"So, what can I do for you, Brian?" he asked as he waved the visitor towards a seat. "Nothing medical, I hope. I like to keep that side of things to surgery hours if you know what I mean. Unless it's an emergency of course."
"It's the Senate ticket," was the reply. "Nothing wrong with me. I'm fine. But it's the bloke who fancies himself as The Second Candidate. He thinks he's fine, but he isn't."
Ballantyne's eyebrow raised itself momentarily.
"Whitefellas who think the rules that apply to everyone else don't apply to them usually do," he remarked.
"So you've heard the stories?"
"I've heard some stories. But whether they're the same ones you have..." Ballantyne shrugged. "Anyway, there's no point in trying to compile a dossier on him. But what I've heard is more significant than that bloody nurse a few years back. You know, the one who thought it was OK to take her bottle of Kiwi Savvy Blanc onto a dry reserve and sit on the verandah at the guest house watching the sun go down with a nice chilled glass of white. In the same territory, but way over on the other end of the spectrum."
"So you know what the problem is. Bugalugs gets endorsed, The Toff calls the election and halfway through the campaign one of those black bitches..."
"Hang on a minute," Ballantyne cut in, "there are a lot of what you choose to call black bitches out there. I'm married to one, remember? Which ones do you mean?"
Actually, given his extensive contacts throughout the indigenous communities, Ballantyne probably knew which ones had been recruited by Moran's political opponents in both parties, but he may have missed a few.
Extra information is always useful.