chop chop

by Peter Corris

Y

ou a smoker, Cliff?’ Spiro Gravas said. X ‘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 the 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 & 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.

The army training was a long time ago, but my sense of direction had always been good. The sky was clear and the sun is the best directional guide you can have. I followed the rough track as far as I could until it veered off in a direction I didn’t want to go. Then it was a matter of pushing through the scrub, hacking in spots with my newly acquired bush knife. After a while the going was uphill and hard and the day heated up quickly as the sun rose higher.

I made several stops to check the direction and to catch my breath and it was close to 11 am when I broke through a patch of scrub and encountered a three-strand wire fence strung between tall, well hammered in star pickets. The cultivated area stretching ahead of me looked to be about the size of the Hillcrest Winery proper—say, sixty acres, give or take. The bushes stood in orderly rows and there were wide paths throughout, presumably to admit machinery. Pipes ran along the ground indicating a thorough irrigation network. Although I’d smoked plenty of the stuff in my time, I’d never seen a tobacco plant and had no idea what one looked like. But these bushes weren’t grapevines and they weren’t marijuana.

I took some photos of the crop and the irrigation equipment and the couple of sheds grouped together along one side of the plantation. I had a few big swigs of water, ate some chocolate and worked my way back through the bush to my car. Much easier going downhill and with the trail already blazed. I drove back to the Hillcrest just in time to see Bobby’s car leaving. He was headed further west rather than back to Goulburn so I followed him as before. Within ten kilometres he turned off along a feeder road. I hung back and then followed his trail of dust. The trail ended at the Wilson Creek Winery.

Back to Goulburn for another night and at about the same time the next day I was tooling along near where we’d turned off the day before. Sure enough, Bobby’s 4WD appeared. I followed him again, this time to the Golden Grape Cellars. Bobby was involved in something big.

It left me with a nice problem. If I got in touch with the people who collected the taxes from tobacco and they wound the operation up, it was odds on Bobby would finish up in the bag. Bang goes the career, the PhD and my friendship with Spiro. Not an option. If I slid him out somehow and caused the operators some grief, the finger pointed straight at Bobby. I’d pulled off the road to think this through and to drink some water, eat some fruit and stretch. The long walk had worn me down a bit and I took my time about it. As I was doing a few knee bends Bobby’s car cruised by on the way back to Goulburn. Evidently the Golden Grape enterprise didn’t require so much of his valuable time.

I let him get ahead and followed at a distance wondering if he had other points of call to the east or south. Not so. He drove into Goulburn like a man who knew where he was going and pulled up outside a block of flats. I parked within eyeshot. After ten minutes he appeared in the company of a blonde woman—Carly Braithwaite from Hillcrest.

They held hands, went to a coffee shop, kissed and did some more hand-holding. Back at the flats, he went inside and stayed for an hour. Long enough. When he came out he had that look about him people get after good sex. Just for now, it says, all’s right with the world. I followed him far enough to make sure he was returning to Sydney and then I headed back to the flats. Carly’s name was on her letterbox with the flat number. No security. I went in and knocked. Carly came to the door in a dressing gown and wearing that same look. No door chain.

‘Yes?’

‘You don’t recognise me?’

She shook her head.

‘I bought some wine out at Hillcrest the other day.’

‘Oh, yes, now I’ve got you. Is there a problem?’

She was relaxed and it was easy to push past her and close the door behind me.

‘Hey, you can’t—’

‘Shut up!’ I took out my PEA licence and showed it to her. ‘I’m a private detective hired by Robert Gravas’ father to find out what his son’s been up to.’

The fear that had sprung into her stance and expression fell away. She wrapped her arms around herself. ‘Oh, Jesus,’ she said.

We were in a short hallway leading to an open plan area and I shepherded her, unresisting, ahead of me. The flat was well furnished and appointed with a big flat screen TV, elaborate stereo system with a wall of CDs and an air-conditioner keeping everything cool. She slumped into one of the leather armchairs and I perched on the arm of the couch, looming over her—broken nose, hooded eyes, unshaven.

‘Wh . . . what are you going to do?’ she said.

‘I don’t know. You know what’s going on with the chop chop and all that, right?’

She nodded. ‘We only…’

‘You only want to get enough out of it to buy a house.’

Her big blue eyes opened wide. ‘No, to start our own winery. Bobby’s a brilliant—’

‘Bobby’s an idiot. If I can get on to the operation as easily as I did, how long d’you reckon it’d take the competition, or the authorities?’

‘We’re getting out after the next crop.’

‘How?’

‘We’re going to get married and go overseas for a while, till everything cools down.’

‘After committing how many jailable offences—revenue violations, tax avoidance . . .?’

She was recovering fast. ‘Victimless crime.’

‘I’m inclined to agree with you, but it’s still a very dangerous game you’re playing. When’s the next crop due?’

‘Why should I tell you?’

‘Because I can bring your little plan down with one phone call.’

‘Not yet.’

‘You might have to bring your elopement forward a bit.’

‘We won’t have enough money until—’

‘Stiff. You look to be doing all right, and Bobby’s driving a forty grand car.’

