Disorganized Crime: A Kat Makris Greek Mafia Novel (19 page)

I gawked.

A few thousand dollars, my ass. More like a hundred thousand—maybe more. One thick bundle of cash at a time I unpacked the safe. All hundreds. Ten thousand per bundle. Twenty-six bundles. 260,000 smackeroos.

The money wasn't alone: it had pals, including a short stack of passports from various countries. The names were all different. Dad's face was the only common denominator.

My heart flipped out. My brain short-circuited. Curse words spray painted the bathroom. On the tub's cool porcelain edge, with the passports fanned out in my hands, I selected one. Alessandro Rossi's Italian
passaporto
. It had stamps. Recent stamps. Last January, Dad traveled from LAX to Frankfurt as Rossi. Rossi and Dad returned three days later.

The madness didn't stop there. Dad was a guy who really got around. And he had a gun—a sleek, stub-nosed Glock 17. I knew that because it was in the safe, too.

I wanted to feel indignation and rage that I'd been lied to, but I didn't. Maybe it would come later. Right now all I felt was worried sick. My stomach was churning acid milkshakes that were threatening to melt through the lining.

Who
was Dad when he wasn't being Dad? Did Alessandro Rossi have a daughter, and a wife he'd lost to cancer?

I don't know how long I sat there, pondering the previously unthinkable. A while. Maybe longer. When I left the bathroom the sun was still up and there was a starving, gnawing beast stomping around in my belly.

The doorbell rang. On the other side of the door stood a man with an express envelope in his hand. He wished me a good day and jogged back to his truck, before—I presumed—speeding to his next delivery. I tore into the cardboard packet and found my new passport. Reggie Tubbs's gal did good. So what if my photo looked like a Wanted poster? I'd fit right in with the rest of the Family.

This was the rainy day. Whoever the money belonged to—Dad or Alessandro or Pierre—eight thousand of it was mine now, and it was taking a trip to the bank. I stowed another three thousand in my purse, in case I needed cash.

Then I booked a ticket to Greece. Open-ended.

I locked my parents' house and left Portland behind me, for God knows how long.

G
reece was
the same-old when I arrived. Athens turned out to be a sultry old dame with a two-million car a day habit, and it showed.

I caught the KTEL bus at the Liossion station for the paltry price of twenty-seven euros, and three or so hours, all of them spent seated next to a woman who made Grandma look like a bouncy teenager. She prayed to the Virgin Mary the whole way, rocking back and forth in her seat, then knocked everyone else aside with her elbows when the bus wheezed into Volos.

"
Tsiganes
put a curse on me." She pointed to her eye. "Everything I eat …" Her belly let out a bus-rumbling groan and she smacked the driver with her handbag. "Hurry up!" The doors opened and she bolted down the steps. The last I saw of her she was disappearing into the bus terminal, in search of a bathroom.

All those hours I'd been in the splash zone of a potential ecological disaster, thanks to a Romani curse. But I'd survived.

It was a sign. Someone up there was watching out for me.

D
etective Melas
, the internet told me, lived in what used to be an old firehouse, in a lower middle class neighborhood, in one of the villages on the outskirts of Volos. Suburbs now, if you want to be all technical about it. My father wasn't surprised when he read the city of Volos had gobbled up all the old villages.
They are all the same shit
, Dad always said.

Two stories, narrow figure, lots of brick. What about the pole? My inner child was suddenly voraciously curious about that, as was my inner stripper. The sliding door was still there, but that was the obvious way in. I didn't want obvious—not when there were nosy neighbors about. I sauntered around the side of the house like I was a regular visitor, glancing back when a megaphone crackled, crumbling the silence into serrated pieces. Romani. They were hawking melons out the back of a pickup truck, dusky-skinned women and men who looked tight with Pantone. They were wearing all the colors simultaneously, multilayered, and they wanted twenty cents per kilo for their melons.

For a moment, I considered buying Melas a watermelon.

Nope. Bad idea. What if giving a Greek guy a melon meant we were married or something?

I scooted around back where, lucky for me, there was a back door—a metal slab jammed into the brick. It opened easily after I sweet-talked it with a makeshift lockpick. So maybe I had Googled a thing or two during all that time I'd spent in the bathroom back home. It was always good to learn new things.

Don't think I hadn't struggled with this step toward a life of petty crime. I had. Yeah, I could have plonked myself down on his doorstep and waited like a decent person, but I wanted to snoop. With my family history it could be a gateway crime, and tomorrow I might wake up full-gangster, but those were the risks. I wasn't convinced Nikos Melas was completely kosher.

Inside, my question was answered: Melas had kept the pole.

