Sons of Sparta: A Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis Mystery

by Jeffrey Siger

  More silence.

  “Now it’s my turn to ask, ‘Did you hear me?’”

  “Yeah, I heard you.”

  “Just promise me you won’t run with your temper until the funeral is over and we’ve had the chance to talk.”

  Again silence.

  “You know your father would have wanted it that way.”

  “Okay. You have my word. Nothing until after the funeral.”

  “And we get to talk?” said Kouros.

  “Yeah. Bye.”

  The line went dead but Kouros kept staring at the handset. He’d often wondered how his cousin picked up the nickname “Mangas.” It came out of Greece’s Roaring Twenties as a term used to describe young, urban, working class men attracted to the rebetiko Greek folk music of their times, Greece’s equivalent of America’s blues. Hatched in prisons, hashish dens, and ouzo parlors, it attracted long-mustached men partial to an idiosyncratic style of dress—woolen hat, arm through only one sleeve of a jacket, striped trousers, knife snugly tucked into a belt around the waist, pointy shoes—and a distinctive John Wayne style of limp-walking. Old time mangas tough guys were long gone and today the word held many potential meanings, ranging from “strong or brave or crafty,” through “swaggerer,” and on down to “bully, henchman, or hooligan.” Some even said it was Greece’s equivalent for “dude,” as in the iconic Jeff Bridges character in the American film, The Big Lebowski.

  No matter what prompted his cousin’s nickname, if Uncle had been murdered there’d be no holding Mangas and his brothers back from taking revenge. And if Kouros didn’t tell them what he knew, they might end up going after the wrong people. But who were the right people?

  Kouros hung up the phone. A new bloody clan war was about to break out in the Mani.

  Time to speak to the chief.

  Chapter Four

  When Andreas returned to his office he found Kouros sitting on his couch. “Why do I doubt you’re sitting here anxiously awaiting to talk about soccer?”

  “I need time off, Chief. Family business.”

  Andreas walked behind his desk and sat down. “I thought you said everything was terrific.”

  “It was. Until I got a call from my cousin. My uncle died this morning in an automobile accident in the Mani.”

  Andreas shook his head. “I’m sorry to hear that. When’s the funeral?”

  “Tomorrow. But that’s not the reason I need the time.”

  “Are we talking about the uncle who, shall we say, walked a different path than you?”

  Kouros nodded. “He hasn’t been involved in that for years.”

  “Didn’t his son take over for him?”

  “That’s who called me.”

  Andreas leaned across the desk. “Yianni, we’ve been together a long time—”

  “Since I was a rookie on Mykonos, I know. But it’s not what you think.”

  “How do you know what I’m thinking?”

  “You’re about to warn me to be careful about someone in that part of my family trying to draw me into their business.”

  Andreas leaned back. “Okay, consider yourself warned.”

  “I think my uncle was murdered. And if my cousins start thinking the same way, all hell will break loose down there.”

  “What makes you think murder?”

  Kouros told him about the death threats his uncle had received. “He died on his way home from the same taverna where he received the first threat.”

  Andreas rubbed his forehead. “Why does crap always come in piles? Wait until you hear what Spiros just dropped on me.”

  Kouros listened, and when Andreas finished he shook his head. “How does he expect you to help with that?”

  “Beats me. Maybe I’ll have a better idea after I talk with this guy.” He waved the piece of paper containing the phone number given him by Spiros.

  “Chief, we’ve been together a long time….” Kouros let the words trail off.

  Andreas smiled. “Since Mykonos, and I know what you’re thinking. All fat cat bad guys are looking for a friendly cop willing to look the other way, and I’m sure this one’s no different.”

  “At least my cousin came by his ways honestly. He was born to that life. Corrupt political types make a conscious decision not to play by the rules.”

  “Fine, so we’re both warned.”

  “I do need the time off.”