A pained look came over her face. She clenched her fists and brought them up to her mouth. ‘I’m going to be sick,’ she said and raced out of the room. I heard doors slam and a toilet flush. I wandered around the room looking at the CDs and the books. I hadn’t heard of many of the bands and singers, and most of the books were about wine.

After ten minutes or so she came back. She’d dressed in jeans and a shirt and brushed her hair and put on some make-up. She was very attractive and I was sorry to be giving her such a hard time.

She managed a smile. ‘Where were we?’

‘I was telling you to bail out of this business right now and get Bobby clear as well.’

The smile stayed in place. ‘Oh, yes. We’re supposed to pass up seventy-five thousand dollars.’

‘Cut your losses.’

‘I don’t think so.’ She moved to the stereo and pushed a button. Music flowed all around the room.

‘You don’t have a choice. I—’

A man stepped into the room. The music had stopped me hearing him open the door. He was small and not young and I wouldn’t have had too much trouble with him except that he was pointing a pistol at my chest.

* * * *

She’d made the call while pretending to be sick. Dumb of me.

‘He’s a private detective, Roger,’ Carly said, her voice shaking and her eyes wide at the sight of the gun. ‘He’s on to us.’

‘Shut the fuck up. Let’s see the ID, and take it easy.’

I handed him the licence folder with slow, studied movements. He held the gun very steadily and seemed able to glance at it while still looking at me. He dropped the folder on the floor at my feet. ‘How come?’ he said.

I was careful not to look at Carly but I could sense the tension and fear in her. I shrugged. ‘That’d be telling, but you’d be pretty dumb if you didn’t know you had competition in this business.’

‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Fuckin’ Costellono.’

I grinned. ‘Talking about the Treasurer?’

Carly gave a nervous laugh which distracted Roger just for a split second. It was enough. I went low in a dive and took him out at the knees. I had a lot of weight and muscle on him and he bounced off the wall and lost his grip on the gun. I rolled away and came up balanced as he floundered, torn between trying to get upright and finding the gun. I caught him with a roundhouse right to the temple that sent a numbing jar up my arm but dropped him like a kite with a broken string. Carly stood, a woman mesmerised, as I picked up the pistol.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘Are you? You called a gunman over to help you.’

‘I swear I didn’t know he’d have a gun. I thought he could talk to you, offer you money.’

I remembered how she’d reacted to the pistol and was inclined to believe her. Resourceful, but out of her depth maybe.

‘What’re you going to do?’

I scooped up my licence folder and took a look at Roger. He was breathing okay and his eyes were flickering. Mild concussion. Still one of my best punches, even if he was out of his division. ‘Get me some plastic bags, six, eight of ‘em, and stay away from the phone, any kind of phone.’

She hurried out and came back with a handful of plastic bags. I knotted them together and got two lengths, one to tie Roger’s wrists together behind his back and another for his ankles. I propped him up against the wall. ‘Water.’

She brought it in a cup. I splashed some on his face, tilted his head back, dripped some into his mouth. He spluttered and came back to us.

‘Too old, too slow,’ I said.

‘Fuck you.’

I gestured for Carly to follow me out of the room. ‘I’m going to give you a chance. I don’t know why. I’m giving you and Bobby a couple of hours.’

She was perspiring and breathing hard. ‘To do what?’

‘To get away as far as you can. You’ve both been very stupid and you’re lucky Bobby’s dad is a friend of mine. You call him, pack your bags and get together all the money you can and tell him to do the same. Then you take off. Overseas would be best or as far north or west as you can go.’

‘What’re you going to do?’

I eased the tension out of my shoulders. ‘Got anything to drink here, Carly?’

‘White wine.’

I nodded and she brought a bottle with the cork sitting in it and a glass. I ignored the glass and took a swig. ‘I don’t give a shit about people flogging illegal tobacco, but guns and little weasels like Roger are a different thing. I’m going to drop him and everybody at Hillcrest and the other places right in it. This is what you do. You pack up and put your stuff out the back door.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m trying to fix it so Roger doesn’t get the idea that you and Bobby are in with me.’

‘But I called him.’

‘This’ll make it clearer. We go back in. I take a look at Roger and you bolt for the door. I trip over Roger and you get away.’

She took the bottle and had a drink. ‘Thank you.’

‘Call it an early Christmas present—for Bobby’s father.’

* * * *

I gave them most of the rest of the day before I made a series of phone calls to the right people. No names, no pack drill. I also got the computer up and sent the pictures of the tobacco plantation using an anonymous Hotmail address. I let Roger listen and watch it all so he was in no doubt about what was going to happen. Then I took his pistol apart and told him I’d be scattering the pieces between Goulburn and Sydney. Then I kicked him out. He swore a bit. He was better at that than anything else.

The next day I called in on Spiro, who’d left messages on my answering machine. He was in a state. ‘Bobby’s gone. He’s disappeared.’

‘I know,’ I said, ‘but it’s all right.’ I explained things to him and he calmed down.

‘Where do you think he went, Cliff?’

‘I don’t know and if he’s smart he won’t have told anybody.’

‘This girl. What is she like?’

‘I wouldn’t hold my breath until the wedding,’ I said.