The Mykonos Mob

by Jeffrey Siger

  “So much for my leisurely Mykonos sunset stroll,” said Yianni.

  “Then take a walk with me,” said Toni as she headed for the windmills. “I could use a big strong cop like you to protect me.”

  “Somehow I doubt that,” he muttered but dutifully followed behind.

  With sunset long past, they drifted with the flow of early evening strollers down to a bay on the backside of the old harbor. They stopped by the edge of the water, and stared out across a glassy silver sea toward a patchwork of lights on an island a dozen miles away.

  “I’ve been to that island several times,” said Yianni. “Each time thinking it nothing special. Just a regular place, filled with regular people, leading regular, everyday lives. “

  “No one would ever say that about this place,” said Toni. “Here we cater to everything but the regular. We take great pride in being special, in having created a paradise for the very best, conveniently ignoring its parallel attraction for the very worst.”

  “You sound like a cop.”

  She shrugged. “It’s a no-brainer what bad guys will select when offered the choice between hunting among regular folk in regular communities or the hordes of rich and beautiful party people uninhibitedly enjoying themselves in a no-boundaries community devoid of any meaningful police presence.” She gestured all around them. “It’s a paradise for everyone. Until you become a victim.” Toni bent down and picked up a round flat stone. “On the other hand, victims are what keep cops like you employed.”

  “Are we back to rock-tossing?” deadpanned Yianni.

  She smiled, leaned back, dropped her right shoulder, and whipped her arm forward, letting loose with the stone as she did. They watched the stone skip across the water three times before disappearing in a final splash. “Skimming stones reminds me of summers spent with my family on a lake.”

  “Where was that?”

  “Different places, different times.”

  Before Yianni could ask another question, Toni turned and looked up at the windmills. “What do you think about asking shopkeepers and hotel employees up around the windmills if they saw the woman from the cove? After all, she was practically naked when she ran off.”

  “We could try, but shopkeepers generally avoid getting involved in matters that don’t concern them. Afraid they’ll step on the wrong officials’ toes. And hotel workers are geared to protecting the privacy of their clients.”

  “Even from the police?”

  “Especially from the police.”

  “I still think we should try.”

  “Frankly, from her choice of beaches my guess is she’s staying in a rented room in a private home somewhere else in town.”

  Renting rooms in private homes was a longstanding tradition on the island, originally designed as a means of supplementing a meager wage-earner’s income. But amid Greece’s continuing economic crisis, the number of homeowners now engaged in the practice had increased dramatically across all economic classes. So much so that hotels at virtually every price point now viewed private home rentals as decidedly unfair competition against their heavily regulated tourist industry.

  “So, you’re saying it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack?”

  “No, I’d say it’s more like looking for an anonymous tourist who doesn’t want to be found hiding somewhere amid twenty-five-thousand beds.”

  She turned away from the windmills. “Well, come on. It’s time for me to go to work.”

  “Great, just what I was hoping to do on my free night on the island, watch you waiting tables.”

  She turned and began walking, not saying a word, just hooking a finger over her shoulder for him to follow. She led them toward a cluster of bars and restaurants by a dozen or so multicolored, three-story, former pirate-captain homes lining the eastern side of the bay. It was those homes—unique in otherwise all-white, two-stories-maximum Mykonos—that gave the area its nickname of Little Venice.

  Its unparalleled view of the island’s iconic windmills and proximity to the most photographed church in the Cyclades, the fifteenth-century Paraportiani, had cruise-boat mobs flocking there by day, creating a paradise for taverna and tourist shop owners. But its nights belonged to all-night partiers who bounced from bar to bar in search of their island fantasies against the backdrop of a crystal bay ablaze with heavenly and man-made light.

  Without wind, the walk along the concrete apron separating the seawall from the bars, offered a lovely view of the water; and with wind, a lovely view of the water dousing passersby. Tables were set up on the apron so snugly against the outside walls of the bars that only swizzle sticks could comfortably pass each other at the narrowest parts, but after midnight even its broadest stretches would be packed solid with revelers partying until dawn.

  At the end of the apron, Toni turned right and took a quick left onto a lane running parallel to the sea on the land-based side of the captains’ houses. A few steps farther, she stepped left through a doorway with a rainbow emblazoned atop its doorframe.

  Yianni stood in the doorway, peering inside. It looked like an old English pub, with two young-looking men, one blond and one dark, standing behind a bar off to the right and talking across it to a stocky old man sitting on a bar stool.

  Toni turned and stared at Yianni. “What’s the matter, Detective, afraid of a gay bar?”

  Yianni’s face tightened. “I’m not sure if you’re trying to test me, you’re defensive, or both. But whatever it is, you’re way out of line. First of all, the name is Yianni. Second, I happen to know the place. It’s a favorite of a buddy of mine on the force who looks a little like the guy sitting at the bar. And, third, I’m reminiscing, not hesitating.”

  Toni waved for him to come inside. “Sorry, didn’t mean to offend you, Detec—” She paused and smiled. “Yianni.”

