Taking Care of Business ch-28

by Peter Corris

  Mackenzie shook his head. ‘Whitney’s going to plead guilty.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s it. He’s going to cop it sweet. Michaels’ job will be to get him off with as light a sentence as possible.’

  I sat back in my chair. ‘I can’t believe it.’

  Mackenzie shrugged. ‘Don’t worry about it. It’s white collar crime. Speaking of which, you can collect your cheque at the desk. Oh, by the way, Whitney wants to see you again, asap.’

  Whitney was temporarily on remand in Melbourne. Having been unable to provide sufficient sureties for bail and reporting his passport as lost, he’d been judged likely to flee the jurisdiction. I flew down there and arranged to see him, taking in a couple of books I thought he might be interested in, but not Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil — not quite the right tone.

  The place was a big biscuit box near Spencer Street railway station. Modern, brightly painted, plenty of light and a minimum of restraint. Whitney shared a wing with about thirty other men and they had the run of a small inside recreation area and a yard where they could walk or sit in the sun, play handball or shoot hoops. I’d expected to find him downcast but he was quite the reverse. When I entered the wing he was engaged in a fierce ping-pong battle with another remandee which he won 21–19. He approached me with a smile on his face, wiping sweat away. For a minute I thought he was going to give me a high five.

  ‘Hello, Cliff. Good to see you.’

  ‘You too. Like it here, do you?’

  ‘Hardly, but it could be worse.’

  I did my bad Bogart impression. ‘I hear you’re copping a plea.’

  He nodded. ‘Come back to my room and I’ll tell you all about it.’

  His room, shared with three others, was spartan-beds, chests of drawers, one desk, three chairs. We sat with our knees almost touching.

  ‘They fixed me up good and proper. My passport’s been nicked just for starters, but there’s no way a jury could understand my side of the whole thing.’

  I shrugged. ‘If you say so. I’m in the same boat. You should’ve done it to them first. That’s if I believe you.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I looked at him and thought back over what we’d been through. I should’ve seen that he had victim written all over him from the start. ‘How’s the family?’ I said.

  That brought him down a notch but didn’t deflate him. ‘Good question. Ken Bates has got to Jasmine-that’s my wife. She’s bought the whole package. I can’t use the house as surety to post bail. I’ll get there some other way but I’m in here for a bit. It’s mostly the way he’s worked on Jasmine that’s got me to ask you down here.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  He leaned closer and instead of cigars and whisky, the last smells I’d associated with him, I got sweat and sincerity. ‘I’m going to do three, maybe five years. Minimum security. I’ll be able to run that Brisbane business and make some money.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, you don’t get it. What I’ll really be doing is putting together deals that’ll expose Bates and the others and prove that they’re the worst kind of corporate crooks. It’ll take time but I’ll screw them to the wall. I’ll clear my name and get back my kids’ respect. I know I can do it, but I’ll need help. I’ll need you, Cliff. What d’you think?’

  I thought about Bates/Metcalf and his slimy ways. The heavies he’d sent to stand over dumb kids whose only wish in life was to ride horses. His recommending me to Whitney had been a payback. ‘You’re on,’ I said.

  ‹‹Contents››

  CHOP CHOP

  You a smoker, Cliff?’ Spiro Gravas said.

  ‘Was. Gave it up years ago.’

  ‘Rollies?’

  ‘Yes, mostly.’

  ‘What d’you reckon about this chop chop?’

  I shrugged. ‘If it’s cheap and smokes all right they’ll buy it.’

  ‘It’s illegal.’

  ‘So’re a lot of things-SP betting, underage drinking, doping horses…’

  ‘It takes away tax money from the government, our government.’

  I looked at him. Spiro is Greek in every recognisable way-the colouring, the moustache, the shoulders. He breaks the mould by being a florist rather than a fruiterer. His shop is in King Street, Newtown, about half a kilometre up the way from where I now have an office. When the St Peters Lane building in Darlinghurst was renovated, we tenants got the push. The depressed part of King Street, heading towards St Peters, was the best I could afford. I bought flowers from Spiro to send to my daughter, Megan, on the opening night of the play she was in at the Opera House and we got to talking because he had a daughter who aspired to a career in the same uncertain business. I didn’t buy any more flowers, but I passed the shop on the way to the pub and the deli and we became friends.

  ‘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.

  The day was clear and warm and a scattering of people, all driving better cars than mine, had chosen to avail themselves of the opportunity to look at the vines and sample the plonk. Probably to buy some as well. I hadn’t read the sign closely enough. The brochure I was handed as soon as I parked indicated that a visit involved a tour with a guide. The guy handing out the brochures, an athletic-looking young man in a white overall, ushered the eight or ten of us under a marquee and introduced us to Carly Braithwaite, our guide.