  “I know. Take what you need. But keep me in the loop. And you’re on duty, not off. The last thing we need down there is a clan war. That part of the Mani is just beginning to get a toehold on tourism and a breakout of vendetta violence could wreck its prospects.”

  “Funny you should say that. The reason my uncle wanted to see me yesterday was to tell the family he’d reached a deal to lease out the family property as a big-time resort.”

  “Like I said, for everyone’s sake, let’s hope that if your uncle was murdered it’s not tied into a vendetta or likely to start one. But whatever it is, try to wrap it up quickly because I really do need your help with this Crete thing.”

  “Mind if I ask you a question, Chief?”

  “As if I have a choice.”

  “Why are you doing this for Spiros? You know better than anyone that he’ll turn on you faster than a hooker on a nonpaying trick if he thinks it could take the heat off him.”

  Andreas nodded. “I made it perfectly clear to him I knew all of that. Though I didn’t put it quite as thoughtfully as you just did.”

  “So, like I said, why are you doing this? He’s just sticking you with another mess he can’t get anyone else to touch.”

  Andreas spread open his arms. “That’s just the point. If I don’t take it on, who will? We might as well hand over the keys to Greece to the bad guys. As I see it, either I do my job and risk Spiros turning on me, or I resign.” Andreas rubbed at his eyes with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. “If I resigned I’d be out of the fight, powerless against the wolves descending on our country in packs. Just the thought of being helpless drives me close to crazy. I’d have to move my family out of Greece to save my sanity. And that’s something I never want to do. So, for now, I risk another betrayal by Spiros as my price for staying in the battle.” Andreas dropped his hand from his eyes and stared out the window. “But if that little bastard tries to screw me this time…”

  “We can always call in my cousin.” Kouros smiled.

  Andreas chuckled. “Do you want to take anyone with you?”

  Kouros gestured no. “It would attract too much attention. Make my cousins think I suspect something might be wrong. I’ll just poke around and try to keep a lid on things until I get a better handle on who might be involved. If I need help, I’ll yell.”

  “Don’t be a hero.”

  “I know.”

  Andreas smiled. “There’s only enough room for one in this unit.”

  ***

  Kouros picked up his mother at her apartment at evening twilight. He’d wanted to leave earlier but she said she needed more time to prepare for the funeral. He knew there was nothing he could say to hurry her along, for in virtually no other aspect of Greek life was the role of women as dominant as in the matter of funerals.

  Greek funerals differ from those in other parts of Western Europe, and in the Mani even more so. There, funerals evoked memories of ancient rites and pagan practices followed in the Mani six centuries after the rest of Greece had accepted Christianity in the fourth century.

  Greek Orthodox funerals took place as soon as possible after death, usually within a day or so. Generally, the poorer and less educated the family, the greater the intensity of the mourning, drawing anguished female mourners sobbing, crying, shrieking, and wailing into such frenzies that some risked falling in upon the coffin. But in the Mani—perhaps the poorest province of Greece—the women conducte
d their traditional mourning in a relatively structured manner.

  Unlike the uncoordinated dirges and lamentations staged in other parts of Greece, the women of the Mani expressed their mourning in long funeral hymns, guided by a strict poetic meter different from any other Greek rhyme. Mani women improvised their mirologia or “words of lament” while sitting with the body at the home of the deceased, each working herself into a sufficiently emotional state of grief to signal that another should take over. The mirologia employed an ancient literary form, first welcoming the guests, extolling the deceased, the deceased’s children, and the deceased life’s work, and—if killed in a feud—ending in curses and vows of vengeance.

  Kouros and his mother wouldn’t make it to Uncle’s home in time for the mirologia. Uncle’s body would spend the night in church and mirologia wouldn’t be said there. He wondered what his mother might have said had she chosen to participate. There was no requirement that she do so, and for someone as important as his uncle, plenty of women would be competing to out-mourn one another.

