The Brush-Off by Shane Maloney Page A

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    â€˜A small brunch,’ explained Veale. ‘To mark the acquisition of a rather significant painting by the Centre for Modern Art. The former minister agreed to say a few words of blessing. Given the changed circumstances, Max Karlin will doubtless understand that the new minister is unable to attend.’
    â€˜Max Karlin?’
    â€˜He’s hosting the occasion.’ Veale didn’t have to tell me who Max Karlin was. His name was in the paper every five minutes. A millionaire shoe salesman who had lately expanded out of footwear into property development. The half-completed Karlcraft Centre I’d passed on the way was his baby, a multi-storey retail and office complex rising on the site of his original downtown shop. ‘Karlin’s been collecting Australian modernist painting for more than twenty-five years. It’s one of his pictures the CMA is buying.’
    It suddenly occurred to me that this little luncheonette might serve a useful function. The conversation I’d overheard in Agnelli’s office had been replaying itself in the back of my mind, still ringing alarm bells. If Agnelli had indeed decided to re-invent himself as a bag man, Max Karlin would strike him as an obvious mark. Hard experience had taught me that Agnelli did not respond well to direct disagreement. But if I got the two of them together and kept a close eye on what ensued, I might be able to confirm how serious Agnelli was about his new sideline. And once I was clear on that point, I might stand some chance of putting an end to any such foolishness. If Agnelli had a high enough opinion of my abilities to keep me on the payroll, the least I could do was curb his more suicidal impulses.
    â€˜Angelo is very interested in the visual arts,’ I said. ‘I’ll let him know about Mr Karlin’s invitation. Just in case.’
    Veale was inscrutably professional. ‘Very good,’ he said, closing the diary and handing me the manilla folder. It contained an avalanche of snow so deep it would take me weeks to dig myself free. Organisational charts, committee membership lists, advisory board structures, policies, draft policies, potential draft policies, terms of reference, annual reports, strategy plans, treaties with foreign potentates, fixtures for the staff association cricket club, a list of recent grant recipients. Heaving a heavy sigh, I took unenthusiastic possession.
    â€˜Anything here on the Centre for Modern Art? I’m going to some sort of exhibition there tonight and I really don’t know much about the place.’ Precisely zip, in fact.
    Veale dealt me the relevant document. ‘Lloyd Eastlake’s not wasting any time taking you under his wing, I see.’
    I thought Veale must have been reading my mail until I opened the CMA annual report and scanned its list of office-bearers. Eastlake was the chairman. ‘I haven’t met him yet,’ I said. ‘But I’ve been told he’s very well regarded.’
    â€˜Very,’ said Veale. His arid neutrality betrayed a hint of sniffiness. ‘Lloyd Eastlake chairs so many committees it’s a wonder he finds time to make a living. The CMA. The Music Festival. The Film Development Corporation. The Visual Arts Advisory Panel. The ALP policy committee, of course...’
    All political appointments, in other words. This Eastlake, whoever he was, was clearly making the most of his opportunities. On the league ladder of policy committees, Cultural Affairs was about as low as you could go. A clout-free zone. A sheltered workshop for no-hoper Upper House backbenchers. Old farts from the Musicians’ Union who once played the saxophone in three-piece wedding combos and now spent their declining years haunting thrash rock clubs trying to sign up roadies. Eastlake, alert to the perquisites of his chairmanship, had clearly set about making himself Labor’s man in the garden of culture.
    â€˜A retired union