Sucked In by Shane Maloney Page A

was two-fifteen, time for the monthly meeting of the Public Accounts and Estimates Committee. I went upstairs to the conference room and took my seat at the table. It was a bi-partisan conclave, with Labor outnumbered six to two. The other Labor member was Daryl Keels, our Shadow Finance Minister and chief number cruncher.
    The meeting was chaired by the Treasurer, an abrasive, pug-faced Liberal dry with eyebrows like cuphooks and a Gorgon’s stare guaranteed to freeze the wee in a Liberal backbencher’s underpants. The main agenda item was gambling revenues.
    In other states, poker machine licences were issued to sporting clubs, the earnings earmarked for community facilities. In our case, the Liberals had dished them out to friendly plutocrats in return for a slice of the action. And the action was going ballistic. Hundreds of millions of dollars were slipping through Lady Luck’s fingers and into the state’s coffers.
    Social consequences be damned, it was money for jam. A bottomless goodie-bag that no future Labor government would be able to keep its hands off. As a policy issue, gambling was a lost cause. We were all sons of bitches now. All that remained was to dicker over the distribution of the whack, and Daryl did the dickering. Labor wanted more of the revenue allocated to health and education. As usual, we were defeated on party lines.
    The meeting finished at four and while we were all packing up our papers, I chatted with Keels.
    â€˜Get your invite to the big event?’ he said, shovelling a small mountain of facts and figures into his briefcase. He meant the casino opening. The proprietors had invited all state MPs and every federal MP from Victoria, irrespective of party.
    â€˜You bet,’ I said.
    As I spoke, I realised that I still didn’t have an escort for the evening. What with Charlie’s death, the whole thing had slipped my mind. It wasn’t like I could ask Kelly. I knew who I’d like to invite, but she was unavailable. Unattainable, I told myself sternly. My classmate from Greek lessons was not a potential date, she was a married woman. I should stop fantasising about her and get serious about finding somebody else.
    It couldn’t be too difficult. Even Keels had managed it, for all his bony arse and non-existent hairline. Recently divorced, he was putting himself about a bit, or so the gossip went. Doing okay, too, apparently. As the last of the Liberals left the room, he lowered his voice.
    â€˜This Coolaroo business,’ he said. ‘Alan’s very keen that it goes without a hitch. This is no time for disunity. You’re pretty close to the ground out there. No one’s got it into their heads to play funny buggers, I trust.’
    â€˜You know me, Daryl,’ I shrugged. ‘Nobody ever tells me anything.’
    When I got to my cubicle in the Henhouse, a couple of phone message slips were waiting for me. I returned Ayisha’s call first.
    â€˜Barry Quinlan’s office called,’ she reported. ‘The senator would like a word at your earliest convenience. I imagine he wants us to organise a meet-and-greet for the soon-to-be member for Coolaroo.’
    â€˜You’ve heard?’
    â€˜Phil Sebastian?’ she said. ‘It’s going through the grapevine like a dose of the salts.’
    Phylloxera, I thought, or sap. That’s what runs through grapevines. Not doses of salts. ‘Mike Kyriakis? Any word there? Is he still planning on making a run?’
    â€˜Far as I know.’
    â€˜Do me a favour,’ I said. ‘Press your shell-like a bit closer to the terra firma. Find out if any other hopefuls are lurking in the woodwork.’
    â€˜Sounds like you’ve been promoted to boundary rider,’ she said.
    â€˜Let’s just say I like to keep abreast.’
    Just as I hung up, the phone rang. It was the library.
    â€˜I’ve got your report,’ said Pat. ‘Do you want the summary or