Trueish Crime: A Kat Makris Greek Mafia Novel (18 page)

“I have been doing this almost my whole life,” Takis was saying, when I slouched into the kitchen and boosted my butt onto the kitchen counter. I didn’t have the heart to fill Grandma’s seat. “Being a mobster is what I do. This is my profession. So why do they treat me like I am going to talk if they ask a few uncomfortable questions? I know how to keep quiet. If you talk in this business you die. I don’t want to die, I have a family. Okay, so sometimes my wife makes me wish I was dead, but not real death, more like vacation death. Go to an island, drink fruity drinks with little umbrellas and cherries, get a massage from a pretty girl, spear some fish. Maybe try sushi.”

“I make sushi,” Stavros said.

“You? Ha!”

“My sushi is good,” he mumbled.

“Sushi,” Aunt Rita said. “Who can eat raw fish?”

“You eat
taramasalata
,” I said.

“That’s different. It’s eggs.”

“Raw fish eggs,” I pointed out.

She shrugged.

“I love sushi,” I told Stavros.

He beamed. “I will make sushi for you.”

I shot him a grateful smile before getting down to business. Arms folded I said, “Where are Papou and Xander?”

Takis looked at Stavros, who looked at Aunt Rita. They all shrugged.

“We don’t know,” Takis said.

“They’re not in compound,” my aunt said. “We checked everywhere after the police left.”

“You called the lawyers?”

“Before Mama even left the grounds.”

Aunt Rita was on top of things. She should be the one running this sketchy three-ring circus. Yet everyone was looking to me like I could perform magic.

Ask Tomas: I couldn’t even belch the alphabet—any alphabet.

“Have we heard anything from them?” I asked.

“Not yet,” she said. “They’ll be contacting you as soon as they hear something.”

“Me? Why me?”

“They know Mama expects you to take over if we can’t find Michail.”

“I’m not taking over anything.” Everyone stared. They didn’t believe me. Maybe something was getting lost in translation again, like, probably, my opinion. “I’m not! This is temporary. As soon as my father turns up I’m going home—with him. Thanks to Grandma I have to get a new job, and a new apartment. I don’t know anything about running a crime syndicate—and I don’t want to.”

Stavros hung his head. “I thought you liked us.”

Oh boy. “I do like you. You’re all my family. But I’m not a criminal. I’m a Greek-American woman who wants a decent job, a great guy, and some kids, someday.”

Takis made a sour face. “She thinks we’re criminals.”

“You’re the mob,” I said. “That’s as criminal as it gets.”

“No family is perfect,” he said.

My aunt though, she was looking at me with sympathy. “I understand. I wanted to be Aliki Vougiouklaki, but she already had the job.”

“Who?”

“She was Greece’s National Star! Our Bardot and Julia Roberts!”

My eye twitched. “Why didn’t you pursue an acting career?”

“My wife wanted me to be a businessman, and my mother wanted me to be a businessman for her. And now here I am, a businesswoman.”

“I want to be a stay-at-home father,” Stavros said.

Laughter blurted out of Takis. “Who wants to do that? Nobody, that’s who. I have four sons and I would rather shove my
kolos
in a cactus than stay at home with them.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Stavros said.

“Okay, then I will tell Marika you are her new babysitter.” He pointed at Stavros with his thumb. “This one cannot get a woman, and he’s planning to stay at home with his children? Where is your
poutsa
? Did somebody cut it off?”

“You’re kind of an asshole,” I told Takis.

He shrugged. “Somebody has to do it.”

Stavros bobbed his head like a sparrow. “He can be very useful during an interrogation, or when we need to hurt somebody.”

This—this was exactly what I was talking about. I couldn’t be in charge of anything where I needed a staff asshole.

“So what’s the plan?” Takis asked.

What was the plan? If there was one no one had told me. And if they expected me to make one, I was too busy freaking out on the inside to plot. Someone else would have to do it.

I said the only thing that made sense to me. “First let’s see what the lawyers say. In the meantime, we look for Papou and Xander.” I pulled the shattered pieces of phone out of my pocket, dumped them on a heap on the table. “And I really need a new phone.”

