The Big Ask by Shane Maloney Page A

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?’
    â€˜Tragic old farts,’ I said. ‘Should be called Over the Hill.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜You can’t be exactly poverty-stricken yourself,’ I said, waving my drink at the big Kenworth. ‘Looks like you’ve become a capitalist.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜Amen to that,’ nodded