Sucked In (17 page)

The question was rhetorical. We settled further into our seats and let him answer it.

‘If I can round up three hundred surprise punters, which I think might just be do-able, I really put the cat among the pigeons.'

He paused pregnantly, awaiting a reaction. Eventually Ayisha obliged with the obvious questions.

‘Where are you going to get three hundred stray votes, Mike, and how are you going to keep them up your sleeve until Saturday?'

In Coolaroo, as in most ethnically diverse electorates, membership management was a highly developed science. Between the six of us, we knew every trick in the branch-stacking book.

The game had begun in the sixties when party rules were amended to allow branches to conduct their meetings in languages other than English. This, it was believed, would encourage migrants to join.

The Left started the meatball rolling with mass enrolments of Italians and Greeks. For a while, it was all Mikis Theodorakis and Bernardo Bertolucci. Then the Right followed suit by signing up a grab-bag of deracinated Indochinese, irredentist Chetniks and assorted Middle Eastern minaret polishers.

Before long, the so-called ethnic warlords emerged. Bottom feeders with murky affiliations and interchangeable surnames who enrolled hundreds of their most compliant compatriots, paid their membership dues and sold their votes to the highest bidder. All with as little regard for ideological distinction as any other influence peddler.

As they debated the merit of Mike's figures, I rested my eyes and let the talk ebb and flow around me.

‘You can discount the Italians completely,' Mike said. ‘For political purposes, they're no longer ethnics. Three generations here, they might as well be skips.'

‘Not like the Greeks,' said Helen. ‘They don't migrate, they colonise. They could be here forever and never dream of giving up their political muscle.'

She's right about that, I thought. The heirs of Aristotle and Pythagoras know in their bones that politics is all, numbers are everything.

‘Yeah,' said Sam Aboud. ‘But did you ever try to get fifty Greeks to do what they're told? It's like herding cats.'

‘You leave the Greeks to me,' said Mike. ‘And what's the story with those Montignards or whatever you call them that you've stacked into the Attwood branch?'

‘Hmong,' said Sam. ‘A proud warrior people from the headwaters of the Mekong, currently residing in Meadow Heights. They worship me as a god, or at least the guy who can get them on the waiting list for a hip replacement.'

‘How many have you got?'

‘Sixty.'

‘Bullshit.'

‘Okay, forty-seven.'

‘AK-47 you mean,' cracked Sivan, slapping his knee.

Ayisha said, ‘You'd need five times that number to counterbalance the Croatians. With Metcalfe backing the deal, you've got to take the Right into account, too, don't forget.'

‘The Croatians'll be a no-show,' said Mike. ‘The Right's lost its key Croat head-kickers. They took their fat fascistic arses back to Zagreb when Yugoslavia fell apart. Welcomed with open arms and government jobs by their fellow Ustashi exile, Tudjman. And thanks to Milosevic, nobody wants to know the Serbs, so we can count them out, too.'

‘I might only have forty-seven Hmong,' said Sam Aboud. ‘But I've also got a minibus to ferry them to the polling point.'

‘And somebody in Canberra doesn't know Muslim calendar,' said Sivan. ‘Saturday is Miled an-Anabi, birthday of Mohammed. Nobody from Izik mosque gunna vote, too busy having big party.'

‘Bullshit, Sivan,' said Ayisha. ‘Since when was Miled a feast day?'

‘Since new mufti arrive. Very go-ahead feller.'

And so it went, back and forth, as they amused themselves with the speculative scenarios of a theoretical campaign.

‘No good without the element of surprise,' said Helen.

‘That's where you come in,' said Mike. ‘Let's face it, Helen, working for Charlie was a labour of love. You don't really want to end up the housekeeper for this time-server, Sebastian. Be my secret agent. Feed him misinformation, lull him into a false sense of security.'

‘Tempting,' she yawned, a smile in her voice. ‘Poison the wells. Go out with a bang not a whimper.'

I was drifting off, settling into a boozy miasma, Sam Aboud's instant coffee going cold in my lap. I was thinking about Nadine Medlock seeing Merv Cutlett and Sid Gilpin at the Curtin, their high spirits on the eve of Merv's death. Neither of them was the most demonstrative of blokes. What were they celebrating? More to the point, was it connected to the union?

