even more ominously than usual. He returned Agnelli's greeting with a cursory nod. ‘You know Mike McGrath, don't you?' he grunted.

McGrath was his deputy secretary, a thin-lipped individual with round, horn-rimmed glasses and the tapering face of a high-minded ferret. Despite his title, Mike would've had trouble distinguishing a tip-truck from a tenor trombone. His true function was that of Howard's bag man, number cruncher, head-kicker and general gofer. He was being groomed, it was widely believed, for a safe spot on the Senate ticket. To Mike McGrath's way of thinking, anybody entering politics with motives other than ulterior was a
prima
facie
idiot.

‘And this is Frank Farrell.' Sharpe indicated the third man. ‘Our membership welfare officer.'

Sharpe and McGrath were wearing suits, strictly off-therack. Farrell wore a grey leather blouson-type jacket over a black turtleneck sweater and neatly pressed jeans. He was somewhere between forty and fifty with thick, brushed-back hair and pumice-stone skin. He shook Angelo's hand, then mine. He had a breezy, masculine manner and a grip that left no doubt about his physical capabilities. Despite his job title, there was no hint of the caring professions about Frank Farrell. Nor was there any hint of the extent to which our destinies would intertwine. If there had been, I probably would have turned tail and fled.

Muscle, I thought. When it came to finesse, nobody beat the Haulers.

‘Better come into the parlour,' said Agnelli, leading us down the corridor and back into his office. ‘Sit, sit,' he urged, assuming the power position behind his desk.

Sharpe and McGrath glanced around as if trying to decide what to smash first. Or, in McGrath's case, steal. Eventually, they figured out the purpose of the chairs. Farrell remained standing, leaning against the door frame, well behind the action. I took up a position beside Agnelli's desk, put my hands in my pockets and did my best to impersonate an innocent bystander.

The boss leaned back in his chair and spread his arms. ‘Fire away,' he said. I hoped that our visitors would not take his words literally.

Sharpe was out of breath from his waddle down the corridor and the exertion of sitting down. ‘So, Agnelli,' he wheezed. ‘Tell us about this plan of yours.'

‘Plan? What plan?' Agnelli raised his shoulders theatrically, a gesture bred into his Latin genes. ‘Do we have any plans, Murray?'

‘Plenty of plans,' I said. ‘No shortage of plans around here.'

‘You want to talk plans, Howard,' said Agnelli, ‘you should drop in on the Minister for Planning. He's got plans coming out his arsehole. Isn't that right, Murray?'

‘Arsehole,' I agreed.

Sharpe leaned forward, his shirt buttons straining, and rested an elbow on his broad knee. He wanted it clearly understood that he was not to be mocked. ‘Cut the crap,' he barked. ‘You know very well what plan I mean. This truck tax increase. We're not going to wear it, you know.'

‘Ah, yes.' Angelo pressed his fingertips together and contemplated the ceiling for a moment. ‘The item in this afternoon's paper. Had somebody read it to you, did you? And then you thought you'd drop around, demand to know where I got the temerity to think I might have the right to read my own departmental correspondence without first asking your permission.'

‘So it's true,' said McGrath.

‘Maybe,' said Angelo. ‘Maybe not. Either way I certainly don't intend to be made to account for myself on the basis of an item of gossip in a rag like the
Herald
. Nor do I appreciate being bushwhacked like this, Howard.'

To Sharpe this was no more than preliminary small-talk. He'd come to flex his muscles and nothing Agnelli said was going to stop him. ‘Because a tonnage levy is the most stupid fucking idea in the entire fucking history of stupid fucking ideas,' he fulminated. ‘And if you think we're going to sit still for it, you need your head examined. The big outfits might be able to afford it. My blokes, the owner-operators, out there busting their guts every day just to survive, you might as well put them out of business, be done with it.'

Agnelli nodded sagely, as if ruminating upon some ancient, imponderable mystery. ‘Your loyalty to your members is commendable, Howard. More of whom, by the way, work behind the counter in the airport cafeteria than own semitrailers. And while I'm always perfectly willing to consult with their duly elected leaders, that doesn't mean I'm prepared to have an ugly fuck of a bull-elephant wander into my office any time he likes and shit on the carpet.'

Perhaps he was being a little provocative but I had to admire Angelo's moxie. This was Sharpe's ambush, after all, and he could hardly expect Ange to cop it sweet. He was in Agnelli's backyard now and if a dog can't bark in its own kennel, where can it? Not that a bit of barking ever deterred the Haulers. One time, story was, Sharpe wanted to make a point to an adversary. Bloke came home from work and found the Fido nailed to his front door.

If Agnelli's attitude was designed to aggravate, it was doing the trick. Sharpe flexed his jaw and I thought his nose was going to explode.

During all of this, I was studying Frank Farrell as he leaned against the deep frame of the closed door, his manner both relaxed and attentive, his hands clasped in front of him. He was a confident one, that was for sure. His face was expressionless but from time to time his black Irish eyes lit with a kind of sardonic glint, as though bemused that grown men could behave in such a manner. He was no mere meathead, that much was evident.

McGrath now spoke, the voice of moderation. ‘You know that you're going to have to deal with us, Angelo,' he cooed. ‘So why make a stick to beat yourself with? Time like this, the Labor Party on the nose with the punters, we should all be pulling together. And you wouldn't want to jeopardise your preselection, would you?'