  His mother fell asleep just south of the Corinth canal. Good, he thought. It would be a long day. He wondered if his cousin had any news about Uncle’s car. He thought to call him but that would wake his mother. Besides, no reason to risk winding up his cousin with a phone call. Mangas had promised to do nothing until they’d had the chance to talk after the funeral. A phone call now might give him the opportunity to change their deal.

  If Mangas found something wrong with the car, his headstrong temper could send him after an otherwise innocent mechanic. Yet if Kouros told him it might not be the mechanic’s fault, but sabotage, it chanced launching his cousin on a rampage against anyone he might think to blame. Kouros let out a deep breath. And if he mentioned the death threats received by his uncle, it risked stoking unrestrained vendetta violence of the sort his uncle had spent a lifetime trying to avoid.

  Kouros needed to get a grip on things quickly. But where to begin? He yawned.

  “With staying awake,” he mumbled to himself. He reached for the thermos of coffee his mother had packed for their trip…along with enough food to feed all of the Mani for a week.

  God bless mothers.

  And heaven help those who dared cross the child of a Mani mother.

  ***

  “Kalo vradi, Chief Kaldis,” said the doorman at Andreas’ apartment building.

  “Good evening, Angelo.”

  “Mrs. Kaldis said to tell you that she and your son are at your mother’s house for dinner.”

  Which was precisely where Andreas should have been an hour and a half ago. “Thank you.”

  He guessed that by now his mother was having so much fun playing with her grandson that she’d probably forgotten all about Tassaki’s AWOL father. Besides, Andreas’ late father had been a cop so his mother was used to her men missing dinners. He doubted his wife would be as forgiving. Andreas wasn’t complaining. As he saw it, Lila Vardi had sacrificed far more than he when she became Mrs. Kaldis. Andreas’ biggest struggle was learning to cope with what it meant to be living in a penthouse apartment on the most prestigious street in Athens, next door to the presidential palace.

  The elevator opened into the apartment’s foyer and Andreas walked through the front rooms into the kitchen. He saw a note taped to the refrigerator:

  “On the off chance you don’t make it to your mother’s, dinner’s inside. :-) Marietta will warm it up for you. Love, L.”

  Perhaps I’ve misjudged her.

  He opened the refrigerator door and found his favorite dish: chicken and fresh tomatoes slow cooked in oyvetsi pasta. He put the pot on the black-and-gray counter on the kitchen island, found a fork, and started eating out of the pot.

  The man Spiros wanted him to call came from a politically connected family that had skyrocketed to great wealth in the 1980s and remained in orbit ever since. It was rumored he could “fix anything” regardless of the political party in power.

  “Mister Kaldis,” said a woman in the doorway behind him.

  Andreas acted startled. “Marietta, you should wear a bell so I know when you’re sneaking up on me.”

  “Missus Kaldis would shoot me if I let you eat your dinner cold. And out of the pot! Give it to me.”

  “You’ll have to kill me first. I like my oyvetsi cold. And don’t worry about Missus Kaldis. If she shoots you, I promise to conduct a thorough investigation.”

  She reached for the pot but Andreas shielded it from her with his body.

  “Just give me the pot, please.”

  “Let’s make a deal. If I let you get me a glass of wine, could we call it a draw?”

  The maid shook her head, turned, and walked into the pantry. She returned with an opened bottle of white wine and a wineglass.

  “At least I can tell Missus Kaldis I gave you a good wine.”

  Andreas looked at the label: KIR YIANNIS. He smiled. That wine company was owned by the current mayor of Greece’s second-largest city, Thessaloniki, who, unlike his predecessor sentenced to serve a life term for corruption, had a reputation for honesty. A quite different sort from the man he was about to call.

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  “No, thank you, Marietta.”

