Santorini Caesars (8 page)

Vladimir sat next to him, looking as if he'd been dragged behind a bus for eternity.

“You told us to be thorough,” said the shorter of the two men. “Those are big rooms, with a lot of things to verify. We had to measure the rooms and the closets, check to make sure that everything worked. Every light switch, every outlet, every faucet, every—”

Christos raised one hand. “Okay, Francesco, I get it.”

Francesco nodded. “Unless you have something else for us to do, Dimos and I will wait outside.”

“How about reading some invoices?”

“Not our job.”

Christos looked at Vladimir. “This is the sort that the old administration left for us to work with. No willingness to help out their comrades.”

Francesco shrugged and looked at Vladimir. “Do you mind if we wait at the bar?”

Vladamir sighed. “No. Feel free to help yourself to a beer.”

“That's
one
beer,” said Christos. “We don't want any misunderstandings here.”

The two men left.

“How much longer will we be at this?” said Vladimir.

Christos looked at Anna, “What would you say, another thirty minutes or so?”

She nodded. “That sounds about right.”

Vladimir looked relieved. “Terrific.”

Christos smiled. “Assuming, of course, that our colleagues at the bar did everything I wanted.”

“They better have after I just bought them a beer.”

“Stay here. I'll go check.”

Christos caught up with them standing by the bar talking about soccer. As soon as Christos joined them, Francesco pushed a speed-dial button on his mobile.

A loud “Hello” came through the phone.

Francesco held the phone up to his ear. “Could you hear us?”

“You mean all your wishful thinking about the chances of your football team doing well this year?”

Francesco smiled and nodded to Dimos.

“Perfect,” said the voice on the phone. “Just as clear as you came through from the villas. Good work, guys.”

“Great. So, when do we get out of here and back to Athens?”

“What's your hurry? You're in tourist paradise.”

“Funny, my wife said sort of the same thing. It's why she wants me back home tonight or tomorrow morning at the latest. She was pissed when I told her I had to catch the afternoon ferry here. She wanted to know why I couldn't fly in the morning, and when I told her Dimos and I had to take the van, she didn't believe me. I used to spend a lot of time on Santorini and she's worried I might run into some old friends.”

“Sounds like you're going to have a lot of sweet-talking left to do to convince her you're suffering during your stay.”

“
Stay
? Whoa, whoa, whoa, Petro. What the hell are you talking about?”

“Sorry to be the one to give you the news, but since you guys set up all the equipment here and in the hotel, we now have orders from the chief for you to stay with me and babysit everything in case something goes wrong.”

“For how long?”

“Until the targets leave.”

“Damn.”

“I hear you, Brother.”

Francesco walked to the end of the bar area at the edge of the caldera, looked north at a white church sitting atop and west of a path running along the caldera, and flipped a finger at the hidden camera.

“Crystal-clear image, thank you.”

“Can't believe that church is going to be our home for the next few days.”

“You'll love what I've done with the place since you and Dimos went off to pick up the Athens folk at the airport.”

“God help us.”

“Hey, the views are great.”

“How do we get there from here?” said Francesco.

“Come in from the Oia side where we parked the van and lugged the equipment up to the church. We wouldn't want Vladimir getting a glimpse of you and Dimos traipsing across the hills like fugitives from
The Sound of Music.”

“You're not funny.”

“I'm saving my best stuff for our weekend together in church.”

Francesco shut off his phone and walked back to the bar.

“Everything okay?” said Christos.

“Aside from the fact that Dimos and I are staying here, yes.”

“What do you mean?” said Dimos.

“I'll tell you later.”

“Do you need me to stay?” said Christos.

Francesco gestured no. “You've done more than enough. We couldn't have done it without you distracting Vladimir.”

“Anything for Uncle Tassos.”

“How's Anna with all this?”

“She's cool. Treating it as a real audit. In fact, as far as she knows, it is. I'm the only one who knows there's something else going on.” He raised his hands. “And I don't know what it is or want to know. Uncle Tassos said to buy you time and that's all I needed to know. Period.”

Francesco patted Christos on the shoulder. “I like your style. Somewhat more subtle than your uncle's knock-down-the-door approach, but it works for me.”

“That's the first time anyone's ever called me subtle. Flamboyant maybe.”

