Devil of Delphi: A Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis Mystery (3 page)

Both men nodded as Maggie smiled and patted Andreas on the arm.

“Good.” Andreas raised his glass. “To bye-bye,
bomba
.”

Chapter Three

Finding a place to ditch the car was easy. Kharon parked it in one of Athens’ worst neighborhoods. It would be gone by morning, even if he hadn’t left the keys in it. By the time the rental car company or its insurance carrier got around to chasing whoever rented it, the car and any link to Kharon would have long faded away into the opaque Athens air.

He took the Metro and got off at the stop closest to Exarchia Square, Athens’ central gathering place for revolutionaries of all persuasions. He wasn’t a revolutionary and couldn’t care less who ran the government as long as whoever did stayed away from him. And in Exarchia Square the cops stayed away from everybody. They weren’t welcome there and knew it.

That’s what attracted many of his old buddies to the neighborhood; that and the living they made feeding off the children of the rich who came there to repent for their families’ wealth by showing solidarity with the “cause of the people.” At least until it was their turn to sit atop society’s pyramid.

He walked east along Stournari Street, past the National Technical University and along the northern edge of wedge-shaped Exarchia Square. Banners and placards proclaiming all sorts of grievances and threats seemed to hang on the square’s every available bit of fence and tree.

He headed for a taverna directly across from its northeast corner. Inside he chose a table with a clear view of the entrance and ordered chicken
souvlaki
on a bed of rice, Greek salad, and Alpha beer.

A group of six college-age men, all sporting beards in the Spartan warrior fashion of the day, sat at the next table huddled in conversation.

The waiter brought him a small plate, a glass, silverware, paper napkins, and a basket filled with bread. He placed a napkin on his lap, carefully arranged the silverware to position the fork to his left and the spoon and knife to his right, moved the glass to his right just beyond the spoon and knife, and slid the bread plate to the left of his fork.

He sat quietly waiting for his food, alert to the six men studying him from the next table. The waiter placed the
souvlaki
neatly between the silverware, and the salad and beer to his right.

Kharon moved the salad to his left and poured the beer into the glass. He picked up the fork with his left hand, the knife with his right, and began carefully separating the chicken from its wooden skewer.

He took a bite of the chicken, chewed it slowly, swallowed, put down his utensils, picked up the beer, and took a sip. He put down the beer, picked up his fork and carefully transferred a few pieces of cucumber and tomato onto his bread plate. Using the knife, he cut each piece of cucumber and tomato into quarters before slowly eating them one piece at a time.

The men at the next table now openly stared at him. Kharon waved for the waiter.

“Yes, sir?”

“May I have a sharper knife for the chicken?”

“Certainly.”

The waiter left and returned quickly with a steak knife.

Kharon used it to cut a piece of chicken. Two men in their early twenties got up from the next table and stood directly across from Kharon. They were tall, but not as tall as Kharon.

Kharon kept on eating, as if oblivious to their presence. Two other men got up from the table and stood behind him.

One of the men in front of him, wearing a Che Guevara tee-shirt, said, “What are you doing here?”

Kharon ignored him and reached for a piece of cucumber with his fork.

The man stepped forward, leaned in across the table, and growled, “I’m talking to you.”

Kharon lifted the cucumber to the man’s mouth. The man swatted it away with his hand.

“Would you prefer the chicken?” asked Kharon.

The man reached across the table and grabbed the front of Kharon’s shirt. “
Malaka
, you’re fucking with the wrong people.”

Kharon didn’t move or say a word. He waited until the man let go of his shirt, took his fork and knife, picked up another piece of chicken with the fork, put it to his mouth, stared at the man, and said, “I think not.”

The man paused and looked at the two men still sitting at the next table.

“Who are you?” said the older looking of the two at the table.

“A customer.”

“I think you’re a cop.”

“I think you’re a fool.”

The older one glared and said to his colleagues. “Bust the asshole’s head.”

As the words left the man’s mouth, Kharon drove the steak knife into the thigh of the man behind him and to his right. At the same time he rammed the table forward into the knees of the two in front of him, pivoted out of the chair to his right, and in a single swift, fluid stroke drew the blade out of the screaming man’s thigh and sliced it through the older man’s beard until the tip of the blade pressed hard against his throat.