  Yianni’s expression relaxed and he stepped inside. “Apology accepted.”

  A well-worn, upright piano stood off to the left, just beyond the bar. It sat angled so the piano player could take in the action in the bar area while playing to a main room that opened onto a wide view of the bay through windows reminiscent of a massive sixteenth-century fighting galleon.

  “Glad to see this is still a piano bar and not trying to be just another wannabe Las Vegas hotspot,” said Yianni.

  “I think you mean Miami wannabe.”

  Yianni shrugged. “I’ll have to take your word on that. I’ve never been to Miami.” He looked around the room. “Where’s the piano player?”

  Toni shook her head. “Artists….” She turned, waved to the folks at the bar, and said in English. “This is my friend Yianni. Make sure he doesn’t get into any trouble.” She walked over to the piano and sat down at its bench. “Because of the sort of music I perform, most conversations in here tend to take place in English.”

  “You’re the piano player?” said Yianni.

  “Yep, ’tis moi.” She struck a deep chord on the keyboard with her left hand as she answered, then pulled a binder off the shelf behind her.

  Yianni rested his forearms on top of the piano and glanced at a glass fishbowl with the word TIPS written across a piece of transparent tape stuck to one side. “I never would have guessed.”

  “Hopefully you won’t say that after you’ve heard me play.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll lie if necessary.”

  She stared at him. “Is that your effort at getting back at me for my bit of teasing at the doorway?”

  “Could be.” He smiled.

  She smiled back. “I can handle it. Playing piano in a bar requires a certain mindset. We have to put up with all types.”

  The old man at the bar yelled, “Hey, piano player, play ‘New York, New York.’”

  Toni rolled her eyes. “See what I mean? Never fails. Every night I get that at least once, though in this bar they usually want the Lady
Gaga or Liza Minnelli version. Damn if I understand the magic of that song to piano-bar crowds—and it’s not only Americans who want it.”

  Toni smiled at the guy at the bar. “I’m not on yet for twenty minutes. I’ll get to it in my first set, fella. Promise.”

  She whispered to Yianni, “They’re all fellas if I don’t know their names, and putting off requests into the next set gives them time to think about how much to tip me for playing their song. Tricks of the trade.”

  “Play it now and I’ll double my tip,” said the man, slurring his words.

  Again she spoke to Yianni, but this time not in a whisper: “Am I correct that double nothing is still nothing?”

  “I heard that,” said the man.

  “So, how much do you plan on tipping her?” asked Yianni.

  “Who are you?” said the man.

  “The piano player’s accountant.”

  “Oh.” The man paused. “Twenty euros.”

  At that, Toni dropped her binder back on the shelf and launched straight into his request. The man smiled and patted the bar in time with the music. When Toni finished, he slid off the bar stool, stumbled over to the piano and dropped fifty euros into the fishbowl.

  “Sir, that’s a fifty you put in the bowl. I agreed to play it for twenty.”

  The man shrugged. “I know, but I liked it so much I wanted to give you more.”

  “That’s not necessary, sir.”

  He waved her off.

  “Is there another song you’d like me to play?”

  “No.” As he walked back to his stool, Toni played the song again. The man waved his thanks without turning around.

  When she’d finished, Yianni whispered. “I was very impressed.”

  “By my playing?”

  “By the whole package. Especially the part where you pointed out you’d been over-tipped.”

  “Don’t thank me for that; thank my parents for raising me that way.”

  “You’re also obviously very patient.”

  “That’s a risky assumption to make based on how I behave in here. Playing in a piano bar gives me very little choice other than to be patient. These aren’t concert-goers. Bar patrons show up with a mix of interests and expectations regarding the music they want to hear.” She waved to the guys behind the bar and made a drinking gesture.

  “Friends come in celebrating, looking for upbeat tunes; businesspeople might ignore the music as long as they can hear each other talk; and, of course, any alcohol-fueled seduction requires a background of romantic music.”

  The blond from behind the bar walked over and handed Toni a bottle of water and napkin. “What would you like?” he asked Yianni in American-accented English.

  “A Mythos. Please.”

  “So, you’re a beer sort of guy,” he said.

  Yianni nodded. “This place makes me feel that way.”

  “I said beer,” grinned the man, “not queer.”

  Yianni laughed.

  “Jody, get away from him,” said Toni.

  “Killjoy,” said Jody, walking back to the bar.

  “I can see where you have a lot of fun in here.”

  “At times.”

  “What I’ve always wondered,” said Yianni, “is how musicians who work in bars like this handle the constant background noise of rattling glassware and conversations?”

  “If you work long enough in piano bars, you develop a mindset to cope with all of that. Or you go crazy.” Toni took a sip of water, put down the bottle, and began waving one hand in the air as if conducting an orchestra. She spoke as if addressing Parliament.

  “When I started out in the business, I’d shut my eyes when I played and sort of drift off into the sounds of the room. If I used my imagination, all the competing noise became part of the music. I was like the orchestra conductor, uniting all those different sounds into a unified, symphonic performance—ideally, drawing the audience into an appreciative, tip-giving state of mind in the process.”

