The Big Ask (9 page)

I wasn't sure who Kafka was. But I'd heard the name, so I asked about him.

Donny and I talked books for the next half-hour, during which he consumed several more glasses of beer. His views were trenchant, visceral, political. Drawn from the certainty of his class, sharpened by his intellect and confirmed by his experience. And he talked to me like an equal. No grown man had ever done that before.

From then on, through school and university and beyond, Donny was a comet that blazed intermittently on the periphery of my vision. A promiscuous reader and tireless talker, he was equally conversant with the thoughts of Mao Tse-tung and the licks of Lightning Hopkins. A hard drinker at bohemian parties, he somehow managed to combine unmoderated radicalism with steady employment. Women loved him. Loved his energy, his humour, his unruly mop of sandy hair and his big, expressive hands.

Hands that were now wrapped around drumsticks, pounding out a steady four-four beat on an el-cheapo beginner-level drum kit. The passage of time had thinned his hair a little and softened the flesh on his frame. He was whiskey-raw at the cheekbones, too. You can get that in your fifties.

Over the Limit weren't bad for a scratch band, though their title was not entirely inaccurate. My attention moved from the impromptu stage to the prime mover. It was a flash rig, a snub-nosed Kenworth with chrome bullbars and vertical exhausts. White with navy blue trim. Hefty horsepower in high-gloss livery. A name was painted on the door, wrought in the ornate copperplate beloved of the trucking trade.
Maitland Transport
.

Last I'd seen of Donny, a couple of years back, he was still at the brewery, twenty years on the job. By the look of it, he'd cashed in his chips and struck out on his own. I struck out, too. Tossed my empty can and scouted the crowd for Lyndal.

It was slow going. At every turn I ran into familiar faces. Old mates from the neighbourhood whose children were in need of my admiration. Minor ethnic luminaries. Chronic conspirers from the local party branches. By the time I arrived back at the auditorium, Angelo's official car was gone from the kerb. And his electorate officer, sadly, was nowhere to be found.

I drifted back to the twang just as Over the Limit were finishing their set with a thumping rendition of Lonnie Mack's ‘Down in the Dumps' that set the friends-and-family crowd whooping and hollering. Donny spotted me as he cleared his kit from the stage and vaulted down off the trailer, surprisingly light on his feet. He greeted me with a slap on the shoulder and a wide smile. ‘Well?' he demanded. ‘Whatta you reckon?'

‘Tragic old farts,' I said. ‘Should be called Over the Hill.'

‘Call us what you like, it's thirsty work,' he said. ‘And since you're looking so prosperous, Murray, how about you buy me a beer.'

We went into the bar tent, popped the tops off a couple of tinnies and stepped back into the open air. A Latin combo was setting up on the stage, lots of percussion.

‘You can't be exactly poverty-stricken yourself,' I said, waving my drink at the big Kenworth. ‘Looks like you've become a capitalist.'

‘Nah.' Donny chugged on his can and shook his bearish head. ‘I'm just the wage slave of a petty proprietor.'

The owner's name on the door, he explained, was that of Heather, his sister-in-law. ‘Ex, rather. My little brother Rodney did the dirty on her, shot through with a new cookie. Sold the business, panel beating, twelve on the payroll. Took the money and ran. Heather's got her lawyers on the case, but everything takes forever. Only thing left was the truck. Rodney had it in the wife's name for tax reasons, leasing it out. Lease expired and she tried to sell it, couldn't get a decent price. After I copped the flick from the brewery, she made me an offer. I drive and she handles the business side. No regular contracts, unfortunately. Just bits and pieces. Fruit and vegetables, mainly.'

I clearly needed some updating on Donny's recent history. Turfed by the brewery? Before I could ask what this was about, he grabbed me by the elbow and glanced around, acting scared. ‘You're not still working for that Angelo Agnelli, are you?' he said. ‘If Heather finds out, she'll be into you about this tonnage levy scheme. She'll make mincemeat of you, mate.'

I heaved a weary sigh. ‘The tonnage levy's bullshit,' I said. ‘Nothing but media mischief. The trucking industry'll be free to pothole the public highway for the life of this administration, I guarantee it.'

‘Well your boss'd better get the message out pronto,' advised Donny, releasing his grip. ‘The tom-toms are beating in every roadhouse in the state and the CBs are crackling with rumours.'

