by Peter Ralph
“Yeah, who is this?”
“Andrew Lawson, from the Construction Employees Union. I need to see you.”
“Make an appointment with my PA.”
“I need to see you today, Mr Aspine, today. You don’t think you can breach the Enterprise Bargaining Agreement, sack more than four hundred of our members, and expect that we’re not going to do anything about it, do you?”
“Listen you Pommy bastard, I don’t really give a fuck what you do, but we’re sure as hell not meeting today. Your members weren’t sacked, they were retrenched; they’re not going to be reinstated and they’re not going to be paid one more cent than they’ve already received. Do I make myself clear?”
“What about tomorrow then?” Lawson responded, ignoring the insult.
“Phone my PA on Monday. If I can squeeze you in, I will.”
“You know we can close Mercury down, don’t you, Mr Aspine?”
“You do that and I’ll retrench another four hundred by the end of the week. You have no idea how badly the business is really going, so I’d be careful if I were you.”
There was a long pause. “I’ll see you on Monday then. I’ll have one of our organizers, Henry McBain, with me. And understand this, Mr Aspine; our lawyers will be seeking orders restraining you from making further sackings.”
“If I can fit you in, I will. Good-bye.”
“What was that about, Dad?”
“Just a whingeing Pommy commo. Jeez, how come you never run across an American shop steward or organizer?”
- 6 -
SUNDAY’S NEWSPAPERS WERE filled with tear-jerking human interest stories and the hardship facing Mercury’s retrenched employees. The Age cartoonist depicted a crowd of slaves surrounding a prancing black stallion, pulling a Ferrari red chariot, driven by a Roman Centurion, a caricature of Aspine, with the caption Throw them to the lions. Aspine stared at it, and cursed Fiona Jeczik for what must have been the hundredth time.
As Aspine drove along St Kilda Road in peak hour Monday morning traffic, he reflected on the events of the prior week. Try as he might, he couldn’t remember anything about Friday night after leaving the Greville. He had flashbacks in which he was punching that bitch, Jeczik, in the face, but he knew they were nothing more than pleasant daydreams. He also sensed that he had upset Charlie, but couldn’t remember how. He’d send her flowers when he got to the office and, no matter what he had said or done, he was sure that she would forgive him.
He was still two hundred metres from the gates to Mercury’s offices when he saw the placards, tents, barbecues and a large group of former employees and their families. As they saw the Ferrari, they moved to block the entrance and he heard booing and hissing before an egg splattered across his windscreen. He angrily pushed the door open, his flashing eyes searching for the egg thrower; but before he could do anything, he caught sight of the television cameras and checked himself. “This picket’s illegal, and if I have to call the police to remove you I will,” he said, not addressing anyone in particular.
This resulted in another bout of hissing and catcalls, and a closing of ranks to completely block the entrance. He could feel the television cameras on him and cursed, knowing what he would have done had they not been there, which would have been to drive straight through the picket. As he pondered his next move someone said, “Let him through.” We’re only stopping ingoing and outgoing deliveries, not employees.”
There were howls of protest, but the tall gangly man who’d issued the command walked toward the gates and the picket parted.
Aspine didn’t thank or acknowledge him as he climbed back into the Ferrari and drove through the gates, hearing the sound of hands slapping its body. As he got out, he saw a small youthful looking man sporting a distinct mop of red curly hair wearing a disheveled cheap suit. “We’ve been waiting for you, Mr Aspine,” he said, the Cockney accent even more pronounced than it’d been over the phone.
“Andrew Lawson, I presume. Are you responsible for this illegal little blockade.”
“Illegal? What’s illegal? I don’t see anyone on your property. I don’t see anyone trespassing. I don’t see anyone damaging equipment. What’s illegal?”
Before Aspine could respond, the tall man who’d cleared the picket walked up and held his hand out saying, “Henry McBain, union organizer, Mr Aspine.”