“What happened?” Aunt Rita asked.

“Police brutality.” Then a thought popped into my head. “Where is Rabbit?”

“
W
e don’t know
,” Aunt Rita said. “If Mama sent him somewhere she didn’t say where.”

“Do you think she had him …?” I slashed my throat with one finger and hoped it translated.

Takis went
tst
. “Nobody gets whacked around here without me knowing about it.”

I wondered if he was with Papou and Xander. That seemed like the most obvious answer. It made sense for Grandma to banish all three men with a single magic trick; one was an escapee prisoner, one was his brother, and the third man had busted him out of his cell.

“Okay,” I said. “Put the word out that all three of them need to be found. They can stay in hiding if they want, but I want to know where they are.”

The two men took off in different directions, but Aunt Rita hung back.

“You look like you’ve got a question.”

My laugh was on the bitter side. “Dozens. But for tonight I need to know how to get into the cellar.”

“What have you got in mind?”

I jumped off the countertop. “Nothing yet. But I need somewhere to go and think.” And watch, while I was at it. If there was anything to see, I wanted to see it.

“Come, I will show you.”

She led me into the front yard. We stood where the concrete varied almost imperceptibly from its surroundings. Aunt Rita grabbed the one of the knobs on top of the fence and twisted.

“You see it?”

“I see it,” I told her. This spot in the yard was all but hidden from the rest of the compound. Grandma’s garden was where the wild things lived, and most of them were leafy. For all I knew she had a triffid or two. So the odds that a random family member could spot Grandma—or us—taking a quick jaunt down to the control room were limited. Not that they’d talk if they knew … unless they were the Family leak.

The concrete pad sank slowly. The temperature dipped with it. Nature has its own air conditioning—in Greece it’s called subterranean caves.

When it stopped we were standing in the Batcave.

There were no bats in Grandma’s Batcave, but it had electronics out the wahzoo. Rows of computers, a wall of monitors, and a captain’s chair with a big red button nearby, hunched under a plastic cover.

“These have Internet, right?” I said, referring to the computers.

“Of course. Down here the connection is private, so that nobody can monitor traffic.”

In Grandma’s case she wasn’t paranoid—they really were out to get her.

“That’s great,” I said. “Thanks.”

She put her arm around me, kissed my forehead. “You want company?”

“Thanks, but I could use some alone time.”

“You need anything, you call me, okay?” She pointed out the complicated phone system. “Press number 2 and it will connect to my cell phone.”

Then she patted me on the shoulder and went back out the way we had come in. Obviously the exit that led to Xander’s room wasn’t for everyone. Or maybe she respected his privacy while he wasn’t around. For all I knew, the trapdoor locked somehow from the other side. The meathead cops hadn’t found either of the entrances; I suspected there were other ways in around the property. Maybe one even led to the far side of the wall. It would be like Grandma to stash an extra contingency plan in her pocket.

I sat in the front row, where I had an excellent view of everything the cameras picked up. Life seemed calm in the compound. Everyone was picking up the pieces of their freshly tossed lives, but that was window dressing. Beneath the surface, they were tense. Their boss was gone—temporarily, I hoped—and some chit they barely knew was fumbling with the wheel. I was nobody. A mere twist of DNA was responsible for my current position. I hadn’t done a thing to earn my place as second-in-command while Grandma was battling the forces of …

Argh
. Well, the forces of good.

Funny how the good guys didn’t seem so good from this side of the fence. What Grandma and Xander had done was monumentally wrong, but somehow in my head I felt like the police should at least have had the decency to knock on the door and ask politely if Rabbit was around, and could they maybe have a word with him if he was.

Without my phone I was dead in the water. I had no way to text Xander and ask where he was, and if Papou and Dogas were with him. Until the lawyers called all I could do was ferment.

I pulled up a browser window in private mode and surfed to the Crooked Noses forum, where news had already broken about Grandma’s departure from the compound in police custody. They had gone out on several limbs, some of them surprisingly stable. They’d surmised that the police were hunting for Dogas and they believed Grandma had not only broken him out, but that she was also harboring a fugitive. Which was true—or had been. They’d analyzed the prison break footage, breaking it down frame by frame.