“Uh, guys,” said Dimos. “Don't you think we should get back inside before that Vladimir guy starts wondering what we're doing out here?”

“Don't worry about him,” said Christos as he went behind the bar. He took three beers out of the cooler and put them on the bar. “From what I've seen of his books, he's got nothing to worry about and Anna will give the place a clean report. He'll be so happy, he'll probably put us on his mailing list.”

Christos opened the beers and handed one to each man.

“
Yamas
,” said the men as they clinked bottles.

All but Francesco took a sip.

“What's the matter?” said Christos. “You don't drink”?

“Not until after I call my wife to tell her I won't be home this weekend.”

“That's crazy,” said Christos. “A sip isn't going to fog your mind, and she can't smell beer on your breath over the phone.”

Dimos shook his head. “You don't know his wife.”

Christos laughed.

Francesco didn't.

Chapter Eight

After dropping Christos and Anna off at the airport for their late flight to Athens, Francesco and Dimos drove west along a winding mountainside road toward the picturesque mid-island village of Pyrgos, with its labyrinth of medieval stone houses and passageways winding up toward fifteenth-century Venetian castle ruins atop the highest village on the island. Until the early nineteenth century, Pyrgos had served as the capital of the island, but today its five hundred residents depended upon tourism, as did most of the island, indeed most of Greece.

Petro stood waiting at the edge of the road, near the base of wide, well-worn pebble and stone steps leading up into the village.

“You got here quickly,” said Francesco through the open driver side window.

“Your suggestion that we who are condemned to spend a weekend together in church should have a final meal together on the outside, inspired me.” Petro nodded toward a red and yellow Suzuki Ninja motorcycle parked by the steps. “And that little rented wizard did the rest.”

“Get in,” said Francesco.

“I thought we were going to dinner,” said Petro, cramming himself into the backseat.

“We are, but in the next town. I just thought it was easier for you to meet us here. We got a recommendation from Christos. Just look for signs to the village of Exo Gonia.”

A few minutes later Dimos pointed. “That must be the place up ahead. Christos said it looked like a concrete bunker with trash bins out front and TAVERNA scrawled on the wall in whitewash.”

Petros leaned over the front seat and stared at Francesco. “Just how well do you know this guy Christos? You didn't by chance insult his mother or something?”

Francesco flicked Petro's chin. “He's Tassos' nephew, and a big gun with the Tourist Office. He wouldn't steer us wrong. And I don't even know his mother.”

“What about his sister?” said Dimos.

Francesco parked alongside the trash containers. “Hey, you're going to give Petro the wrong impression about me.”

Dimos smiled as he opened the door. “You mean the same one your wife has of you?”

Francesco waved off his friend as he got out of the car, and the three cops made their way down the hillside toward the taverna. They stopped by a broad open terrace overlooking a distant blanket of sparkling lights running off toward the sea.

“It must be beautiful in season,” said Petro.

“Bit nippy tonight,” said Francesco.

Dimos pointed to a door. “That must be for inside seating.” He pulled the big iron door handle and held the door open for Petro and Francesco.

They stepped into a room with no view, no sense of the outdoors, and no promise of romance. Two long rows of tables covered in white linen ran the length of the room from the door to the back wall, with banquettes anchored along each wall. A tiny bar area, kitchen entrance, and hostess station stood at the far end. Every piece of wood in the place was dark-gray fieldstone trimmed in white stucco adorned each sidewall, and a vaulted white stucco ceiling spanned it all.

They'd stumbled into what could have been a cave, filled with smiling faces packed together in shared harmony and conversation rumbling along at a pleasant hum.

A man standing in the middle of the room holding an order pad waved for them to come to him. “Gentlemen, how can I help you?”

“We're here for dinner on the recommendation of a good friend,” said Francesco.

“I love good friends like that,” said the man. “Please give me a few minutes and I'll set something up for you. Okay?”

Francesco nodded. “Okay. Thanks.”

The man nodded and went back to taking his customers' orders.

Petro and Dimos followed Francesco as he wandered over to a corner where a female cashier sat on a bar stool behind a well-distressed, podium-style hostess desk. She was young, unsmiling, and overworked.

“Are you always this busy?” said Francesco.