“As I said, you’re a fool. The question is, do you want to be a dead fool?”

The man stammered his answer. Kharon leaned harder on the blade.

“No, no!”

Kharon looked from the man to his hesitant buddies. “Then I think you know what to say.”

“Get out of here. Everybody.
Now
!”

Five men hurried toward the entrance, one limping badly, and out onto the street. Kharon kept the blade pressed to the sixth man’s throat.

“Someone has to pay for my ruined meal and I’m sure you don’t want this poor workingman to suffer because of your bad manners.”

The man fumbled his right hand through his pants pocket and came out with a thick wad of euros.

“I see the revolution pays well.” Kharon plucked a hundred-euro note from the man’s hand. “That should cover my meal and provide a generous tip.”

He drew the knife away from the man’s throat. “I suggest you leave here and not consider coming back until I’ve left.” He looked straight into the frightened man’s eyes. “Understand?”

The man rubbed his throat and glanced at the blade. “Yes.”

“Good, consider yourself, and anyone you might think of sending in here, warned.”

The man backed away from the table and ran out the door.

Kharon waved to the waiter who was peeking out from the safety of the kitchen. “Sorry about the mess. This is for you,” holding out the hundred euros. “Could you please bring me a coffee?”

The waiter nodded and hurried back into the kitchen.

Five minutes later, as Kharon sipped his coffee, a swarthy, bearded fellow, almost as tall as he was wide, waddled into the taverna, headed straight to Kharon’s table, and sat down. “I heard you were in the neighborhood.”

“How’d you hear that?”

“From the six you ran out of here. They came to my place, raging about what they were going to do to this asshole that dared violate their turf. When I heard what happened I figured it must be you.”

“From the knife work?”

“No, from the way they talked about how you ate. The same as you’ve always done since we left the orphanage.”

Kharon shrugged. “It’s my way of paying respect to the plentiful food I now have to eat. I never forget that we didn’t always have it that way, back in our orphanage days.”

The man smiled and rubbed his belly. “I remember by eating as much as I can every chance I get.”

Kharon smiled. “Are they coming back?”

“I told them only if they were interested in committing suicide.”

“Thanks, Jacobi.”

“So, why are you here, and not in my place?”

“I planned on coming to see you later, but the food is better here.”

Jacobi laughed. “What’s up, my friend?”

“I was in town for a few hours and thought I’d check in with you to see if there’s any work out there you thought might interest me.”

“Nothing requiring your sophisticated talents. These days it’s rather rough and direct. The fiscal crisis makes subtlety less of a concern to folks in need of attitude-adjustment specialists.”

“Interesting euphemism, but there’s no need for one. I can be rough and direct if necessary.”

“I’m sure the waiter will attest to that.”

Kharon smiled again. “You’re the only one who ever makes me smile for real.”

“I’ll remember that. And I’ll keep you in mind if I hear anything. Can I reach you at the same number?”

“Yes, I’ll be heading back later tonight, tomorrow morning at the latest.”

“Want to crash at my place?”

Kharon gestured no. “I think I best leave this neighborhood for now, just in case those new customers I sent you rally up some courage off your booze.”

“Don’t worry, I only serve assholes like that the stuff that’ll blind them.”

Kharon smiled. The men shook hands and left.

***

To learn about
bomba
, find a bar notorious for the wild life. A place where most patrons come for the action and hardly notice what they’re drinking as long as it brings on a buzz.

During the summer, the place for Athens area nightlife action lay southeast of the city in the western seacoast towns along the road to the Temple of Poseidon at Sounion. Big-time nightspots in the center of Athens generally closed for the summer or followed their clientele out to the islands. Some of Athens’ chicest neighborhoods lay out this way, as did its most popular summer clubs.

That’s why Kouros and Petro were in Vouliagmeni, knocking on the door of a club owned by a Greek-Cypriot Petro knew from his time as a bouncer in Athens nightclubs. A lot of cops did that sort of work. It was one of the honest ways to supplement their meager paychecks.

“What makes you think he’ll talk to us?” said Kouros.