  She dropped her conducting hand down onto the keyboard and returned to her normal tone of voice.

  “Like I said, that was my thinking when I started out in the business. Over time, I’ve come to learn my actual job in a piano bar, and with that realization I’ve achieved a Zen-like understanding of the meaning of my life’s work. It’s so simple, so obvious, and so intrinsically calming to an artist’s soul.”

  She waited.

  “I get it,” said Yianni. “That’s my cue to ask what you learned.”

  She played the piano equivalent of a drum roll. “My job is to sell drinks. Period, end of story.”

  Yianni shook his head and grinned. “So, when did you start off on this career?”

  “Ah, now we’re into the personal questions. Sorry, Yianni, but they’ll have to wait for another day. Now it’s time for me to get to work.”

  “What time do you finish?”

  “Three.”

  Yianni’s face dropped. “That’s a bit too late for me tonight. Tomorrow’s Friday and a workday for me.”

  She picked up a pen from the shelf and scribbled a number on the napkin. “Here’s my number. Call me when you have time. After all, I owe you at least a coffee as a commission on that fifty you got for me.”

  Yianni took the napkin and stared at the number.

  “And one other thing,” she said, standing. “Thanks for what you did before to help that woman in the cove. You’re a good guy.” She kissed him on both cheeks and sat down. “Now get out of here, before another good guy tries to pick you up.”

  Chapter Seven

  Lila sat propped up in bed, reading. Andreas lay flat on his back, his head propped up slightly against the headboard, watching a football game on a muted TV.

  “You do realize you’re going to strain your neck lying like that,” she said.

  “I’ve done this all my life.”

  “You tell me that each time I warn you. Then, the next morning, I get to watch you twisting your neck every which way, trying to work out a kink.”

  “They’re not related.”

  Lila rested her book on her chest. “And you wonder where Tassaki gets his stubborn streak.”

  “From the way this conversation is headed, I think he can thank us both for that trait.”

  Lila rolled over onto her side and poked Andreas in the chest with a finger. “And just what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Can I just watch the match?”

  “You started this.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes, by lying with your head against the headboard.”

  Andreas pushed away from the headboard to lie flat on his back, eyes focused on the ceiling. He exhaled dramatically. “Okay, darling, what’s on your mind?”

  “Nothing.”

  He lay perfectly still, staring straight up.

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  He didn’t move or make a sound.

  “Speak to me.”

  Andreas turned his head to face her. “About what?”

  “About what you know is bothering me.”

  Andreas blinked. “Any chance of a hint?”

  “How can you be so out of touch?”

  Andreas pushed himself up onto one elbow so that he faced her head-on. “Honestly, I have no idea what is on your mind, but if it’s something I’ve done to upset you, I swear I didn’t mean it.”

  “You just don’t get it.”

  Andreas shut his eyes as he spoke. “The only thing I can think of that could be making you anxious is your plans for Mykonos.”

  “Why would I be anxious?” she snapped.

  He opened his eyes. “You’re all wound up to chart a new career path, based on what you hope to learn from strangers you hope to meet on Mykonos. That’s a rather challenging goal you’v
e set for yourself, and I think you’re worried about coming up empty on the inspiration front.”

  She stared at him for a moment, then fell back onto her pillows, and stared at the ceiling. “You might be right.”

  “It’s only natural.” He paused. “Do you want a suggestion?”

  She sighed. “Go for it.”

  “Follow the age-old waterskiing principle.”

  She turned to face him. “Meaning?”

  “Don’t battle to get up on the skis. Just let the boat pull you up. You’ve got the skills and ability, and when the water’s right, you’ll end up soaring.”

  “Did you just make that up?”

  “Actually, Tassos told me something like that a few years back.”

  “I assume he was right.”

  “Let’s put it this way: I didn’t drown.”

  Tassos Stamatos and Andreas met when Tassos was chief homicide investigator for the Cyclades, and Andreas was Mykonos’ police chief. They’d become fast friends, and through Andreas’ unwitting introduction, Tassos and Maggie had become a couple. Though Tassos was well beyond retirement age, he possessed secrets and connections from both sides of the law that guaranteed him job security for as long as he wanted.

  Lila took Andreas’ hand in hers. “I’m glad you’re coming with us tomorrow.”

  “Me too.”

  “Will Tassos be on Syros?”

  “He should be. He’s cut back on his fieldwork, and spends most of his time training young would-be homicide detectives.”

  “We should invite him to spend a few days with us on Mykonos. After all, Syros is only an hour away.”

  “Let’s suggest he come over when Maggie’s with him. That way he’ll be easier to control.”

  “I assume there’s a deeper meaning intended in that.”

  “We men need you women to keep us on our toes.”

  “It’s our revenge for so many of you men wanting to keep us in stilettos.”

  “Score!”

  “You agree?”

  He pointed at the TV. “My team just scored a goal.”

  Lila let go of his hand, grabbed one of her pillows, and lightly beat him with it. “Men, you’re all alike.”