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whoever he was, he was talking sense.
    â€˜See,’ said Keogh, vindicated. ‘It’s not as easy as you seem to think.’
    But the other speaker hadn’t finished. ‘That’s not to say that there aren’t ways of approaching these matters. Take your new portfolio, for example, Angelo.’ The voice was of a man used to being listened to, someone at ease in a minister’s office. ‘Your accounts department alone employs, what, four or five hundred people.’ He was speaking, he wanted it understood, hypothetically. ‘That’s a lot of office space. Property developers pay sweeteners to private corporations to secure long-term leases on their new buildings. If some of them were to get the idea that the Water Supply Commission was thinking about moving house…’
    â€˜Jesus,’ groaned Keogh. ‘We’re treading perilously close to the line here.’
    â€˜You don’t think the Liberals wouldn’t be even more cosy with their business cronies if they had the chance?’ said Agnelli.
    The more I heard of this, the faster my disquiet turned into outright anxiety. Knowing Angelo as well as I did, it didn’t take too much mental exertion to figure out what he was up to. He’d decided to do a bit of lateral thinking.
    Like the weather, campaign finances were something that everybody complained about, but nobody did anything to fix. Angelo, evidently, had decided he’d be the one to grasp the nettle. Even the most outstanding performance in Water Supply and the Arts could only earn him a limited number of brownie points with the Premier. But if he succeeded in filling the party war chest, some big favours would be due next time the hats went into the ring. Obversely, the consequences of failure did not bear thinking about.
    â€˜We’re all agreed, it’s a sensitive area,’ said the voice, conciliatory again. ‘And there’s no rush. The election is two years away.’
    â€˜Quite right,’ said Agnelli, getting the hint. ‘First things first. What sort of interest is the State Bank paying us, Duncan?’
    Keogh rustled some paper and named a percentage. It was about ten points lower than what I was paying them on my home loan.
    â€˜Shit,’ said Agnelli. ‘My cheque account pays more.’
    â€˜The money could definitely be working harder,’ agreed the other man, businesslike now. ‘Managed properly, 20 per cent or higher isn’t out of the question. That’s another $50,000 a year, straight up. And no favours required.’
    The intercom buzzed. ‘Premier’s Department on line one,’ squawked Trish’s voice. ‘About the swearing-in of the new Cabinet. And Murray has just arrived.’
    At the sound of my name, I scurried back into my own office and lit another cigarette.
    Agnelli was heading straight into the kind of troubled waters he paid me to steer him away from. Why hadn’t he discussed his foray into fund-raising with me first? And who was this guy in his office? Knowing exactly who Agnelli was talking to, about what, and why, was what I got paid for. At least it had been, I reminded myself. Angelo’s problems were not necessarily mine any more.
    Sitting behind my artificial-woodgrain desk, gazing between my shoes into the reception area, I tried to concentrate on my own immediate predicament. What I needed was a bit of instant expertise. Just enough to make Angelo think I might still be of some use, despite the changed circumstances. A couple of tantalising scraps of inside info on the Amalgamated Tap Turners and Dam Builders Union could go a long way. I opened my teledex and started scanning, hunting for a contact who could provide a crash course in the finer points of H20.
    At that moment, Agnelli’s door opened and Duncan Keogh strutted out, a pocket battleship in an open-necked sport shirt that strained at the thrust of his barrel chest. The