‘Being spread by the Haulers, no doubt,' I said. ‘They're keen to keep the government on its back foot. With friends like Howard Sharpe, who needs enemies?'

‘Amen to that,' nodded Donny. ‘The bastard stitched me up good and proper.'

‘Yeah?' I said. ‘What's the story?'

‘The usual one. But I'm planning to rewrite the ending. Let's get something to eat and I'll tell you all about it. Come and meet Jacinta.'

‘Who's Jacinta?'

‘
Mi corazon
,' he said, as the Sandinistas of Samba kicked in.

He led me into the sit-down eating area, a cluster of green plastic garden tables, and introduced me to two men and a woman sitting at a spread of chicken pilaf and pork rolls. ‘Roscoe, Len and this is Jacinta.'

The men gave me curt but friendly nods. They had the same all-weather, hard-living complexions as Donny although they were a little younger and firmer in the body. Roscoe was lank and rangy. Len was the nuggety pug-eared type.

Jacinta was fortyish, tawny skinned with cow eyes, masses of raven hair and a generous gap-toothed smile. ‘Sit down,' she urged. ‘Help yourself. There's plenty to go around.' She had an accent, a glottal sort of American-Asian cross. A Filipina, if I guessed right. Donny beamed at her proudly. Last time I looked, he was flying solo. She seemed nice and I was glad for him.

We sat down and tucked into the food. The band was loud and I butted my seat against Donny's, raising my voice to be heard above the music. ‘You were saying about Howard Sharpe,' I prompted. He put his plate down, as if the subject had ruined his appetite, parked his elbows on the table and gave me the oil.

Twelve months back the brewery fell into the hands of corporate raiders. The new owners immediately set about carving it up, stripping the assets, flogging off everything that wasn't nailed down. Including the fleet of trucks. The delivery contract went to Bob Stuhl, a known associate, who proposed to lay off the drivers on the brewery payroll. The union stepped in and brokered a deal. In exchange for improvements in productivity, the men would keep their permanency and conditions.

‘Before long, the squeeze was on,' said Donny. ‘Longer hours, double shifts. Anybody quit, they didn't get replaced. Country runs, blokes were falling asleep at the wheel. Three fatals in three months.'

Donny was the shop steward. The men sent him to talk to Howard Sharpe. The union had done all it could, he was told. The men could like it or lump it. Instead, at Donny's instigation, they pulled a wildcat strike.

‘Just before Christmas, it was. The period of maximum demand.'

Under pressure from his corporate cowboy cronies, Stuhl folded, agreed to new schedules and overtime allowances. Three weeks later, Donny was offered a beer after making a delivery. ‘Used to be part of the culture. Some blokes'd drink ten, twelve pots a day. Reckoned the trucks knew their own way home. But that era's long gone. Drinking on the job's a sacking offence these days.'

The publican insisted. Just the one, he said. No harm in that. Made an issue of it. Wouldn't sign the docket until Donny had a drink with him. ‘Soon as the glass touched my lips, one of Stuhl's managers tapped me on the shoulder, fired me on the spot. It was a set-up, but Sharpe washed his hands of me. Said I'd dug my own grave, undermined the union leadership's credibility with employers. Twenty-five years a member and the self-satisfied sack of shit sold me down the river.'

I nodded sympathetically. ‘He came to visit Agnelli a couple of days ago. Paraded his credentials as the champion of the working truckie. Problem is, he's had uncontested control of the union for so long that he thinks he can get away with anything. And that'll never change until somebody steps on his tail.'

‘Well, that might just be on the cards,' said Donny. ‘I'm not the only one who's had a gutful.'

‘That right?' I said. ‘I don't suppose you'd know anybody who might be interested in taking a crack at our fat friend?'

Donny gave me a sly, sideways look. ‘Our new transport minister wouldn't be looking for a chance to ruffle Howard Sharpe's feathers, would he?'

‘Put it this way,' I said. ‘Anybody prepared to tackle the current Haulers' leadership might well find himself the beneficiary of an anonymous donor.'

Roscoe and Len were angled back in their chairs, legs extended, beer cans on their laps, soaking up rays and watching the band. Donny reached across the table with his fork and prodded Roscoe in the arm. ‘Murray here's got a line on some prospective campaign finance,' he said. ‘Show him your T-shirt.'