Aspine ignored the extended hand, glaring at McBain before refocusing on Lawson. “What do you want?”
“I told you on Saturday. We want to meet with you to discuss having our members reinstated and, if that’s not possible, we want them properly compensated.”
“No-one’s being reinstated, and we’ve paid them their full legal entitlements.”
“Mr Aspine, you’re new to the building industry. Do you know what it does to your costs, when you’re midway through a concrete pour and the trucks stop delivering, or the men walk off the job?”
“Don’t fucking threaten me, you Cockney git. If the CEU takes me on it’ll get what the Maritime Worker’s Union got from Chris Corrigan. Now let me give you some advice. I’ll have security guards with German Shepherds here tomorrow morning to make sure the gateway’s kept clear, so you’d be wise to remove your picket,” Aspine whispered menacingly, ensuring that what he said wasn’t picked up by the TV crews.
“Keep that kind of talk up and we’ll shut your business down.”
“You do that, and I’ll retrench another four hundred workers every week of the shut-down.”
“No you won’t. Our lawyers are in the Industrial Relations Commission today, obtaining orders restraining you from making further dismissals.”
“We never had these problems with Harry,” McBain said. “We worked well with management. We’d like to have the same relationship with you.”
Aspine laughed. “Henry, what you mean is that you were screwing poor old Harry, and you’d like to screw me in the same way. It ain’t gunna happen, not ever! Look, I’ve got work to do, so if you’re finished, I’d like to get on with it.”
“We’ve hardly scratched the surface. If you think you can treat our members like this and get away with it, you’ve got another think coming,” Lawson snapped.
Aspine had recovered his composure and sarcasm. “You don’t give a shit about them. What you’re really worried about, is losing member’s subscriptions that fund the union-provided car that you drive and the other little perks that you enjoy.”
“I resent that. I look after the brothers like they’re my own family.”
“Brothers? Christ, you sound like a follower of Marx.”
“I am.”
“Harpo, I guess,” Aspine said, as he started to walk to the office.
“We’re not finished yet,” Lawson said, ignoring the slur.
“Yes we are,” Aspine shouted, as he closed the door to the office.
The offices were quiet, like someone had just died. There was an absence of conversation; employees were hunched over their desks with their heads down and their bums up. Aspine smiled and wondered if there was another motivator even remotely close to fear, for effectiveness. He stopped at Shirley’s door. “Come into my office.”
Even as she was waddling in, he was barking instructions. “Get someone to give my car a good wash, and make sure they get all the egg off the windscreen.”
“Egg?” she said, the edges of her mouth slightly turning up.
He glared at her. “Did I say something that you find amusing?”
She turned red and he watched her squirm, before he said, “Get two dozen long-stemmed red roses sent to Charlene Deering. Her address is in my Teledex.”
“I have to have an account number. Do you want them charged to you?”
His nostrils flared. “Charge it to advertising or general expenses. Christ, it’s a chicken-shit amount and I don’t care where you charge it, so long as it’s not to me.”
She started to say, “But Harr...,” and then bit her tongue.
“Type this and let
me have it in fifteen minutes,” he said, passing her a draft of Tim Farmer’s resignation, enjoying watching the colour drain from her face. “After you’ve finished, get him up here.”
“Is there anything else?”
“There is. Did you see the board minutes of the meeting where I was appointed?”
She gulped and looked down at her feet. “Yes, yes, I think I did.”
“And you also saw the letter of offer?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell anyone about the Ferrari?”
“The Ferrari?”
“Yes,” he scowled. “Did you tell anyone that I drove a Ferrari?”
Her flabby face turned crimson and her hands were trembling. “I might have mentioned it to a few girlfriends.”
He didn’t say anything and the silence in the office started to build as he watched her shift uncomfortably, the underarms of her blouse staining with perspiration. “Is-is that all?” she asked, unable to stand the silence any longer.
