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electorate.’
    I ought to, I thought. I was paying the annual dues of half the branch members.
    â€˜You’d be an ornament to federal parliament, Mike,’ I said. ‘And I’m not the only one who thinks so. But you know the current party line. Heads down, bums up, noses to the grindstone. Strictly no muttering in the ranks. I’d need some pretty compelling reasons to buck company policy. Apart from my profound admiration for your personal qualities, of course.’
    â€˜Fuck you, too, comrade,’ said Mike, letting out a little air. ‘It’s not like a bit of grass-roots democracy is going to damage our electoral prospects, since we currently have none. And by the time the next federal election rolls around, the punters will have forgotten all about it anyway.’
    â€˜Probably,’ I agreed. ‘But you’ve got to appreciate my situation.’
    Mike nodded. ‘I know I’ve got nothing to offer in return,’ he said. ‘I’m just trying to be straight with you, that’s all. Your help would mean a lot to me.’
    I leaned back in my chair, crossed my arms, pursed my lips and impersonated a man wrestling with his conscience.
    â€˜Tell you what,’ I said at last. ‘Why don’t we sleep on it? Nominations don’t close until next week. By then, we’ll know the identity of the mystery candidate and meanwhile you can do your arithmetic, see how the numbers stack up. We’ll talk again after the weekend.’
    Mike knew it was the best he could expect for the moment. He stood and extended his hand. ‘Fair enough.’ We shook on our mutual good sense. ‘See you at the wake, then. Broady town hall, right? Sundy arvo.’
    Mike had taken upon himself to organise an informal send-off for Charlie, one for the constituents rather than the apparatchiks. Broadmeadows Town Hall was Mike’s home turf. A good choice of venue for a man with his eye on the empty saddle.
    Ayisha showed him to the door and came back grinning. ‘Did that sound to you like a wheel squeaking?’
    Mike Kyriakis hadn’t come down in the last shower. He was well aware that he didn’t stand a snowball’s chance of elbowing his way into serious contention. But he also knew that by threatening to upset the apple cart with a grass-roots lunge, he might be offered an inducement to drop out. The promise of a seat, possibly, or even a paying job. At the very minimum, he’d be noticed—the essential requirement of political survival. Either way, it would cost him nothing to take a shot.
    â€˜He can squeak all he likes,’ I said. ‘But I don’t think it’ll get him any grease.’
    Ayisha fished a blank sheet of paper from the photocopier feeder tray and put it on the table between us.
    â€˜Coolaroo,’ she said, drawing an elongated circle with a black marker pen. ‘An aboriginal word meaning “the Balkans”.’ She drew a second circle, overlapping the bottom edge of the first. ‘Melbourne Upper.’
    She hatched the circles with a series of crosses. ‘Coolaroo’s got about a thousand party members spread across ten branches. Four of the branches are down here, inside Melbourne Upper. Those four only account for about a quarter of the total membership.’ She jabbed her pen into the top circle. ‘Anybody considering a run will need major support here.’
    â€˜In other words, somebody acceptable to the Turks, the Lebanese and the Greeks,’ I said.
    â€˜An Anglo,’ confirmed Ayisha. ‘Somebody neutral who can balance out the competing sensitivities of those wonderfully inclusive communities.’
    â€˜I guess we’ll know soon enough,’ I said, glancing at my watch. ‘Won’t your kids be wondering if their mother’s still alive?’
    â€˜Shit!’ Ayisha grimaced and dashed for the door. ‘Mail’s on your desk. Usual bumph,