Roscoe looked me up and down with new interest, then unbuttoned his denim jacket and displayed the slogan emblazoned across his chest.
Vote Reform Group
, it read,
Stop
the Sharpe Sellout.

‘Reform Group?' I said. ‘Who's that?'

‘Us,' said Donny. ‘Me, Roscoe and Len. We're putting a rank-and-file ticket together to run for the state executive.'

‘You'll need more than a T-shirt to knock Howard Sharpe off his perch,' I said. ‘And you'd better have good medical insurance. Those boys play rough, by all accounts.'

‘We're not exactly cream-puffs ourselves,' said Donny. ‘Right, comrades?'

Roscoe and Len made clenched-fist gestures and grimaced militantly. ‘If you don't fight, you lose,' declared Roscoe.

And sometimes you just lose. But these blokes didn't look like babes in the woods and, since they already had a campaign up and running, perhaps it'd be possible to meet my brief from Angelo after all. And do my old mate Donny a favour at the same time.

‘You got any other backing?' I asked. ‘Running a statewide campaign costs money.'

‘Early days,' said Donny. ‘The vote's still four months away and we've only just lodged our nominations. But I reckon I'll be able to round up some resources from Sharpe's enemies in other unions. He's got plenty.'

‘And you wouldn't mind getting into bed with Agnelli?'

Roscoe leaned forward and breathed beery fumes into my face. ‘Listen, mate,' he told me. ‘We'll lie down and spread 'em for anybody who helps us stick it up Howard Sharpe.'

‘Roscoe's another of the brewery casualties,' said Donny, waving his associate back into his seat.

I eyed Donny's running mates sceptically. ‘Angelo'd want some bang for his buck. He's not a soft touch.'

‘Naturally you'll want to run the tape over us, see if we're dead-set,' said Donny. ‘Come down to the wholesale fruit and vegetable market tomorrow morning. We'll be in campaign mode. If you like what you see, you can square us with your boss.' He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. ‘Let's say about three-thirty, four o'clock.'

‘In the morning?' I said. ‘Forget it. Agnelli doesn't pay me enough to get up that early. I only assess campaigns conducted in daylight.'

The bongo beaters finished their bracket and some sort of ethno-pop ensemble moved onto the stage. Clarinet, accordion, bazouki and tabla. A woman in a down-filled vest arrived and tapped Donny on the shoulder. She was short and busty, her plentiful cheese-blonde hair pinned up with a pair of tortoiseshell combs. Moon-faced, well-preserved, mid-thirties.

‘How long before this finishes?' she demanded impatiently, indicating the stage. ‘Don't forget you've got to be in Nar Nar Goon in time to load those potatoes.'

‘How could I forget with you around to remind me?' said Donny resignedly. ‘Murray, meet my slave-driver, Heather.'

She checked me out, head cocked to one side, scrunching her eyes against the low-slung sun. ‘Murray?' she said. ‘Not Murray Whelan?'

I looked at her more closely. It was not painful but it made me none the wiser as to how she knew my name.

‘Coburg Town Hall, 1970,' she said, smirking a little. ‘The debutante ball. I was Heather Dunstable then.'

The deb ball was the highlight of the municipal social calendar. A chance for the favoured maidens of the suburb to don elbow-length white gloves, chisel-toed satin shoes and A-line evening gowns and play at being princesses, escorted beneath a flower-decked trellis archway by young men in hired dinner suits, dragooned for the occasion from the ranks of local likelihood.

A university student, I was well beyond such things. Or so I thought until I got the call. The mayor's daughter, it seemed, had a best friend, a lovely young lass whose intended partner had broken his collarbone when an engine block dropped on him during a clutch-plate replacement. As a prominent member of Young Labor, I was considered an ideal stand-in escort. And since the council provided the venue for our annual conference for nix, the mayor was sure I'd be only too happy to oblige. All I had to do was pick the girl up, lend her my elbow during the presentation ceremony and waltz her around the parquetry a couple of times. His Worship would even swing for the tux rental and the corsage.

And thus it came about that I rang Heather Dunstable's doorbell, boxed orchid in hand, wearing a ruffled apricot shirt and clip-on velvet bowtie. I found myself facing a vivacious little butterball, her hair in coiled ringlets, the front of her dress dropping away to a view that all but sucked my eyeballs out of their sockets. ‘Pick your jaw off the floor,' she said. ‘We don't want to be late.'