Someone else had jumped in with the information that Dogas and Grandma’s advisor—Papou—were brothers. Then several other posters slapped him or her down for dishing up what was common knowledge.

Not so common; I hadn’t known until tonight.

Greece was one giant Christmas tree with a bunch of boxes underneath, all wrapped with high quality paper and plush bows. Occasionally I was allowed to open one, but the rest were off limits. When I managed to snatch up one of the forbidden boxes and rattle the contents, it always sounded like rocks.

I planned my question carefully. Typed it in two-fingered.

If the police didn’t find Dogas at the compound, where else could he be
?

A smattering of replies came back almost instantly.
Dead. Alive, but in Turkey. Bulgaria. In Albania, disguised as a woman.
Someone made a crack about Aunt Rita and a handful of the chuckleheads joined in.

BangBang had something to say, but he or she did it in private.

He’s probably close to the compound somewhere. If it were me looking I’d start in the village.

Makria?

The people there would do anything for Baboulas.

Including harboring a fugitive?

Which part of ‘anything’ is giving you a problem?

Ooooh, sarcasm
, I typed.

Wasn’t trying to be sarcastic. It’s a real question. Something tells me you don’t know how deep the ties go between Baboulas and Makria.

How deep?

Like I said: They would do anything for her.

Why? Because of the Regime of the Colonels?

In the late sixties a group of right-wing colonels staged a coup and seized control of Greece. When Greece emerged from the dark tunnel in 1974, they were missing a king and thousands of their own citizens. Grandma, the story goes, worked tirelessly to save the people of Makria—and the surrounding villages—from persecution and execution.

Because of that, because of a lot of things.

I typed:
They know she’s a crime lord, right?

Maybe they think there are worse things a person can be. Never underestimate the blindness that comes with loyalty.

Can I ask you something?

You can ask. Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.

Are you Yoda?

Xaxaxaxa! Not that green, short, or old.

(‘
Xaxaxaxa
!’ is Greek for ‘Hahahaha!’)

So you’re bigger than a breadbox?

What?

It’s an American thing. A game. Twenty Questions.

I froze.

Holy cow. What had I done? I quickly clicked the X in the corner, closing the browser window. With an open palm I slapped my forehead, hoping to shake out the stupidity.

This is what I got for being tired and stressed. Now if I went back to the board I’d have to open a new account under a different name, and maybe try to not mess up by telling people I was American. God knows how much damage I had already done, all but revealing my identity to an avatar of a smoking gun.

I clonked my head on the table.

When I was done berating myself I pulled up a map of Makria. On the screen it looked even tinier, a lopsided spider’s web radiating out from the crossroad.

Was BangBang right, had someone—or several someones—in Makria stashed Dogas away for safekeeping at Grandma’s behest? If so, would I find Xander and Papou with him?

My mind traveled back to last night, to Xander and the moment we shared in the park. What if that ID card wasn’t fake?

What if Xander really was the Greek equivalent of CIA?

M
orning happened
. When it came it was sudden, like the smashing of a plate on a hard, marble floor.

Officially, I hadn’t slept. Unofficially, I was sporting an interesting drool stain on my chin.

When I returned to Grandma’s kitchen, my new phone was on the table. It was the newest incarnation of my old phone, and a few quick swipes showed that someone had taken the time to set everything up as it had been. Perks of the job?

Whatever. I didn’t want them. What I wanted was Grandma back in her kitchen, baking Greek cookies. What I also wanted was my father.

I wanted a lot of things I couldn’t have right now.

First thing’s first: Text Xander. I shot off a message, asking where they were, if they were okay, when they’d be back.

When I was done the new phone chirped. Aunt Rita.

“The lawyers are here,” she said.

“At the compound? I thought they were going to call.”

“Mama pays them enough to make house calls.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be waiting.”