  Carly was a tall, mid-twenties, good-looking blonde in a white silk blouse, tight jeans and designer sneakers. Her accent was pure TV-presenter, but her smile and mannerisms were natural and unaffected. She showed us around the lower slopes of vines and some experimental plots, led us through the crushing and fermenting plants, talking the whole time about plantings and vintages and blendings, until we ended up in a cool, shady area with benches and seats and bottles and glasses. All the technical stuff went in one ear and out the other but I was happy to taste some whites and reds and was prepared to give serious consideration to buying a case or two if the price was right. The most interesting moments had come when I spotted Bobby Gravas’ 4WD in the staff car park and Bobby himself, in serious conversation with a couple of other men on the steps of a demountable building that was probably an office.

  Like some of the other visitors, I had a camera with me and Carly didn’t object to us taking photos. I took a few shots of the vine slopes and the hills beyond and managed a quick one of the group of men. I chatted to a few of the visitors as they trotted out the wine in those tiny plastic glasses they use. They were all from other parts, Sydney, Canberra and further afield. All wine buffs so that their conversation quickly bored me. Just one overheard exchange took my interest.

  ‘More like a Hunter,’ a tall, grey-haired type said after rolling some red around in his mouth.

  His companion, a roly-poly, red-faced character, nodded. ‘Yes. You know, Charles, I’d expect them to put out more product.’ He swilled the few drops left. ‘This is jolly good but I’ve never seen much of it around.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Charles swallowed appreciatively. ‘Not so big, is it?’

  ‘My bump of country,’ the fat man tapped the brochure, ‘tells me there must be more land over that hill.’

  Charles accepted a white. ‘Wouldn’t show us that, would they? Wouldn’t be hill crest, would it?’

  They laughed at this biting wit. I sampled a couple of reds and whites and bought a case of the semillon for a reasonable price, paying cash. Carly worked hard on Charles and I saw him detaching his credit card from his wallet as I was leaving. I didn’t see Bobby again, but his car was still there.

  I drove back to Goulburn, booked into the same motel and plugged the digital camera into my laptop. I got the images up and scanned the wide angle, long range pictures closely. I’m no countryman and it was hard to tell, but I got a sense of the vineyard being somehow enclosed by stands of trees at the back and the far corners. I looked at the brochure claiming that the Hillcrest vineyard covered one hundred and thirty-five acres. I looked at the pictures again, but had no idea what that amount of land looked like. Still, it sounded as if Charles and Fatty knew what they were talking about.

  Bobby’s companions on the steps of the demountable looked just the way they should-one in a shirt and tie, another in work clothes, a third carrying his suit jacket over his arm, and Bobby. Nothing there, but useful to have them on file.

  I drove into Goulburn and paid a visit to th
e council office where the plans for the district were filed. I said I was interested in buying property and indicated the area I wanted. A folio volume contained the subdivisions in the relevant parishes, along with contour maps, and I worked my way through them until I got to the block occupied by the Hillcrest Winery. I’d had some experience in interpreting contour maps back in my army days when we went on bivouacs and mock assaults. Charles was right-there was a sizeable chunk of sloping land beyond what Carly had shown us. And it was bordered on three sides by a large tract of unoccupied crown land and a deep gully on the fourth.

  Okay, so Hillcrest had more land than you could easily see and they weren’t saying anything about it. Didn’t necessarily mean much. The extra acres could be lying fallow, or being prepared for planting, or having an irrigation system installed. What did I know about viticulture? But Bobby was there in some capacity and he was in the money and lying to his father. There could be other explanations, but I had to get a look at what was going on over the hill.

  Still in the council building, I paid a few dollars for a couple of topographical maps. I bought a sandwich and a six-pack and went back to the motel to pore over the charts. It could have been worse. The crown land behind the Hillcrest property sloped upward and was pretty heavily wooded. There looked to be about five kilometres of it to get through, depending on whether I could access the couple of fire trails marked on the map. Say five kilometres, say a four-hour trek, barring accidents.

  I spent the afternoon buying certain items. Then I found a gym with a pool and did some light work, mostly stretching, before swimming twenty laps at a leisurely pace. I ate a light meal in a cafe, drank half of one of the bottles of white I’d stuck in the motel fridge and paid my bill, telling the manager I’d be leaving at dawn. Early to bed, a few pages of James Lee Burke and goodnight.

  I left the motel at first light and drove until I reckoned I was at the edge of the crown land behind Hillcrest, I drove slowly along and spotted a fire trail that took me about a kilometre into the bush before it became too rough for an ordinary car. I got out and pulled on the backpack containing my mobile phone, a water bottle, some chocolate and my Smith amp; Wesson. 38. I’d bought the backpack in Goulburn along with the hiking boots on my feet. The jeans and old army shirt I already had.