“Usually it's worse. I just sit here listening to people complain about how long they have to wait for a table, as I try to figure out ways to make their lives more miserable than mine.”

Francesco cocked his head and nodded toward the man with the order pad. “Is he your father?”

“What makes you say that?”

“You have the same smile.”

She stared at Francesco. “I get it. You're the charming one in this crew.”

Dimos laughed.

“What's so funny?” she said. “He's here trying to hustle me while you're waiting for the owner to get you a table and I've got to endure it. Can't you two keep him busy or something? The guy's a piece of work. Telling me I have the same smile as
him
,” pointing at the owner. “Lord, have you no mercy?”

Petro burst out laughing.

“And what's with you, giant man? Is the air so thin up there you can't understand what I'm telling you? Read my lips. ‘Keep the great romancer busy and away from me.'” She pointed at Francesco. “Puh-lease.”

Now all three cops were laughing.

She waved to the owner, “Smiley, would you get over here and seat these three? They're killing me.”

“Why do I feel we're part of a show?” said Francesco.

The owner waved for the men to come to him. “Let me spare you any more of Sappho.”

“Don't laugh,” she said. “That's my real name. Now you know why I'm like I am. With a name like Sappho you've got to have a sense of humor.”

Petro stood staring at Sappho, a grin from ear to ear.

“What's with you? Chow's ready, move on.”

Petro didn't move.

She pointed him toward the owner. “Go.”

Petro didn't move.

With a dramatic sigh, Sappho stood and came around the desk. She was almost as tall as Petro.

“Surprised you didn't I?” She spun him around and led him by the arm over to the table where Francesco and Dimos sat.

“Hey, guys, you forgot one.” As she pushed him toward an open chair, she stood on her toes and whispered in his ear, “I think you're cute,” pinched his butt, and sashayed back to her desk.

Petro stood there, watching her walk.

Without turning around Sappho yelled back over her shoulder. “So, tell me folks, is he watching my butt?”

A roar of “
YES
” came up from the crowd. She spun around, sat on her stool, and smiled at Petro.

Francesco grabbed Petro by his coat and pulled him down onto the chair. “It's embarrassing watching you fall smitten in front of an entire restaurant full of strangers.”

Petro looked at Francesco. “I'm just interested.”

“Interested is in a menu. Smitten is in a woman.”

“So, let's look at a menu already,” said Dimos.

“Do you think she's married?” asked Petro.

Dimos and Francesco looked at each other.

“Don't look at me,” said Dimos. “You're the one with the bright idea of us all going out for dinner. He's your problem.”

“Are you ready to order?” said the owner.

“Why don't you just start bringing out the food and we'll tell you when to stop,” said Dimos.

“And same thing with the wine,” said Francesco, “especially the wine,” pointing to Petro.

The owner picked up the menus. “No problem.” He patted Petro on the back as Petro stared at Sappho. “You're a good sport. I like you.” He paused. “My wife likes you, too.”

The blood drained from Petro's face and he turned to face the man.

“I'm sorry, sir, I didn't know she was your wife.”

He patted Petro on the shoulder again. “Not Sappho, the one over there watching you from the kitchen.” He pointed to a plump, dark-haired woman standing in the doorway behind Sappho.

The woman smiled and Sappho laughed.

But not as much as Francesco and Dimos.

***

The food came in tranches, overrunning the available space on the table and pressing into service adjacent empty chairs. First, Santorini
fava
with onions and capers; baked white eggplant in tomato sauce with feta and fresh basil; grilled Haloumi cheese with grilled tomatoes and olive oil; and grilled Santorini spicy sausages alongside fried potatoes and parmesan cheese. Next, a salad of spinach, red and green leaf lettuce, spring onions, dill, orange, walnuts, parmesan, pomegranate, and balsamic vinaigrette with honey; a second salad of cucumber, tomato, onion, green pepper, boiled potato, Cretan cottage cheese, olives, croutons, fresh olive oil, capers, and Cretan salt; and grilled octopus with fresh oregano and balsamic vinaigrette. Following came spicy fried pork with peppers, onions, leeks, Santorini cherry tomatoes and feta; lamb in yogurt sauce with mint, coriander, and cracked wheat; and beef filet in
vinsanto
sauce accompanied by wild mushrooms and basmati rice.

