“Don’t you have to play tonight?”
“Nope, an old friend’s sitting in for me, so I get to take off and catch up on my friends performing elsewhere.” Toni smiled at Lila. “Are you up for a girls’ night out on the town?”
Lila rolled her eyes. “Partying two nights in a row? I’m too old for that.”
“You’re not much older than I am. Besides, we won’t start before midnight. That gives you plenty of time to take a siesta.”
Lila moved her head as if to gesture no, but paused. “You’re right. Why not? A girls’ night out it is.”
Chapter Ten
Andreas was in a foul mood. He hadn’t taken kindly to Lila’s announced plans for a night on the town excluding him. It wasn’t jealousy or envy, but concern. He pressed her at least to allow Yianni to join them, but his warnings only earned him a curt response: “I won’t be unaccompanied. I’ll be with Toni.” His chances of changing his wife’s mind fell precipitously from there.
He did convince her, though, to take their SUV and park in her usual lot, since late-night taxi and limo services were notoriously unreliable. Then he added, “And, if you drink too much, just call me and I’ll arrange to have you driven home.” His offer generated precisely the sort of response he’d hoped for: a scowl on Lila’s face, making clear she’d rather walk home than call Andreas for a rescue.
His intention hadn’t been to aggravate Lila, but to enlist her likely preference for sober independence over tipsy helplessness in charting her evening. In that respect, it was mission accomplished, but his minor success at navigating spousal relations came at a price.
Giving Lila the SUV had left Andreas and Yianni with Yianni’s borrowed motorcycle as their only means of work transportation that night. They would have borrowed the cook’s little pickup truck, but a run-in with a pothole had sidelined it for at least a few more days until a part completed its journey from the U.S. Nor would they take the caretaker’s car and risk leaving the children and help without transportation in case of an emergency. That meant a two-man, midnight motorcycle ride along narrow, uneven, unlit roads, dodging drivers under the influence coming at them from every which way, an experience that did nothing to improve Andreas’ disposition when they arrived at Karavakis’ club.
They parked by the front entrance and headed straight for the bar, just as crowded as it had been at the height of its afternoon madness. Things hadn’t always been this profitable for beach bars. In the old days, they closed around sunset and customers headed back to their rooms to rest up and prepare for a riotous night in town. But no longer. These days the beaches competed head-to-head with the town for late-night partiers’ cash, and between the town’s horrific traffic and parking situation, and the growing late-night presence of hookers and their keepers, both domestic and foreign, the beach bars were winning.
As they walked toward the entrance Andreas clenched his teeth. “This guy is a real scum bucket. Everything about him is dirty.”
Yianni stopped at the bar to ask if Karavakis was in, but Andreas kept right on walking toward the door to Karavakis’ office. He banged on it twice. “Open up, Angelos, it’s Andreas Kaldis.”
“I’m busy.”
Andreas opened the door and stepped inside.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” said Karavakis, standing next to two men around a table piled with euro notes.
“Coming in to bust your balls for busting mine.”
“Get the hell out of here.”
Andreas grabbed a chair from in front of Karavakis’ desk, spun it around, and sat facing the men at the table.
The much smaller of the two men stepped toward Andreas.
“Don’t even think of it,” said Andreas to the man coming at him.
The bigger man stepped in behind the smaller just as Yianni came through the door.
Karavakis waved his arm for his two men to stop. “What is this, a cop convention?” He looked at the smaller man. “I thought I told you to lock the door.”
“The others haven’t made their drops yet.”
“The way it works is this, malaka. When there’s a knock, you ask who is it, you unlock door, you take cash, you close door, you lock door, and you repeat until finished. It’s not that complicated.” Karavakis shook his head and looked at Andreas. “Do cops have to put up with this sort of shit when they bring their kids into the business?”
“Why don’t you ask your colleagues here to leave so we can get down to business?”
Karavakis grinned. “What is this, a shakedown?” He pointed at the cash on the tabletop.
Andreas leaned forward. “As a matter of fact, why don’t you let them stay, so they can learn firsthand what a lousy liar you are?”
Karavakis squeezed his hands into fists. “No one calls me a liar in front of my son.”
Andreas crossed his left leg over his right. “Then tell him to get the hell out of here before he hears a lot worse.”
Karavakis charged around the table toward Andreas.
Andreas casually pulled a nine-millimeter semi-automatic from the ankle holster inside his left pant leg, and waved it in Karavakis’ direction. “Do you really want to go there?”
The son lunged for Andreas’ gun, but before he could reach him, Yianni delivered a hard, sharp thrust of the heel of his hand to the son’s solar plexus, dropping him to the ground gasping for breath. Karavakis stopped moving toward the cops and bent to aid his son. The other man crouched to help.
“I’ll take care of this,” Karavakis said to the other man as they raised the son to his feet. “Get him out of here, and stay away until I call for you.”
Karavakis clenched and unclenched his fists until the men had left. Andreas motioned with his hand toward the door, and Yianni locked it. Andreas holstered his gun. “Now, why don’t you sit down behind your desk so we can have a civilized, non-theatrical talk?”
Karavakis stormed around his desk and fell into his chair. Yianni remained standing by the door.
