Peter Corris - Taking Care of Business

‘I know you’re a Greek, mate,’ I said, ‘but you’ve got an over-developed sense of democracy. You don’t reckon this government gets enough blood out of our stones?’

‘No. We’re a low tax society.’

‘Think they spend it well?’

‘That’s a question.’

It was after office hours on a Friday in late November and Spiro had hailed me as he was closing up shop. I was on my way to the Indian Diner for a takeaway curry. He said he needed to talk to me and I persuaded him to come to the pub for a drink. Spiro is a family man. We were in the bar of the Salisbury. I had a middy of old; Spiro had a glass of white wine. Sipping it.

‘Why are we talking about illegal tobacco and Pericles?’

Spiro took a serious slurp of his wine. ‘Jokes. This isn’t a joke, Cliff. My boy Robert, Bobby, he’s involved in this chop chop business. I’m not sure how but he’s got more money than he should have and he’s out of town all the time. Sometimes I can’t even get him on his mobile.’

‘How do you know he’s into chop chop?’

‘He told me. He thinks it’s a joke, like you. He says he’s only in it to make enough money to put a deposit on a house.’

‘Shouldn’t take long if it’s as lucrative as they say. What is he? A courier of some kind?’

Spiro finished his wine. ‘I don’t know, but I think it could be more than that. He’s a clever boy, a horticulturist. He’s got a degree. And listen to this. He wants a hundred thousand dollars. What’s the deposit, ten percent? He’s going to buy a million dollar house? How’s he going to service a nine hundred thousand dollar mortgage?’

‘Maybe he’s putting down twenty-five percent. Not much around under four hundred these days.’

Spiro shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘You’ve talked to him?’

‘He’s twenty-four and thinks he knows everything. He doesn’t listen.’

‘Why’re you telling me this, Spiro?’

‘You’re a detective. Like a policeman.’

I shook my head. ‘Nothing like a policeman. No authority.’

‘But you know people, you can do things.’

‘Like what?’

Spiro got up and took the glasses across to the bar. He was going to have two drinks. He was serious. He put the fresh glasses down and leaned closer. ‘I want to hire you. I want you to investigate this chop chop thing. Then we can keep Bobby away and tell the police about it.’

I drank some beer and found myself marvelling at his naivety. ‘If we did that, mate, who d’you reckon the blokes who got caught would think had dobbed them?’

Spiro lost interest in his drink, as if he’d only bought it to toast his brilliant idea. ‘Yes, I see. That would be dangerous. But there must be something we can do. He’s a good boy. My only son.’

I thought about it. My guess was that growing illegal tobacco was something like growing marijuana. Apart from having to worry about the police-the ones you were paying and the ones you weren’t-you had rivals in the game, legitimate tobacco producers and tax department investigators to cope with. Reports on seizures of the stuff were fairly common. It seemed likely that Bobby Gravas would get into trouble sooner or later.

‘Cliff, please,’ Spiro said.

I didn’t have anything much on and the bills never stop. I liked Spiro and from the business his shop did I reckoned he could pay my rates. ‘I could look into it,’ I said. ‘Maybe come up with something.’

Spiro and his wife Anna lived in Leichhardt with their two daughters and another son, all a fair bit younger than Bobby, who had a flat in Camden. According to his father, Bobby worked part-time for a horticultural research company based in Parramatta and was studying for his doctorate at the University of Western Sydney. He visited his parents fairly often, was fond of his siblings, and had never been in any trouble with the law. He was in the habit of telling his father when he was going to be away on what he called ‘field trips’, and one was coming up in two days time.

I had my old Falcon tuned, replaced a couple of worn tyres and packed some supplies, clothes and other things into the boot. The day before Bobby was due to leave I drove out to Camden and looked his address over. A neat block of flats, nicely landscaped, two-bedroom jobs with air-conditioning and all mod cons. Not cheap. I arrived in working hours and the parking slot for Bobby’s apartment was empty. I cruised around for a while, fuelled up, and made another pass. Bobby’s slot was occupied by a silver 4WD Rodeo ute. Spiro had told me he drove a Japanese compact.

I’d timed my arrival about right. I parked with a view of the fiats and saw Bobby, a stocky young man with more than a passing resemblance to his father, making several trips from his flat to the 4WD. It wasn’t long after 6 pm when Bobby hopped into his ute and headed off. I followed, wondering what a vehicle like that cost and whether I’d be able to stay up with it on the open road.

We joined the freeway and headed south towards Mittagong. The traffic was light and Bobby kept strictly to the speed limit although he could have gone a lot faster. The freeway bypassed Mittagong and Goulburn and about twenty kilometres further along Bobby turned off onto a secondary road and headed into farming territory. We were into country I’d never travelled. I had a vague memory of reading about horse studs in the district and therefore money. It was dark now and quiet on the road although still with an occasional car travelling for short distances before branching off, so that Bobby wasn’t likely to spot me following him. Just in case, I kept well back after memorising the set and brightness of his tail lights.

Was Goulburn suitable country for tobacco growing? I didn’t know, but I did know it was a good location for servicing demand in Sydney and Canberra. The road began to twist and turn and traffic thinned out to nothing. If Bobby was alert he’d spot me within a kilometre or so, and, since he knew he was involved in an illegal enterprise, I expected he’d keep a wary eye out. Only two things to do if that happened: stop or turn off and lose him, or pass him and try tracking him from in front. Tricky.

I didn’t have to worry; travelling about half a kilometre behind him on a straight stretch, I saw his brake lights flash, the indicator come on and he made a sharp turn right. I drove up and slowed enough to see that he’d taken a wide and well-graded gravel track towards a gate set in a high cyclone fence. My headlights caught the sign placed just a short distance off the road-Hillcrest Winery.

I drove on for a couple of minutes, turned and came back with my lights off. I stopped, well off the road where the gravel met the tarmac, took out a torch and investigated the sign.

The Hillcrest Winery was the home of several brands of wine I’d never heard of. That doesn’t mean much because I buy cheap specials mostly and, as often as not, casks. It was open to the public for tasting and bulk sales between 10 am and noon on Tuesdays and Fridays. It was a bit past 9 pm on a Thursday. I had my Friday mapped out for me.

I drove the thirty kilometres back to the outskirts of Goulburn, booked into a motel and had a comfortable night. At 10.30 am the next day, showered, shaved, wearing drill trousers, sandals and a sports shirt, I drove up to the open gate into the parking area for visitors to the Hillcrest Winery. One of my girlfriends from the past, Helen Broadway, was married to a vintner and I’d visited a few vineyards in her company. They’re all much the same-hillsides covered with staked vines, buildings containing vats and mystifying machinery and sampling areas, typically set up like twee French cafes or Tuscan trattorias. I was willing to bet Hillcrest conformed to the pattern.