He nodded. He hadn’t been sure who had leaked his salary package to that Jeczik bitch, but now he knew. Shirley stood to leave and her legs nearly went from under her, but still he did not speak. His lips were closed in a grim thin line as he watched her back nervously out of his office.
The boutique legal firm of Sly & Vogel had acted for Aspine when he had crushed the Vehicle Builder’s Union in the Federal Court ten years earlier, and he’d maintained a passing relationship with the firm’s senior partner. The receptionist answered, “Good morning, Sly & Vogel.”
“It’s Douglas Aspine, for Mr Vogel.”
“Will he know what it’s about, Mr Aspine?”
He sighed loudly. “Just let him know who it is. He’ll take my call.”
“Yes Mr Aspine, I’ll just put you on hold.”
He was listening to the tape espousing the legal firm’s services, when Max Vogel said. “Congratulations, Doug. I’ve been reading about you in the Financial Review.”
“Thanks, Max. I’d like you to handle the company’s legal work, but first we have a small hiccup that needs to be settled.” Aspine then went on to explain his position and the convening of the special board meeting.
“So you think they might terminate your services.”
“They’d like to, but they won’t after we’ve set them straight on a few matters.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“I want you to prepare a writ, and statement of claim on my behalf, for three years’ salary, bonuses, and profits foregone on the conversion of options. Fifteen million dollars! I want copies by Thursday night, and I want you to be ready to issue on Friday.”
“No problems. You do understand we’ll be acting for you personally.”
“Of course. I also need you to prepare a notice to the Stock Exchange regarding my dismissal. If I’m dismissed I want you to fax it and a copy of the statement of claim to the Exchange immediately.”
Vogel emitted a low whistle. “Shit, the share price will go through the floor, and the institutions will go crazy.”
“Yeah, that’s why they won’t sack me. They just need some facts of life pointed out to them.”
“When can you get your employment contract to me?”
“I’ll leave a copy of it in a sealed envelope at our reception, and you can organize for a courier to pick it up.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Max, I need you to do something else for me. The CEU’s before the Industrial Relations Commission today. They’ll claim that I breached the Enterprise Bargaining Agreement, and be seeking reinstatement of the retrenched workers, or an increase in termination benefits. Can you represent the company?”
“Given the circumstances, there’s a conflict between us acting for you and also acting for the company. We could instruct someone else on the company’s behalf.”
“I don’t want that. I want you to act for the company.”
“You’re making it hard. How confident are you that you’re not going to be sacked on Friday?”
“There’s no possibility of me being sacked. Not the remotest,” Aspine chuckled.
There was a long pause before Vogel responded. “We’ll act for the company against the union, Douglas, but just make sure you don’t get sacked.”
“I won’t. Needless to say, I want you to oppose everything the union puts up.”
Tim Farmer tapped lightly on Aspine’s door. He looked nervous; his face had lost its ruddiness and was white and drawn. “You wanted to see me.”
Aspine didn’t ask him to sit down, but pushed the letter to the edge of his desk. Farmer picked it up and started to read. His eyes watered and the whole of his body began to shake. “So...this is the end after forty years,” he said, his voice shaking. “And you expect me to accept two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
“It’s very generous.”
“For forty years’ loyal service?” Farmer sniffled.
“I’m giving you the opportunity to resign rather than be fired. If I sack you, we’ll be paying you the minimum legal entitlement. Sure you might get more in court, but the legal action could drag on for years. Do you really want that?”
“And you want me to sign this and waive all my legal rights,” Farmer said, crumpling the letter in his hand. “Do I get to take legal advice?”
“Not if you want to walk out of here with a cheque for quarter of a mil.”
“And if I don’t sign?”
“I’ll fire you. Tim, get this clear. In one hour you’ll be off these premises. Whether you resign or are sacked is up to you.”
Farmer’s eyes were running and his bottom lip was quivering. “I’ll sign, you bastard. I hope you rot in hell.”
