Mykonos After Midnight (9 page)

Chapter Twelve

The bamboo-capped, white stone shack known as Joanna’s Place sat perched on the bottom of a waning crescent moon beach. Charming during the day, it turned downright ethereal at night in the silver moonlight reflected off the water.

The three cops made their way across the road to a narrow archway in a solid white wall forming the rear of the taverna. On each end of the taverna the wall dropped down to serve as the low border for the seaward side of the road, and together they wound away in both directions until out of sight.

Eight steps down from the road brought you back fifty years, to a time before the world had discovered Mykonos and Mykonians had not yet made dozens of other beaches readily accessible to visitors. Back then this was the place to come, and come they did. Even the Beatles and Pink Floyd ate here, though the music they heard––or one might hear on a chance evening today––was quite different from their own.

Off to the right stood a bar lined with wooden stools arranged so that patrons had to turn to get a peek of the sea through windows cut in walls. On the left sat the primary reasons for coming here: a huge kitchen and massive outdoor grill.

The half-dozen tables spread about inside were mostly empty, for here you came to sit outside on a covered stone patio running the length of the place, twenty feet from the edge of the sea. You could dip your feet in the water between courses.

Tassos embraced a smiling woman with short dark hair and a staunchly British accent. She promptly kissed and hugged Andreas and Kouros.

“Ah, the three musketeers have returned to Mykonos,” said Joanna.

“All evil should quake in its boots,” said Kouros.

“Let’s hope not,” she said. “On Mykonos that would bring on a major earthquake.”

They all laughed, and she led them to a table in the corner at the enclosed right end of the patio. “This should give you privacy and you’ll still have a great view of sunset.”

“Every table has a great view of sunset,” said Tassos.

Joanna smiled and patted Tassos on the shoulder. A young woman brought them water, a bottle of wine, and menus. “The wine is with my compliments. I’ll be back in a minute for your orders.”

All that separated the tables from the beach were a low white masonry wall running parallel to the sea and a few hand-hewn wooden pillars supporting the bamboo roof. A dozen handwoven wicker baskets from the nearby island of Tinos hung upside down from the ceiling, each fitted with a single bulb capable of casting just enough light to bring a pale glow to the room once sunlight was gone.

The only sound was the lapping of the sea against the shore. None of the incessant, pounding club music of virtually every other beach taverna at this sunset hour.

The sea shimmered in combinations of gun-metal blue, silver, and gold against a backdrop of vermilion skies and shadowy forms of distant islands. Except for a lone white church with a blood-red roof on the tiny island of Baou at the entrance to the bay, nothing in view suggested that the hand of man had played a part in any of this––unless of course you looked sharply to the left or right. But no one here did that. This was a place for remembering simpler times as you watched a glowing orange ball fade below the horizon.

Tassos broke the silence. “I first came here forty years ago. I was with my wife. In my mind, this place hasn’t changed that much.” He paused. “Come to think of it, my wife hasn’t either.”

He poured wine for the others and himself. “
Yamas
.”

“You still think of her?” said Kouros.

Tassos smiled. “You’re only asking that question because you haven’t yet found the love of your life. Otherwise you’d know the answer.” He took a sip of wine. “My memories of my wife are like that ring you wear of your father’s. With you always, even if you don’t think about it. Then comes a time when you notice…and remember…and forget again…until the next time.”

Kouros spun the ring on his finger. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound insensitive. I just thought what with you and Maggie…” He let his voice trail off.

Tassos smiled. “No offense taken. I understand. And yes, Maggie is very special to me, but my wife will always remain in my thoughts as that young woman she was on the day that she died.” Tassos gulped down the rest of the wine and smacked the glass on the table. “
Theos singhorese tin
.”

Kouros and Andreas did the same, “God forgive her soul.”

Tassos filled the glasses again, and lifted his, “And to Yianni’s father.”

“
Theos singhorese tin
.” They toasted and went back to staring in silence at the sunset.

“What’s more, these days Joanna’s is just about the only place on the island where I can afford to eat. That is, if I were paying.” Tassos winked at Andreas.