His place oozed masculinity. The furniture was no-nonsense. Low-key, woodsy colors. No dishwasher. A few photos. Family mostly, by the looks of their features. I dropped my bags, climbed the metal staircase, and found myself in a combination bedroom and office. He had freestanding closets and a desk with an old chair. His laptop was a couple of generations behind, and he didn't use a mouse. Nothing to suggest this was a guy accepting handouts from the mob. I could have booted up his laptop, but that felt icky. I took that as a sign I'd suck at serious crime. The bed was neatly made. It looked comfortable after losing a day between planes and the bus. I kicked off my boots, fluffed his pillow, flopped onto the mattress, and made myself at home. Just for a moment, I promised myself.

I pulled out my phone and tapped until I was back at the Crooked Noses Message Board, perusing the latest Greek mafia news. Cookie's grave had been discovered empty, his boat burned, but of Cookie there was no sign. Dad still hadn't been found. And there was a rumor that Baboulas had killed us both and had her henchmen churn us into sausages and sold to unsuspecting diners in Makria.

BangBang had told everyone to chill, that Baboulas had no reason to kill me or her son. He or she said it with confidence, like they knew.

FarFarAwayGirl shot BangBang a private message.
How do you know Baboulas didn't kill her
?

Just a hunch
, BangBang replied.

Didn't sound like a hunch.

There was a long pause.
You want to go digging in this world? Better bring a shovel and a gun.

I don't want to dig
, I lied.
I'm just curious.

There was nothing after that, and I didn't prod him—or her. The travel finally caught up, slugged me, and my lights blinked off.

D
etective Melas was home
. He had a gun in one hand, a claw hammer in the other. His mouth was a grim slash and he was wearing a red handprint on his right cheek. He was in uniform, but he'd flicked open the top couple of buttons between the job and here, eager to kick back and relax, obviously.

And here I was, screwing up the zen afternoon he had planned.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I squealed, two seconds after I'd slapped the snot out of him. "Who barges into their own home ready to shoot?"

"The back door was open."

"I didn't shut it? I meant to."

"Well, that changes everything."

Was that sarcasm? I couldn't tell. The adrenaline surge was making things fuzzy. It wanted me to flight or fight, when I'd already spent hours in transit and dimmed my lights further with an impromptu nap.

"Good."

He blinked. "That was sarcasm, you fruit. What the fuck are you doing in my house? Scratch that—what the fuck are you doing in Greece?"

"Really?" Oh yeah, who was sarcastic now? Katerina Makris, that's who. Yeah, I was death-gripping my s. I had a birth certificate and a passport that said it was mine. "That's not blindingly obvious?"

"You better not be doing what I think you're doing."

"What do you think I'm doing?"

"Looking for your father."

"Okay, so I am. No one else is."

He laughed. It was a hard, unforgiving bark. "Is that what you think?"

My eyes narrowed. "What do you know?"

"I know word is they found Cookie's grave empty and his boat burning in the harbor. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"So what? He fakes his death a lot. You told me that."

"His sister filed a missing person report. Said he was supposed to call her when he picked up his car at the cemetery, but he never did call and the car was gone. One of Baby Dimitri's working girls swore she saw Cookie in a car with one of your grandmother's men and a woman who looked just like you."

"Half of Greece looks like me. It's not exactly a positive ID."

"Baby, nobody here looks like you. You're—"

"What?"

The air whooshed out of him. "Going back home," he said.

I put my hands on my hips, chin jutting forward. "Oh yeah? What are you going to do about it?"

The click was barely audible, yet it had all the weight of a cell door slamming. One end of the cuffs was circling my wrist—ooh, shiny!—while the other end was biting into the pole.

He'd cuffed me.

To the pole.

"You're an ass," I yelped.

He rolled his eyes. "Want to know how many times a day I hear that? Comes with the job. I'm immune." He rapped a knuckle on my forehead. "Back soon, baby. Rough day. Long and hard."

"That's what she said," I muttered. He looked at me like I was a nut. Guess they weren't familiar with that joke over here.

My hand slid down to my crossbody bag where I'd stowed my lockpicks. Melas caught on. He relieved me of the bag, dumped it on his bed, then he winked.

"Nice try. You like
moussaka
?"

The animal center of my brain lunged forward. That cardboard meal on the plane was ancient history. And the souvlaki I scoffed down in Lamia. And the snacks I'd brought along for company, just in case I wanted to do some comfort eating.

All of it ancient, crumbling history. This new hunger was real and fierce and
now
.

"Maybe," I said, trying to be cool and failing miserably.

"Be a good girl and you can have some when it's done."

Then he left me there.

My hormones were suddenly my own worst enemy. They liked the cuffs—they liked them a lot. In fact, they were nudging and winking at me, urging me to tell Melas that all three of us should revisit this kinky little scene in his bed over there. It was wrought iron and it looked like it could take a beating.

My hormones were both stupid and blind.

Fortunately, my senses were smarter. They were perfectly aware that in order to keep my arm in its socket I had to lean toward the pole without falling through the giant freakin' hole cut into the floor. I had balancing skills, but I wasn't sure how long I could keep them up.