“Shirley,” Aspine shouted, “come in and witness Tim’s signature,” while punching Kurt’s button on the intercom. “Kurt, Tim Farmer’s just resigned. I’d like you to organize his final entitlements, and then escort him off the premises. After you’ve done that, come and see me.”
“Thanks for handling it so discreetly,” Farmer said, his eyes burning with rage.
The Phoenix Security Company had been founded by a smart, never-convicted criminal and stand-over man, Marvin Adler in Sydney in 1965. Its genesis had been putting down the anti-Vietnam riots on University Campuses, in a manner that could’ve never been contemplated by the police. It was a natural extension to expand into labour relations, where it acted for major employers to end strikes in a way best described as coercive, but which Marvin called persuasive. It also provided investigation services, crowd controllers and body guards and had been linked to racketeering, blackmail and the selling of protection, but it had ever been successfully prosecuted. The business had expanded nationally, and now often acted as a third party negotiator for weaker employers who lacked the wherewithal to negotiate with militant unions. Phoenix’s fees were outrageously high, but were justified by its short mission statement − we deliver what we promise! Aspine remembered how effective Phoenix had been in persuading striking employees of the Vehicle Builders Union to terminate their union memberships and return to work. As he picked up the phone, he wondered whether the Victorian manager and part-owner, Tom Donegan, would still be with the company.
“Tom Donegan, please.”
“Who shall I say is calling?”
“Douglas Aspine.”
“I’m putting you through, Mr Aspine.”
There was a pause, then he heard wheezing, followed by a raspy voice that hadn’t changed in ten years. “Douglas, it’s been a long time. I thought I might hear from you. You’ve made quite a splash in the media.”
“Hello, Tom. I thought you’d be retired by now. I’m glad you’re not.”
“I’m too busy to retire. Too busy helping people like you.” He coughed. “Sorry, bloody smokes are killing me.”
“I have a small job for you. I need a picket cleared. I think a few of your guys with dogs will be able to handle it. You’ll have to be careful though, because there are a couple
of TV crews on the picket line.”
“We don’t have dogs anymore. They just projected the wrong image of our company. We like to see ourselves as intermediaries, negotiators and mediators now.”
Aspine laughed. “Are you saying you’ve become respectable and can’t help me?”
“Oh, we can still help you. I can send two of our negotiators out this afternoon who’ll remove the picket and, by the way, they’ll be as well dressed as you. It’ll set you back forty thousand though.”
“Hell, for that type of money I might as well wait them out.”
“Yeah, that’d be the wise move, but you want to send a message don’t you? You can’t afford to let that picket line linger for another week. You’re worried about losing credibility aren’t you?”
“Yes, I need to act decisively.”
“Leave it with us, Douglas. As you know, we can be very persuasive.”
As Aspine put the phone down Shirley buzzed. “Jeremy Smythe wants you to phone. He said it was urgent. Andrew Lawson’s also wants you to call him.”
“Jeremy, what’s the problem?”
“Thank you for returning my call, Douglas,” he responded, a tinge of nervousness in his voice. “I’m worried. The publicity’s not good. Are things getting out of control?”
“Why do you ask?”
“They’re going to try and sack you on Friday.”
“Who told you that?”
“Sir Edwin phoned. He’s very worried too.”
“Oh, I understand. You made the recommendation, and Sir Edwin supported it, and now you’re shitting yourselves about looking stupid after Friday.”
“You have to understand our position.”
“Bloody nervous nellies. No-one’s going to sack me. You have nothing to worry about.”
“How can you be so certain?” Jeremy moaned.
“You don’t need to know. Have you found me a financial controller, and a sales manager?”
“You’ve sacked Tim Farmer?”
“Yes, this morning.”
“I have two candidates for the finance position, and interviewed someone this morning who is clever, but a little young, and lacks poise and experience. I only have one candidate on our books for the sales position, but I think you’ll like him. I haven’t advertised either position. Do you want me to?”