I ran into the bathroom, splashed water into my face until I resembled the newly undead, which was a major improvement. My hair I coiled into a neat bun on top of my head. Clothes ... ugh. Could I pass the wrinkles off as ironic? In Portland—probably. Grandma was loaded, so maybe the lawyers would consider me eccentric instead of a slob.

The gate squealed. Company was here. I smoothed down my shirt and hoped for the best.

There were two people on Grandma’s doorstep, both men. One was a suit; the other was a rumpled suit. He hadn’t mastered the difficult art of wearing too many clothes during a Greek summer. They both carried briefcases. They asked if I was Katerina, and when I confirmed that I was they said they had news and asked if they could come in.

I opened the door wide. “Be my guest.”

If they thought someone of Grandma’s position in life required a fancier abode it didn’t show on their faces. They struck me as cardboard cutouts of real people—no expressions except the ones they came with straight out of the box.

They were, they told me, partners at Samaras, Samaras, and Samaras. I offered coffee but that seemed to make them uncomfortable so I didn’t push the issue.

No Wrinkles said, “The police aren’t holding Kyria Makri because she’s guilty of a crime, but because they think she’s guilty of a crime. They believe she’s responsible for a prison break in Larissa. The prisoner is one Stelios Dogas.”

“Let me guess, they can hold her for twenty-four hours unless they file charges?”

Disclaimer: All my knowledge about the law came from television.

They swapped glances.

“No …”

Also, all my knowledge about the law was American, and sometimes British, and not even remotely Greek, on account of how there’s no CSI: Athens. Yet.

“… They can hold her until they are tired of holding her. The crime is serious, and Kyria Makri is …”

“The head of a criminal organization?” I offered, thinking I should probably save them from having to say it.

“A businesswoman,” Wrinkles said.

“A businesswoman,” No Wrinkles agreed.

“Since when is it a crime to be in business?” Wrinkles asked. The question had a rhetorical hook, so I shut up.

They looked at me, two unblinking sets of eyes.

No Wrinkles moved the conversation onward. “In the event that Kyria Makri does not return home, she has requested that you replace her as the head of her business.”

“No.”

No Wrinkles blinked. “It wasn’t a question.”

“Doesn’t matter. My ‘No’ stands.”

He sat his briefcase on the table, flipped its lid, dumped a stack of paperwork on the kitchen table.

Grandma’s kitchen was tiny at the best of times, but the walls suddenly jumped another foot closer. They wouldn’t stop until I was squeezed into the captain’s chair. Next thing I knew, I’d be wearing black and hobbling around in my garden, listening to people whine about their cheating husbands. I’d be the one baking baklava in this cloying kitchen, while my friends back home lived lives of not-crime.

How many ways were there to tell everyone I didn’t want the job? Two languages—I spoke two languages and neither was delivering the message.

“That is not an option. Even when Kyria Makri is released …”

“I know she’s sick,” I said.

No Wrinkles exchanged glances with Wrinkles. “We weren’t aware Kyria Makri had shared her health status with you,” Wrinkles said.

“She didn’t. A serial killer told me.” I pushed back my chair and hoped they’d get the message. They didn’t. I knew this because they stayed seated, when what I really wanted was for them to, as the British put it, bugger off.

Forget what Jesus would do; these bespoke clowns were used to Grandma, so the question was: What would Grandma do?

She wouldn’t let them stomp her like ripe grapes, that’s what.

“I need you both to leave. Call me when there’s news. No news? Don’t call.”

I held the screen door open. As far as hints went it was a big one. Lucky for them they snatched up the opportunity to exit gracefully. The papers vanished into the leather case. The lawyers stood. They shuffled to the open door, stooping slightly to duck beneath it. The house was built back in the day when tall was something they did in other countries.

“Don’t worry,” I told Wrinkles, “I wasn’t judging you on the suit.”

He looked bewildered. “What’s wrong with my suit?”

I shook my head. “Nothing.”

He fidgeted all the way to the arch. Last I saw of him he was tugging at his tie, trying to figure out if the suit was a problem he needed to solve.

What they had told me was basically nothing I didn’t already know, but they’d bill Grandma anyway. At least I’d saved her some money by booting them out the door as quickly as possible.