“The island’s changed so much since I first came here,” said Kouros. “I can’t imagine how different it must seem to you.”

Tassos nodded. “Some say it’s changed for the better, others for the worse. But it’s definitely changed a lot. Especially after the sun goes down. In mid-summer I don’t recognize this place at night anymore.”

“And with the likes of Sergey showing up, it’s in for a hell of a lot more changes,” said Andreas.

Tassos picked up his wineglass. “Foreigners aren’t responsible for what’s happened on Mykonos. Mykonians control it, they get the credit as well as the blame.”

“Maybe,” said Andreas. “But if they let Russian mob types get a foothold here, they’re in for a whole different kind of grief. Things won’t run the same way. It will be bloody.”

“Yeah, but who’s going to be dumb enough to let them in?” said Kouros.

Tassos smirked. “With so many big time property owners in deep shit with their banks, unpaid taxes, and loan sharks, it’s only a matter of time before some of them start accepting offers they think will make them healthy again. And from past experience, for sure some of them won’t give a damn about what it might mean for the future of the island as long as it puts money in their pockets.”

“Hey, if you really want to play the cynic, my friend, be a real one,” said Andreas. “Why should any oligarch with big ideas and a bank account to match waste his time negotiating with property owners? No matter how bad a jam they’re in or lousy the economy, they think their property is worth whatever they say it is. The smart move is forget about them, buy up some nearly bankrupt bank that holds their mortgages and start foreclosing. Soon you’ll own half the island.
Yamas
.”

The men clinked glasses.

“From what I’ve been reading in the papers, I think the technical term for that sort of financial situation is a ‘fucking mess,’” said Kouros.

“Depends,” said Tassos. “Others would call it ‘opportunity.’”

“Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen,” said Joanna armed with a pen and pad in hand, “but have you decided yet?”

“Uhh, no, we’ve been too busy taking in the view,” said Tassos.

“And holding hands,” said Kouros.

“No problem. Happens all the time. Besides, I’ve taken the liberty of ordering the appetizers. You just have to figure out what else you want.”

“Fish,” said Tassos.

“
Barbouni
,” said Andreas.

“And octopus,” added Kouros.

“The octopus is already coming. I’ll get the red mullet on the grill and we’ll keep going from there. Okay?”

“Okay,” said a trio of hungry men.

“Be right back,” she said.

“I love it here,” said Andreas.

“Me too,” said Kouros.

“To tradition,” said Tassos raising his glass.

“And kicking the butts of those who don’t get it,” said Kouros.

“Until they do,” said Andreas.

“Yamas!”

***

The reflective, neon green and yellow athletic shoes tied in very nicely with the just as brightly colored green linen pants and yellow Hawaiian shirt embroidered with silver and gold sequin images of buxom nude women in profile. Sergey couldn’t see Wacki’s eyes because they were covered in white-frame, oversize Chanel sunglasses, but he assumed the pupils were the size of donuts.

Wacki was standing just inside the hotel lobby, and a young American couple talking with the concierge couldn’t take their eyes off of him.

“I thought you said tonight was casual,” said Sergey.

“It is casual. This is my look of the night.” Wacki waved his hand at Sergey as if it were a magic wand. “And I think you look perfect as a boss out for a night on Mykonos.”

Sergey was wearing Dolce & Gabbana black jeans, a white Giorgio Armani tee-shirt, and black Louis Vuitton loafers. A black elastic band held his long silver hair in a tight knot. He’d found the clothes in his closet in a box marked “casual.” He wondered, but didn’t ask, whether Wacki was his mysterious personal shopper.

“So, where to?”

“It’s only midnight, boss, and too early for the sort of night life you’re interested in seeing. I thought I’d show you Matogianni Street. It’s what gets most of the big spender tourists shopping.”

Like Alice after her rabbit, Sergey followed Wacki out the hotel door and through its gardens toward an archway into Wonderland.

“For years that place to the right, on the edge of the harbor just past the beach, was the closest bit of competition to Christos’ place in town.”