  She left him sitting on a barstool by the counter, sipping his wine and picking at his dinner. Andreas liked the kitchen. Most of the other rooms had spectacular, unobstructed views of the Acropolis or its majestic sister hill, Lykavitos, but this one offered only walls, with just a glimpse of the sky through windows in the room beyond its doorway. It reminded him of his old fourth floor, maybe the elevator was operating, slight view, one-bedroom apartment. This room kept him in touch with his roots, or so he liked to think. Roots were important. He hoped Kouros’ own roots wouldn’t create a problem for him, but the kid was tough enough to figure out the right thing to do.

  Andreas looked at his watch. It was coming up on eleven, the perfect time to call Spiros’ man with all the answers. He ran with a crowd that partied until the early morning hours, entertaining many of the same folks they’d be compromising later.

  Andreas stood up and carried his wineglass into the library. He closed the door and sat down behind the desk. He mumbled to himself as he picked up the phone. “I guess it’s my time to figure out the right thing to do.”

  He dialed the number on the piece of paper. The phone rang five times.

  “Orestes here.” There was the sound of loud music and the clatter of plates in the background.

  Andreas took a sip of wine. “Sorry to bother you, sir, my name is Andreas Kaldis and—”

  “Your minister said you’d be calling. Does it always take you so long to do what you’re told?”

  Andreas put down the wineglass. “Only when I have more important things to do.”

  “Perhaps you don’t know who you’re talking to.” There was a noticeable slur to Orestes’ words.

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then you should know you could not possibly have had anything more important to do.”

  “Well, sir, you have my attention now. So, what do you want to tell me?”

  “I’m not about to have this discussion over the phone.”

  “Fine, what if we meet at police headquarters first thing tomorrow morning?”

  “No. I want to see you now. And HERE.”

  “Sure, anything you say. What’s the address?” Andreas marked it down as the phone went dead. He shook his head and smiled. The guy had taken the bait and lost his temper. Orestes sounded drunk and by the time Andreas got there he’d be more so, plus anxious to show Andreas just how big his dick was. No telling what he might say to prove it.

  The evening was beginning to look interesting. But it wouldn’t begin to compare to tomorrow morning, when he’d have to explain to Lila why he’d ended up in Athens’ hottest, sexiest nightclub in
stead of at his mother’s.

  Chapter Five

  Athens’ Gazi district sat not far to the northwest of the Acropolis and encircled the city’s old natural gasworks, from which the area took its name. Today, the gasworks had transformed into a modern museum and cultural center surrounded by vibrant restaurants and cafes. Greece’s free-spending boom years had helped turn the once-blighted area into a primary destination for partiers in a city then ranked number one for the best nightlife in Europe. But things were different now. With less money to spend and Gazi’s somewhat dangerous bordering neighborhoods becoming more so, business was off. But you could still find places where no one acted as if they’d heard of the financial crisis and all paid handsomely for the privilege of maintaining the pretension that they’d not been affected by it. At the top of that list was the spot Orestes had picked for their meeting, El Malaga.

  Andreas stood on the sidewalk staring at two massive black doors, one with a florid gold “E,” the other with an equally ostentatious “M.”

  Three six-foot six-inch bodybuilders in matching black suits and white shirts stood behind a red velvet rope administered by a buxom blonde wearing a black, what-you-see-is-what-you-get Hervé Léger minidress. Andreas assumed she was the gatekeeper, the three men her attack dogs. He smiled at the woman and stepped up to the rope.

  She smiled back. “May I help you, sir?”

  “Yes, I’d like to go inside.”

  “Do you have a reservation?”

  “No, I’m meeting someone already inside.”

  “May I ask the name of the person you’re meeting?”

  “Orestes.”

  “You mean—”

  “Yes, that Orestes.”

  “And your name.”

  “Just ‘guest’ will do fine. He’s expecting me.”

  The woman’s smile faded. “I need to know your name, sir.”

  “No, you don’t. He asked to see me. If you won’t let me in, no problem. I’ll just tell him the reason I missed our meeting was that the lovely lady at the door stopped me.”