“Just in case you’re wondering, I’m not here about the cash. I’m sure you have receipts running every euro through your business. After all, that’s the way laundries work, don’t they?”
Karavakis said nothing.
“I’m here because of what you told my detective. Or rather what you didn’t tell him.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s about your buddy Pepe. The one with whom you arranged for the Colonel to have his last meal.”
“What about Pepe?” He pointed at Yianni. “I already told him how I was trying to help Pepe set up a place here on the island. That was it.”
Andreas tutted. “Angelos, Angelos, what am I going to do with you? You’re a pathological liar.”
Karvakis’ face turned red. “That’s the third time you’ve called me a liar.”
“Then stop lying. Or perhaps you’re so wasted on whatever you’re taking that you’ve forgotten Pepe is your connection to your casino-hotel dream?”
The bright red in Karavakis’ face blanched to chalk.
Andreas waited for a response. “Well?”
“How did you know that?”
“We’re cops, we know everything. Now tell me what the Colonel’s death had to do with your resort deal.”
“Nothing, I swear.”
Andreas smiled. “With all due respect, Angelos, do you really expect me to take you at your word? Try convincing me with the real facts.”
“I don’t have to tell you a damned thing.”
“You’re right, but taking that road will lead me to impound all that cash as evidence, send every tax agent on this island plowing through your businesses for black money, and of course exposing those point-of-sale credit-card machines you undoubtedly have steering a certain percentage of your take directly into a Swiss bank account.
Plus, you’ll have earned my relentless dedication to making your life as miserable as humanly possible.”
Karavakis clenched his jaws and pounded his fists on the table. “Gamoto, gamoto, gamoto. Damn you, Kaldis.”
“I’ll take that as your damning way of saying you’re going to tell me what I want to know. Please, feel free to proceed.”
Karavakis pounded on his desktop twice more. “Pepe’s brother is a senior guy in one of the world’s top hotel chains, and in exchange for my helping Pepe get his place opened on the island, he’s arranging for his brother to bless my deal with his company.”
“Now, tell me the real reason he met with the Colonel.”
“Like I said, to sign a security contract. The Colonel had his hooks into virtually every sizable business on the island. For some he just provided security, with others a bit more. There was no way for Pepe to get around using him.”
“What do you mean by ‘a bit more’?”
“If it was a place involved in on-premises drug dealing, he’d muscle in on that. When he could, he’d extort a piece of a legitimate bar, restaurant, hotel or shop business. If you want to talk about point-of-sale machines, he’d put his own into places where he’d extorted an interest so that his percentage of credit card sales went directly into his own bank accounts. Sometimes, he’d take over an entire business by making the owner an offer he couldn’t refuse, to ‘rent’ him the place.” He sneered on the word “rent.”
“In other words, he wasn’t a universally loved guy.”
“No shit, Sherlock. Stop busting my chops. You already know all this. His ‘security business’ was just the cover for a major protection and extortion racket.”
“What was he demanding of you?”
“I’m not in the drug business.”
It didn’t matter whether Karavakis was telling the truth on that point. On an island as much into partying as this one, clubbing and drug dealing went hand in hand. While the clubs weren’t necessarily directly involved in the dealing—though some undoubtedly got a piece—they also didn’t interfere with it. Who got to sell in a specific club was another story, a territorial thing worked out by competing mobs.
“Spare me the holier-than-thou routine, Angelos. We all know the business you’re into. I just want to know if the Colonel wanted a piece of your resort deal?”
Karavakis paused as if studying his desktop. He looked up. “Of course he wanted a piece. Who wouldn’t? But he wouldn’t dare try to muscle me. We’ve known each other too long.” He clenched his teeth. “I kick back.” He swallowed. “He knew I’d only bring him into the deal if he added value to the project.”
“What kind of value?”
“Like I said, I’m not in the drug business, but the way things work around Mykonos, you know as well as I do that tourists spending big bucks want access to that shit when paying five-star luxury resort prices. That would be his slot in the deal. He knew it and I knew it. Sooner or later we’d be doing business together. We were just doing the negotiation dance until then.”
“Pepe knew this?”
“Pepe had no idea of what role the Colonel might have in my project. It never came up. Honest, I fixed them up for the reason I said, a security contract for the club Pepe wanted to open. That had nothing to do with me.”
Andreas leaned in. “Then let me ask you a final question. If everything is as simple and straightforward as you say, why didn’t you come clean before?”
Karavakis leaned in toward Andreas. “Because I’m not in the business of telling cops that I’m being shaken down by one of their distinguished alumni to use his services as a drug dealer.”
Andreas sat up straight. “Good answer.” He stood. “Let’s go, Yianni. Thanks for your time, Angelos.”
Karavakis grunted. Yianni unlocked and opened the door. Four giants stood on the other side, blocking their exit.
Andreas turned and smiled at Karavakis, waiting.
Karavakis bellowed at the giants, “What the fuck are you doing blocking my doorway?”
The one closest to the door answered. “Your son told us not to move from here in case you needed us.”
“Oh, yeah? And where’s my son?”
“He took off into town. He said he had to meet some people.”