They stood directly in front of the hotel, swarmed by mainly thirty-year-olds and younger headed into town and older folk headed out.

“But its business died when Athenian black money dried up. Too much cheaper competition elsewhere for the booze and other things it offered. Rumor has it that some connected locals are planning to open a titty-bar there, offering lap dances and all that goes with it.”

“That should give tourists an interesting first impression of ‘magical Mykonos.’”

“Yeah, I was surprised, too. But a club like that a couple of miles outside of town is making a hell of a lot of money, so it was only a matter of time before someone copied it. That’s how things work here.”

“So, the key is to come up with something that can’t be copied.”

“Yeah, but what’s unique? Titties are titties. Besides, if you come up with a big money-making idea the Mykonian mafia will find some way to take a cut of it or open their own place.”

“Mafia?”

“No, not the sort you’re used to. This mafia isn’t leg breakers. They use connections to destroy your business if you don’t play ball.”

“But, it’s still a titty bar at the entrance to the historic old harbor.”

Wacki shrugged. “Most Mykonians avoid town at night during the busy season, and know only what they hear. Those who run the night make sure that whatever shit a few might raise is drowned out in promises of how much money it will make the town from foreigners. And with Greece in the middle of financial meltdown, that sort of talk is music to voters’ ears, even though most should know by now that very little of that money will ever find its way into any one’s pockets but those in control and their patrons.

“The bottom line is most don’t care what happens during tourist season and those who do are afraid that if they take a stand the mafia will retaliate against their businesses or property.”

“Sounds like a terrific place to do business.”

Wacki smiled. “I thought you’d like that.”

As they walked toward town, Wacki nodded at a building on the right at the end of the beach. “That’s the original hotel on the island. The same family opened the first hotel outside of town. Their new one’s on a large piece of property overlooking the new port in Tourlos. I thought you might like to know. Just in case you’re interested in buying another hotel.”

Wacki smiled.

Sergey did not.

“And up ahead begin the jewelry stores. I sometimes think there must be more of them per square foot in the old town than anywhere else on earth.”

The road funneled down between buildings until it was only inches wider than the taxis forced to creep along at the pace of the crowds in front of them. Sergey stopped to look at a jewelry store on the right, three doors before the taxi stand.

“This one’s the most famous jeweler in Greece. The shop draws a high-end, world-class clientele.”

Sergey looked in windows filled with bowls, candlesticks, and other objects of hammered silver, and finely detailed works of art expressed in gold: necklaces, earrings, and rings. He recognized a necklace as one Anna had worn when she first came to see him.

He moved on.

Ten paces later the road opened into the town’s main square. It sat at the north end of the harbor, on the other side of town from the bus station, and though officially named Manto Matogianni Square in honor of the island’s Greek War of Independence heroine, everyone called it the “taxi square.” Here you stood in line and prayed for one of the island’s thirty or so taxis to come quickly.

They crossed down through the square behind the statue of Manto and onto a lane between a kiosk on the right selling breath mints, cigarettes, and condoms, and the Greek equivalent of a fast food place on the left. A quick right and another left had them in a tiny square filled with mostly empty chairs and tables, bordered by two bars on the left and a church straight ahead.

“This is a good place to start our tour. The church is Saint Kiriake, it’s one of the three main ones in the town of Mykonos. If you lived in town you belonged to one of them, unless you’re Catholic. Their church is in Little Venice.”

Wacki turned away from the church to face the bars. “But that’s not why this square is famous. It’s famous because of what once was over there.” He pointed at the bar on the left.

The place had a porch big enough for a dozen to sit comfortably, three-dozen when crammed. Inside the bar looked hardly big enough to hold more than a hundred.

“That’s where Mykonos’ famed international gay nightlife scene got its start. The tables here used to be packed all night with customers of Alberto’s.”

“Does Mykonos still draw a lot of gays?”

“You better believe it. By far most of its tourists are straight, but without the gay influence this island would go into cardiac arrest. They’re big spenders and bring style to the island. The places they like are always the busiest in town.”