By the time they finished eating, the place had virtually emptied out, and Sappho was sitting next to Petro, engaged in a running monologue for the benefit of all three men on the nature of their species. She took time out only to encourage them to eat more and pour more wine for them and herself. “Eat, eat. The fatter you get the less likely you are to be a threat to the virtue of Greek women.”

Petro couldn't remember ever laughing harder or longer in his life. “So, you've worked here all your life?”

“Yep.” She took a sip of wine. “Except for my university days in Patras.”

“What did you study?”

“Chemical engineering.” She leaned toward Francesco. “My turn to interview. So what are you three musketeers doing on Santorini in the off season?”

Petro said, “We're here to—”

“Stop hogging the lady's attention. Give some other guy a chance,” said Francesco. “We're here to check out some hotel properties with an eye to investing in them.”

She nodded. “A lot of people come here in the winter looking to do that. Never understood why. My friends tell me the only time you make money in the small hotel business in Greece is when you sell it.”

“It's all a matter of how you market it.”

“And getting it at the right price,” said Dimos.

She poked Petro on the arm. “What do you have to say about the hotel business?”

Francesco spoke quickly. “He's our money guy. He's not part of the business.”

She leaned back and ran her eyes up and down Petro. “You're rich? Wow you're a great catch for some girl.” She pulled her chair closer to his and rested her head on his shoulder. “Please take me away from all this. I want to bear your children.”

Petro laughed.

She sat up straight in her chair. “What! You dare to laugh at my proposal?” She jumped out of her chair and headed toward the kitchen, yelling to her father as she passed him. “And you just sit there as my honor is besmirched by these rude strangers.”

Her father kept talking to his remaining customers, ignoring his daughter.

Francesco glanced toward the kitchen before leaning in toward Petro. “My boy, be careful. A woman wound as tightly as this one comes with problems. Guaranteed.”

“But she's funny. “

“Yeah, a regular life of the party,” said Dimos.

“Great fun, but when they're alone, and not the center of attention…” Francesco shook his head.

“The word you're looking for,” said Dimos, “is depression.”

“Just be careful, is all I'm saying.”

“Look guys, I'm just having a good time. Thanks for the fatherly concern but I'm not getting married.”

Francesco looked at Dimos. “Did he just say ‘married'?”

“Again.”

“Screw you both.”

“Hey,” said Dimos, “your girlfriend's heading straight for us and she's waving a chef's knife.”

The cops all spun around in their chairs.

Right behind Sappho marched her mother bearing a melon, a plate of pastries, and silverware. She put everything down in front of Petro, pinched his cheeks, and smacked her hands together. All with a big smile and not saying a word.

Sappho walked to where she'd been sitting and leaned over the table to cut the melon.

Petro studied her face, not more than a lean-in away from his own. Long dark hair framed a slightly coffee-colored face set with sparkling dark eyes, a broad nose, and a prominent, dimpled square chin. A traditional Greek-looking woman.

“I hope you're dying to kiss me,” she said without looking at him.

“Absolutely, but why do you ask?”

“So I can entice you into telling me why you're really on Santorini.”

“We told you why,” said Francesco.

She caught his eye. “I've spent my life surrounded by military types and hotel types. They're very different breeds. And you're definitely not hotel types.”

“You think we're military?” said Dimos.

She shook her head from side to side and went back to cutting the melon. “The Air Force base is just down the hill from here at the airport, we have a lot of regulars from there. In fact some of the guys talking to my father are from the base. There's some big gathering this weekend and they want to take over the restaurant to hold a dinner.” She shifted her eyes to Petro's. “If you're here because of that, maybe I'll get to see you again.”

Petro smiled. “I certainly hope so, but it won't be because we're military. I'm just a working stiff trying to get by in a worse-than-lousy economy.”

She smiled. “I thought you're supposed to be the rich kid.”

“My friends slightly exaggerated. I'm the one with the contacts. That makes me the moneyman in their parlance. But it's OPM.”

“OPM?”

“Other people's money.”

She nodded. “Fair enough. So what are you doing the rest of the night? It's still early.”

Petro laughed, reached around Sappho's waist, pulled her toward him, and gave her a big kiss on the cheek. “I promise you I'll be back. My schedule, though, is not my own this weekend. But if there is any way, I'll let you know.”