‘What about it, Murray?' The sound of my name dragged me back to the present.

Mike Kyriakis was asking me a question.

‘You've got enough pull with those schoolteacher intellectuals and old retired boilermakers in those branches of yours. How about signing up to the crusade?'

I kept my eyes closed. This was Ayisha's department.

‘Why would Murray want to stick his head above the parapet?' she said. ‘Just so you can get your name in the papers and get a reputation as a man to watch.'

The talk was all still theoretical, the question academic.

‘She right, Mike. Better he don't support you. Better he run himself.' Sivan picked up the baton. He'd been doing some thinking. ‘Imagine if panel splits. They don't like Sebastian. They don't like you neither, Mike. So Murray, he decides to run. He don't support you. He runs against you. You both draw votes from Sebastian. He gets eliminated. Second round, you give Murray your preferences. He falls over the line. He gets Coolaroo. Thank you, Mike. You can have Melbourne Upper, he don't need it no more. He's in Canberra. He takes Ayisha, big new office up there. Helen, she gets Ayisha's old job, runs Melbourne Upper for you. I get Helen's old job, run Murray's office down here. Everybody happy.'

It was so elegant, so improbable, that they all burst out laughing and gave him a clap.

‘What about me?' said Sam Aboud. ‘What do I get?'

‘You get to be Mayor of Broadmeadows,' said Ayisha. ‘But first you get to call Murray a taxi. He's fallen asleep.'

I opened my eyes. ‘Huh?' I said.

They poured me into a cab and I got home just in time to crash on the couch in front of the television. The usual ABC Sunday night fare. Women in hooped dresses and long-faced, sinister toffs in top hats. Red woke me when he'd packed up his books at eleven-thirty. ‘On the Floor' was just finishing. Whatever Kelly Cusack had reported, I'd missed it.

I was thinking about Kelly as I climbed into bed. But then I was thinking about Lanie. Eleni of Troy.

With whom I had a date. Maybe.

We were on a boat, a sailing boat, skimming across a sparkling sea, the Aegean, destination unknown. The sun was warm. The sky was blue. I was wearing a tunic and sandals. Lanie was wearing a chiton and there was a diadem in her hair. She was standing at the prow playing ‘Advance Australia Fair' on a piano accordion. There were others on the boat, somewhere behind us. I could hear them scuffling. Somebody fell into the water. Splash. I turned to look and the sea was gone. Lanie was gone. Everyone was gone. I was alone and the boat was sitting on dry land. I was stark naked and burning up. A parching dryness filled my mouth. I tried to swallow but I was suffocating, dying of thirst.

I groped blindly for the glass on the bedside table. My hand knocked it over, spilling water on the clock-radio. I swung my feet to the floor, stumbled to the bathroom, gulped from the tap, peed, gulped again. The sudden flare of the bathroom light set stars spinning behind my eyes. There was something I was trying to remember. I couldn't remember what.

Then I was standing at the door of my study, looking into the dark, thinking about my archive boxes. All that old paper. The silverfish would be eating it, nibbling it into powder. I'd put mothballs in the boxes, but that was long ago. They'd be gone by now, all used up. Buy mothballs, that was what I was trying to remember.

Mothballs, I told myself. Hold that thought.

And then the alarm clock went off.

Senator Barry Quinlan was advancing to greet me even as the polished glass security door into his reception area was clicking locked behind me.

With a state-wide electorate and therefore no particular constituency to pander to, senators pleased themselves as to where they located their offices. For the Nationals, it was always somewhere in the boonies, where they'd be visible to the cud-chewers. Those from the other two parties hung out their shingles wherever it suited them. Some liked the leafy 'burbs. Others bunged on the common touch, setting up shop at street level and opening their doors to all comers. Some found a comfortable pied-a-terre in the Commonwealth offices in Treasury Place with its ankle-deep carpet and uniformed doorman. In Barry's case, it was a corner suite in a mid-rise office building at the legal and banking end of Bourke Street, a short stroll from nowhere in particular.

He extended his hand, not for me to shake, but to shepherd me through to his office. As well as the woman at the computer behind the reception desk, I counted four other staffers in small, glass-panelled side offices as we made our way towards the bridge of
HMAS Quinlan
. They looked up as we passed. One of them was Phil Sebastian. He was on the phone and signalled that he'd join us as soon as he finished the call.