“He owes me favors. Besides, I told him we’re not going to bust him for what he tells us.” Petro looked at Kouros with concern. “That was okay to say, right?”

Kouros nodded. “As long as he isn’t a bootlegger or selling stuff that can kill his customers.”

“I don’t think he’d do that. But he’s cagey, so I’m sure he’s selling counterfeit to beat taxes.”

Petro pounded on the door. “Aleko, open up. It’s Petro. I know you’re in there.”

They heard the sound of chair legs screeching against a wooden floor. “Just a minute.”

Two locks clicked and the door swung in. A gaunt, unshaven bald figure in his mid-thirties leaned against the doorframe. He was shoeless and darkly tanned, and his runny red eyes made him the perfect poster child for a rehab program.

He fixed his eyes on Petro. “Hey, man, what are you doing here?”

“I called you a couple of hours ago and told you I’d be over with a friend to talk to you about something we needed your help with.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, I did. By the way, your zipper’s down.”

Petro didn’t wait to be invited inside. He stepped through the doorway and headed straight for the bar area. It smelled of disinfectant almost strong enough to cover the stale beer and cigarette smells. A dark-haired woman barely out of her teens stood off by the bar. She looked afraid.

“Are you okay, miss?” said Kouros.

She looked at Aleko then back at Kouros. “Yes.”

“Who’s she?” asked Petro.

“I don’t know,” said Aleko looking at the floor. “She came in here about an hour ago looking for a job. I was interviewing her when you started banging on the door.”

The girl also looked at the floor.

“Why don’t you run along, miss? I’m sure you have the job,” said Kouros. He looked at Aleko. “Isn’t that right?”

Aleko shrugged. “Yeah, sure. She starts tonight.”

Kouros saw her out, not bothering to tell her to fix the misaligned buttons on the front of her dress. She was embarrassed enough already.

“Hard finding good help?” said Kouros.

Aleko shrugged again. “Did you guys come here to bust my balls?”

“No,” said Petro. “We came to talk about
bomba
.”

“
Bomba
? I never touch the stuff. It’s illegal.”

Petro put a big paw on Aleko’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, man. We’re not after you. I’ve come to you as a friend for a little background on the industry.” He gave Aleko’s shoulder a painful squeeze. “I don’t know who you think you’re kidding by playing dumb. All you’re doing is embarrassing me in front of my buddy. I told him you’re the man in the know.”

Aleko winced and twisted away from the squeeze. “Sorry, but I can’t help you.”

Kouros shrugged. “No problem. We’ll just take a look behind the bar and see what we can find that might refresh your memory.” He headed toward the bar.

“Hey!” Aleko said weakly. “You have no right to be in my place.”

“Of course we do,” said Kouros without stopping. “We heard a young girl screaming…really sounded more like screeching…and came in to find you forcing yourself upon an innocent young woman who’d come to you seeking employment. Trust me, Aleko, talking to us about
bomba
on a strictly anonymous basis will be a lot less risky to you than facing a female prosecutor on the charges I’ll get that girl to bring against you.”

Kouros reached down behind the bar and pulled out five bottles of identically labeled, expensive vodka.

Aleko said nothing.

“Interesting bottles here, Aleko. I’ve seen the sort before. And the tax stamps look even more interesting.”

“Okay, okay. What do you want to know? You’re not going to tell anyone it’s me who told you, right?”

Petro nodded and pushed him toward the bar. “Right.”

Aleko plopped onto a stool, shook his head, and let out a deep breath.

“What can I tell you that you don’t already know?”

“Let’s start with this stuff behind the bar.”

“It’s from a new supplier. And it’s all good stuff. I only buy the good stuff. The other shit out there could poison you.”

“And how’s the cost of this ‘good stuff’ compare to the price of the vodka it’s supposed to be?” said Kouros.

“If I normally paid twenty a bottle, then that stuff would cost me from five to seven, depending on how many cases I buy.”

“So, if you get twenty-two shots out of a liter bottle, at two euros a shot you’re making roughly six to nine times your money,” said Petro.

“Yes, but for big spenders who want the high-end brands that cost me about the same as what I’m using for shots, we can easily make thirty times our cost. And I’m talking just on the price of the booze. They have to pay extra if they want a table to sit at.”