The Brush-Off by Shane Maloney

‘Would Monday morning be convenient for a briefing?’
    â€˜Perfectly,’ Veale said, not entirely able to conceal the humour in his eyes. ‘Shall we say nine?’
    This exchange of niceties brought Ken Sproule’s dial out in a big smirk. I was the sheepdog type of ministerial assistant, there to keep the departmental flunkeys all trotting along in more or less the same direction. Ken was primarily a backroom mathematician, one of those blokes who can’t see a head without wanting to sink his boot into it.
    â€˜And perhaps while I’m here,’ I suggested. ‘We can go over the minister’s diary.’
    â€˜Of course,’ said Veale, backing out the door. ‘It’s been a pleasure working with you, Ken.’ For sure.
    â€˜I think you’ve won a heart,’ said Sproule as the door closed.
    I sat down, leaned back in my chair and took in the surroundings. The office was an airy, glass-walled space, a definite step up from the vinyl and laminate world of Ethnic Affairs. A row of floor-to-ceiling windows opened onto the Arts Centre tower and overlooked a rooftop garden at the rear of the gallery, a rectangle of lawn upon which sat an enormous white ball, as though God were about to tee off. The furniture was pale and waxy, crafted from some rare and expensive timber, soon to be extinct. Sproule followed my gaze out into the fiery afternoon light. ‘Not bad, eh?’ he said. ‘For the booby prize.’
    â€˜I’ll think of you, Ken,’ I said. ‘Arm-wrestling the Police Association while I sit here contemplating the finer things of life.’
    Sproule went over to the minister’s desk and cleared a drawer into his briefcase. ‘A word to the wise, Murray. Those wogs you’ve been duchessing at Ethnic Affairs have got nothing on the culture vultures. Tear the flesh right off your bones, they will.’ Ken had climbed into the ring with some hard-nosed bastards over the years, and he spoke with genuine awe.
    â€˜Going soft?’ I said.
    Sproule gave me a pitying look. ‘The first thing you should know about this job, pal, is that in this town the arts are a minefield. Everything from the pitch of the philharmonic to the influence of landscape painting on the national psyche is a matter of public debate. We’ve got more experimental film-makers, dramaturges and string quartets than you can poke a conductor’s baton at. And every last one of them has a direct line to the media. You’ve never seen so much colour and movement in all your life. Tell you, pal, it’s more than a can of worms, it’s a nest of vipers.’
    The purpose of this sob story, I took it, was to deflect any blame that might arise from unfinished business left by the departing team. ‘In other words,’ I deduced. ‘A time bomb is about to blow up in Agnelli’s face.’
    Sproule was innocence itself. ‘Keep your wits about you, that’s all I’m saying. Within a week you’ll be Mr Popularity, up to your arse in invitations to opening nights and gala exhibitions. The glitterati will be lining up to wine and dine you so they can piss in your pocket about how much public money their pet project deserves.’
    So what was new? Fending off lobbyists was a ministerial adviser’s bread and butter. Sproule had finished his packing. I shook his hand, formally accepting the helm. ‘Good luck with the coppers,’ I said. ‘See you round.’
    â€˜Not if I see you first.’
    The instant that Sproule was gone, Veale reappeared with a folio-sized leather-bound diary and a well-stuffed manilla folder. We ran through the ministerial appointments for the next week, a predictable round of flag-showings and gladhandings. Nothing so pressing that Trish couldn’t take care of it when she arrived with Agnelli on Monday morning. Only one engagement was listed for the weekend. Karlin. 11.30 Saturday