Downstairs, paper crackled. Plastic screeched. Buttons beeped. Then I heard the unmistakable hum of a microwave oven doing unnatural things to food.

"Are you … microwaving that moussaka?" I called out.

"You got a problem with that? Because if you do, I can eat it all myself."

Even though he couldn't see me, I shook my head. "No, no, that's fine. Microwaved is good."

Yeah, if you're making popcorn or reheating coffee.

Plates rattled. Cutlery clunked together. I heard the zip-zipping of a serrated knife hacking bread into chunks. The microwave beeped. The aroma of bubbling meat and cheese and béchamel sauce had me food drunk. Zapped or not zapped, I'd go to the plate a willing diner.

I groaned. My stomach growled along in solidarity.

Feed me, Seymour
.

Footsteps on the metal stairs. Melas was back, carrying two plates loaded down with moussaka and bread. He set one plate on the dresser, dragged his office chair over to where I was standing, about to pass out from hunger lust. He sat. Began cutting his meal with the food. He broke a wad of bread off the chunk, used it to push steaming meat and sauce onto his fork.

Then the bastard ate it.

I closed my eyes, sank to the floor. "I really hate you."

"This is good," he told me, waving the utensil in my direction. "It's my mother's."

"Home cooking …"

He shoveled more onto his fork. "You cook?"

"Sure, I cook. But not like that. My mom was the serious cook in the family."

"Was?"

"She died."

He nodded, not meeting my eyes. "How did it happen?"

"
Karkinos
." Cancer.

"Sorry. How old were you?"

"Old enough that it didn't screw me up for life, young enough that there's a big gaping hole in my heart and soul," I admitted. "Dad is all I've got. He's always looked out for me—now I have to look out for him."

"He's not all you've got. Blood doesn't turn to water." I gave him a look, so he elucidated. "What about your family here?"

"Ha! Family. My grandmother drugged me, then she had my cousins fly me home."

He laughed, the ass. "I heard."

"And you did nothing? That's kidnapping! Or … or …" My argument petered out. "Or something."

"She was doing you a favor. Doing the right thing. Getting you out of harm's way."

"She's the one who put me in it to begin with when my goon cousins grabbed me." Okay, so they were aiming for Dad. But still.

"She miscalculated."

"What are you, her lawyer?"

"A parent."

Whoa! No way had I seen that coming. "You've got kids?"

"A son. He lives with his mother."

"Divorced?"

"Never married."

"Can I have some of that moussaka?"

"Not yet."

"What would you do if he was missing?"

"Tear the world apart with my hands."

"Exactly," I said. "So why isn't my grandmother doing that?"

"She's a mobster. They're known for not being wired right."

"Please." I rolled my eyes. "Everybody knows family's important to Family. Hey, can I ask you a question?"

"No."

"Why did you tell me Dad's old gang were criminals? They're dentists and school teachers. Not exactly the FBI's Most Wanted."

"You have problems with 'No,' don't you?"

"No."

The phone clipped to his hip buzzed. He glanced at the screen, made a face, stood. "I've got to go."

"Forget something?"

He glanced around. "No." He dropped the plate on his chair, just out of reach, then made a beeline for the stairs.

"Hey," I yelled, panicking. It was inhumane to leave me cuffed to the pole—no food, no water. What if I needed to pee? The urge was already there. I was nearly thirty—
thirty
—and I already knew my bladder wasn't what it used to be. An eighteen-year-old bladder has the capacity of one of those pale blue water towers every rural American town seems to have. At twenty-eight, mine was already down to the size of a small wine cask. By thirty-five I'd be drinking out of a thimble, then cursing myself for overindulging. "What kind of Greek are you? Hospitality is what you do!"

His voice wafted up through the pole hole. "You're half Greek too, honey."

"Don't call me honey."

"Then don't break into my house next time. Wait outside like a good girl."

The back door slammed. I heard the snick of the lock I'd picked earlier.

I closed my eyes. God, his mother's moussaka smelled good. How the hell was I going to get out of this pickle?

I looked down, through to what was a loft-type set up, now that the Melas's home wasn't housing firetrucks. Eyes closed again, I tried to recall the layout. I shuffled around the pole, gawking at the great expanse of nothing much below. There was furniture, but none of it was in arm's reach, even if I slid down. I'd just be stuck down there, equally hungry, even further away from the food.

The chair. Maybe I could reach that. I laid down on the floor, wiggled backwards until the cuffs threatened to tear off my arm. My shoulder socket was making all kinds of protests, but I knew if push came to shove, it would give up my arm just like that. My body was no match for metal. I glanced back at the chair with the plate of sweet mana sitting on its seat, waiting on some nice, considerate person like me to come along and chow it down. Maybe if I wiggled my foot I could hook one of the legs.