Melbourne Upper was one of the safest seats in the state. Safe for Labor, safe for Angelo. In all the time he'd held it, Ange had easily retained the endorsement of both the local branches and the party central office. Challengers had come and gone, of course, for ours is a democratic party and any clown is welcome to a tilt. But as the incumbent member, and a minister, Angelo had a secure grip on his seat. Despite the premier's attempts to convince the factional bosses to nominate more women as parliamentary candidates, the outcome of the preselection ballot in a little over a month's time was a mere formality.

‘You must think I came down in the last shower, Mikeyboy,' said Ange, leaning forward and putting his elbows on the desk. ‘But since you've raised the subject, aren't the Haulers due for an election in a few months? Your members must be getting pretty jack of officials who treat their union as no more than a launching pad for private political ambitions. It wouldn't surprise me if you boys find yourselves facing a bit of competition for once. There's a contender lurking in the wings, I hear.'

‘Bullshit,' growled Howard Sharpe, his eyes narrowing. ‘What would you know about it?'

Angelo tapped the side of his nose. ‘All in good time, my friend. All in good time.'

Mike McGrath, meanwhile, was peering through his spectacles at the bookcases, first at the calfskin-bound volumes of Hansard, most of which had not been opened since before the Boer, and then at Angelo's personal collection of political philosophy, which had not been opened at all.

McGrath started reading the titles aloud. ‘
A Critique of
Political Economy
,' he sneered. ‘
Retreat from Class: The New
Socialism.
' He stood up, removed a volume, flipped through it and returned it to the shelf. ‘This is pretty dry stuff, Angelo. Where's your copy of the
Kama Sutra
?'

‘That your idea of a witticism, is it?' said Agnelli. ‘A subtle hint that I should change my position.'

Howard Sharpe gave a wheezy chuckle. ‘A word to the wise, that's all,' he said, his belligerent tone now transformed into one of infinite concern. ‘We all have our weak spots. Especially those of us in the public eye.' He formed a circle with his thumb and forefinger and made an illustrative gesture. If there'd been an Eskimo or a Hottentot in the room, even a member of the Liberal Party, Sharpe's meaning would have been obvious.

Angelo wasn't taking the bait. He shook his head with an air of disappointment. ‘Stop pulling yourself, Howard,' he said. ‘You'll go blind.'

An insistent ringing erupted in the background. The bells announcing the end of the dinner break and summoning members back to their places on the parliamentary benches. Angelo put his palms on the desk, applied his full weight and stood up. ‘It's been lovely chatting,' he said. ‘But some of us have work to do. Don't hesitate to drop in again. No need for the bodyguard next time, Howard. Murray here isn't half as dangerous as he looks. Now fuck off.'

That was my cue to open the door. As Farrell stepped aside, he gave me a collegial nod. Nothing personal, it seemed to say. All in a day's work for the likes of us, the common foot soldiery.

Sharpe continued to sit in poisonous silence, a lump of surly malevolence. He grunted at last, made a Darth Vader noise in the back of his throat, got up and lumbered out the door, his associates in his wake. ‘Round one,' said McGrath as he filed past. ‘Nil all.'

The moment I closed the door, Agnelli flopped back into his chair and heaved a small hurricane of relief. ‘Is that the best they can do?' he said.

I doubted it. This was no more than a courtesy visit, a presentation of the Haulers' calling card. A reminder, just in case he needed it, that if Angelo ever contemplated making a decision that might impinge on the Haulers' interests he should expect the worst for his political career and personal reputation.

‘So who's this mystery contender?' I said, leaning back against the closed door as if to bar any attempt at re-entry by Sharpe and his associates.

‘You,' said Agnelli.

‘Me?' I tilted my head to one side and tapped my ear, like maybe my invisible hearing aid was on the fritz. ‘What do you mean, me?'

‘I mean that Howard Sharpe and his cronies have been re-elected unopposed for as long as anyone can remember. It just occurred to me that rather than sitting around waiting for them to come to us, we should be taking the battle to them.'

Angelo had come up with some crackpot schemes in his time, but this one took the tortellini. If I was hearing him right, he was instructing me to run against Howard Sharpe in the upcoming United Haulage Workers election. What button had been pushed in my employer's febrile temperament to generate such a deranged plan, I wondered?

Surely not the suggestion that he was involved in some kind of sexual impropriety. As well as being a tired and feeble scare tactic, the implication that Angelo was putting it about a bit would only have served to boost his middle-aged ego. He'd been married to the same woman for twenty years and there was nothing in his history to suggest Casanova tendencies. You only had to look at Ange to realise the idea was preposterous.

Could it have been the threat to his preselection? The Haulers had clout in the central party processes by dint of their delegate entitlements at the state conference and the funds they contributed to the organisation's coffers. But Angelo's allies in the left-wing unions more than matched the Haulers' baleful influence. And the Sharpe gang cut little mustard among the rank-and-file party members in the electorate, the other component in the preselection equation.

‘There is just one small obstacle to your plan, O Wise One,' I said. ‘How can I run in the United Haulage Workers election? I'm not a member of the union.'

Agnelli heaved an impatient sigh and began gathering papers off his desk, budget briefs to review while he was sitting in the chamber, making up the quorum. ‘Don't be so literal-minded,' he said. ‘Of course you can't do it yourself. But a man of your broad acquaintance shouldn't have too much difficulty finding somebody to give it a shot. We throw a few dollars into the pot, stir gently, and then maybe Howard Sharpe's got something better to do with his time than think up ways to bust my balls.'