Karavakis waved his arm at them. “Well, get the hell out of my guests’ way.” He looked at Andreas. “Sorry about that. My son tends to be overprotective of me at times.”
“You must be very proud to have raised a son who cares,” said Andreas, turning to leave with Yianni.
Karavakis looked unsure whether to glare or nod at the comment.
“I think it’s time to head home,” said Andreas as Yianni and he walked toward the parking lot.
“Or maybe to town,” said Yianni. “Just in case the ladies have reconsidered the value of our company.”
Andreas looked at his watch. “Good idea.”
Lila met up with Toni, who was waiting for her in front of the only remaining bank in the bus station area. The others had moved farther out of town, to more convenient locations for their local customers. It wasn’t actually a bus station, just an area big enough for five buses and a half-dozen taxis to park fifty meters into the old town.
Here, public buses and private vans of all sizes discharged their passengers into a relentless stream of cars, SUVs, ATVs, and motorbikes funneling back and forth along a narrow two-lane link to the hopelessly overloaded public parking area down by the windmills. Without a single cop to control the bedlam, and no sidewalks on the island’s narrow roads, often clogged narrower still by double-parked vehicles, pedestrians had no choice but to dodge and weave among the madness.
Together, Toni and Lila passed through a bazaar of bus station businesses catering to tourists’ holiday needs and fantasies: food shops for a fast meal and booze; kiosks selling cigarettes, postcards, phone cards, candy, gum, ice cream, condoms, and more; tattoo parlors offering indelible memories that seemed such a good idea at the time; stands hawking last-minute souvenirs; motorbike and car rentals; and, conveniently, ATMs.
Once safely within the old town’s maze of crowded lanes, Toni told Lila they were headed to a tiny bar burrowed away on the other side of town amid a tangled warren of streets alongside the harbor. This place drew a different crowd than the piano bar—a mix of aging ex-pats, longtime visitors, and fresh-faced local kids, all united in a quest for memories of the island’s bygone “hippie” days. Some were there to relive them, others to discover them.
For those who simply stumbled upon the place and stopped long enough to stare in through the front door, the scene must have seemed surreal. Tucked away in a far corner in front of a stone slab wall hung with a variety of local artists’ paintings, four guys in their fifties, sixties, and seventies played music for an appreciative crowd. One played a West African djembe drum, another a guitar, the third a harmonica, and the eldest a tambourine.
Tonight, a crowd—eclectic in age, gender, and dress—filled every bar stool and table in the place, while more packed in along the bar, each finding a way of keeping beat with the music. Some with a head bob or finger tap; most with a steady beat of their feet on the scarred concrete floor, shiny in places from decades of similar toe-tappers.
Toni pointed out the musicians. The djembe player stood out as the youngest, clean-shaven and short-haired but carefully dressed in the genre’s traditional uniform of tee-shirt, blue jeans, and low-top Converse sneakers. He did the Ringo Starr thing, lagging the beat just enough behind the others to keep the train on the tracks.
Tambourine Man was the oldest. Now retired from his long tenure as the island’s original rock ’n’ roll singer, he still took care to jazz up his standard-issue apparel with a flashy velvet vest.
But, according to Toni, the main attractions tonight were the guitar player and Harmonica Man. For islanders, it was the
equivalent of Jerry Garcia and Bob Dylan hooking up for a concert in their local bar. They played together a couple of times a year, whenever the guitar player visited from the States, and diehard fans packed every performance.
Guitar Player’s variation on the dress code was a tan linen jacket, sleeves rolled up, and a black Kangol cap worn backwards. Harmonica Man filled the role of sartorial nonconformist in the band, dressed all in black, from his pointy-toed cowboy boots to his gambler-style, feather-in-the-hatband cowboy hat.
Younger fans stood around trying very hard to look different from all but each other. They strove to be cool, but Lila wondered if they realized that in this room at this moment, they were moving to precisely the same beat as their elders, caught up in the essential, bottom-line magic of music: all within its reach are ageless.
Lila noticed one significant difference between the gathered generations. Most of the young were stoned, while the older showed signs of the daily battles they now waged with the consequences of too many earlier trips down that same road.
“Hey, Toni, welcome! Glad to see you got away long enough to catch us.” It was the guitar player calling her out from the stage in the middle of a song. No higher accolade than that could come from one musician to another. Toni nodded a smile and waved as he went on playing.
Lila studied two dark-haired Roma girls in their early teens, but looking closer to twenty, standing close to the improvised stage, offering roses for sale to the customers. They had to know this crowd of locals would yield few buyers, which meant they were here for the same thing as everyone else: the music.
Such a charade could prove tricky for them if their clan leader saw through it. In Athens, some Romas had unforgiving reputations for punishing those of their flock who did not fully dedicate themselves to his single-minded purpose of selling whatever could be sold to anyone willing to pay the price. Lila wondered if the same held true here.
Toni waved to one of the girls. “I’ve known her since I arrived on the island.” The girl danced more than walked toward her, holding out a rose. Toni took it and offered her two euros, but she refused to take the money. Toni insisted, and she took it only after giving Lila a second rose.
The Mykonos Mob Page 13
