The tone of the book is set right way by the
author in his dedication “to Christine, Wally and May – they know where I live”
and his disclaimer that includes “there is no such place as Melbourne. The Australian
Labour Party exists only in the imagination of its members”. His hero Murray
Whelan then takes up the cudgels of wit relating a tale with a deft balance of
action, suspense and humour.
Whelan is political aide (AKA fixer &
spin doctor) for the Melbourne minister for transport, which pitches him into
the tough world of road hauliers and their bosses. Australian state politics
and union relations is murky business that soon spills over into crime and
corruption, for which Whelan is only partially suited.
As the thickening plot drags him deeper into
the doo-doo he talks a good game, but his combat skills reflect his career
choice, and instead he has to rely on his well-honed aptitude for scheming to
pursue personal and professional survival.
It’s the one-liners that lift the book above
the norm for the genre. Whelan could be one of Raymond Chandler's or Dasheill Hammett's PIs, having the same
dry depreciating delivery, albeit with an antipodean twang, whether describing
an adversary – “eyes set like raisins in a stale fruit cake” – or his own
increasingly tenuous situation – “so far out on a limb I could’ve got a job as
a ring-tailed possum”.
The ‘film noir’ content is handled lightly
to produce a well plotted, enjoyable, quick read that would provide superior
airline or train journey fare.
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