Quinlan was well turned out, as usual, minus a jacket. Crisp and businesslike, but cordial. A man who'd spent a long time at the top of his profession. Warm, but not toasty.

‘Thanks for coming, Murray,' he said, directing me to one of the comfortable chairs at the small conference table that shared the space with a file-stacked desk.

There was a fairly good painting of a racehorse on one wall, gilt-famed. A whiteboard on the other, erased but bearing evidence of much use. We could have been in a well-heeled bookie's office on settling-up day.

‘I appreciate it,' he said. ‘I really do. And so does Phil. I was probably a bit out of line the other day at the cemetery. Insensitive, bringing up this preselection business in a situation like that, you and Charlie being close and all.'

‘That's all right, Barry,' I said. ‘No offence taken.'

‘Good,' he said, sitting down across the table, pinching up his trouser leg at the knee so as not to ruin the crease as he crossed one leg over the other. ‘I felt sure you'd appreciate the need for a smooth transition. We've got a load on our plates right now, dealing with this Telecom privatisation push, pressing our advantage on the travel rorts scandal and so forth.' His hand swept the air expansively.

I gave an understanding nod. Many are the toils of those who would clean the Augean stables.

‘This fast-track decision-making is not ideal I know,' he said, forestalling any qualms I might have been poised to express. ‘Under normal circumstances, we'd've been content for things to take their natural course. But a mid-term preselection tussle, if it gets out of hand, it costs us points at the by-election. That hands the government a chance to say we're running out of steam. It's like pissing in your own pants. Feels pretty hot to you, but the only thing anyone else notices is the smell.'

‘I understand the party's concern, Barry,' I said. ‘And I share it.'

‘Good,' he said, that settled. ‘I suppose you wouldn't be here if you didn't.'

Phil Sebastian came into the room. He was slightly younger than me, but he didn't have as much hair. The crown was the thin spot, leaving him with a monkish tonsure. His face radiated intelligence and goodwill. He had a brisk collegial handshake and a slightly harried manner, like the school dux interrupted midway between handing in an assignment and getting togged up for cricket practice. It was hard to dislike him and I saw no reason to try.

‘I appreciate this, Murray,' he said. ‘I really do.'

It's always nice to be appreciated. We'd met on a handful of occasions, he recalled, naming them. Party conferences and state–federal confabs back when we were in government. He'd worked for the ACTU, I recalled, and I'd read some of the papers he'd written for the Evatt Institute.

From a competence point of view he was no liability, that much was an evident fact. If the world was a meritocracy, Phil Sebastian had a ticket to ride. But that's not the way it works, of course. Sometimes it's down to kissing arse.

‘I understand that your opinion carries a lot of weight in parts of the electorate,' he kissed. ‘I'd very much like the benefit of your insights, help steer me right in my approach to the local branches. No doubt they're feeling a bit sidelined at the moment and even though their votes only add up to half the total, I'd like to feel I'm coming into the job with their support.'

I nodded. ‘I'm sure if they're handled in the right way, they'll do what's expected of them.'

‘It doesn't have to be unanimous,' said Quinlan. ‘Just overwhelming.'

We had a chuckle, fine fellows that we were.

‘I've just been on the line to Helen Wright,' said Sebastian. He adjusted the knot in his tie, giving me time to send up a flare if one was required. His tie had an oblique dark green stripe on a maroon background. Corporate camouflage, fifty dollars at The Tie Shop.

‘Keeping her on then, are you?'

‘It's a good idea, I think,' he said, glancing at Quinlan. ‘She does know the lie of the land.'

‘She does indeed,' I said. ‘Lined up some appointments, has she?'

He reeled off a list of names, most unknown to me. The few I recognised were minor players, all points of the Coolaroo compass.

‘You'll be a busy boy for the next five days,' I said. ‘It's a big electorate, lots of territory to cover. Tell you what, I'll have a chat with my electorate officer, nut out a list, have her call you back later this afternoon. You've caught me on the hop a bit. Parliament's rising this week and I've got my work cut out, but let's see what we can do for you.'