Disorganized Crime

by Alex A King

  "Enough," Tasha said. "You go too far."

  "I tell her nothing she does not already know." Her gaze scraped itself up off the concrete and crashed into mine. "Yes?"

  My answer was a nod. I saved the words for a warning, for all the good it would do out on the streets. "Be safe out here."

  I fired up the scooter and zipped away, wind slapping my face. The fast-moving air sharpened my edges, but that made things worse. My heart's tachometer was spiking into the red zone. No way did I want to wind up facedown in a puddle, with the local police caring only that another piece of trash was off the streets, without them having to lift a finger or gun. I wanted a look at Greece's other face, because this one was a real bitch. She was cruel, callous, and corrupt. I wanted the sparkling water, the pale sandy beaches, the buff waiters in skimpy clothing, the man walking his donkey.

  What I wanted was the postcard.

  I was loaded for bear. And the bear was Detective Melas and the Volos Police Department. I killed the engine. Kicked down the stand. Barged through the police department's open doors and past the stacks of bricks. Stormed through the building like I was Hurricane Katerina.

  Melas shoved back his chair and stood, his mouth loaded with protests.

  I shoved my hand in his face, not giving a rat's ass if I was rubbing metaphorical crap in his face or calling him on his jacking habits. "Talk to the hand," I said in Greek. Translating drained some of the punch out of it, but he got the hint and backed down.

  His desk quaked as I jumped up. I kicked aside the open folder, the stack of paperwork, the flat metal baskets marked Inbox and Outbox, and addressed the sweaty masses. They didn't look too worried about my wrath, just curious. They weren't sheep—they were goats. Sheep would have run.

  Hands on hips. "My name is Katerina Makris," I told them in my outside voice. "If that name is familiar, it's because I'm Katerina Makri's granddaughter. Yes, that one." Now that I had their attention, I shot a lot of pointy eye-daggers. "There's someone trying to kill me and I know he's one of yours—or he used to be. I get it, he takes out the garbage you're either all too chicken or lazy or incompetent to handle, so maybe you sit back with your eyes closed and let him do his psycho thing. But I've never broken the law. Until a few days ago, I had no knowledge of my family or what they do. None. I was a debt collector, for Chrissake."

  I paused for a second, mostly for effect, and partly because who's never wanted to smash a debt collector's knees? Probably I should have kept that part to myself.

  "Yet because of what my family does, he's painted a big target on my back. I'm not garbage. So what happens when he kills me? You just going to shrug and mutter about how I had it coming? Does the Prime Minister know how corrupt you are? The President? The media? I bet they'd love a story about police corruption."

  "Chicken?" someone asked.

  "It's an American expression," I explained. "It's like … like … like calling someone an adelfi." A sister. Call a Greek guy a sister, he knows you think his Y chromosome is a lie.

  Melas cleared his throat. He was standing beside his desk, hand outstretched.

  "I'm not done," I said.

  "Yes, you are. Come on."

  His hand was warm, his voice hot chocolate fondue, lulling me into a false sense of security. It would all be okay. The police would help. Soylent Green wasn't really people. Mankind wouldn't be conquered by apes. Darth Vader was not my father.

  Melas lead me through the building, down a hall in dire need of paint, into a room with two holding cells.

  "You rat dropping," I said, as the dime circled the wishing well in my head and plopped in. "I hate you."

  "I can live with that."

  "You say that now," I muttered. Fighting was pointless. He didn't see me as any kind of threat, and he was right. To him I approximately as dangerous as one of those shivering, yapping dogs celebrities tote around in handbags. He shoved me into the holding cell, bag and all.

  "What are you going to do with me?"

  The door clinked shut. "Deport you."

  "You don't have the authority."

  Maybe he did, but technically I was a Greek citizen. All you need is one Greek parent or grandparent and they've got you for life. Mom did all the paperwork years ago so I'd have choices.

  Melas grinned. "Who said I was doing it the legal way? I'm calling your grandmother."

  I reeled off a string of colorful words in two languages. Farm animals, religious figures, and Mrs. Melas might have been involved in various configurations. Melas leaned against the wall, arms folded, grin sprawling.

  "I like your imagination," he said when I was done. "Except the part with the animals and my mother."

  "Funny. That was my best work."

  His grin died a quick, painless death. "Look, this is for your own good."

  "You mean for your own good. No way do you want me running to the media."

  "You think I want you to wind up dead? I don't. My job is to keep you alive."

  "But you won't give me a lead on the Baptist. I need to find him."

  He shoved away from the wall, stormed over to the cell door, pushed his face up to the bars. Too bad he was on the outside—they suited him. "You're a girl. You're a civilian. You're a bill collector. You're … you're … pretty. And you're on his radar. Your grandmother and me, we want to get you off it."

  "Could you be more sexist?"

  The grin returned—sort of. "This is one of my better days."

  Chapter 16

  I had to hand it to Grandma: the woman moved fast. I'd been caged for under an hour when she shoved past Melas and swept in like Greek royalty. Impressive for a little black Weeble.

  "Yia sou," I said, figuring it wouldn't hurt to be friendly. Brownie points were always good to have.

  An invisible being stabbed her forehead with Botox, shooting her eyebrows into an unnatural arch. "Oh, look what the cat carried in. It is Katerina, the girl who is not supposed to be here. What a surprise."

  The sarcasm was strong with this one.

  "You accidentally sent me back home."

  "That was not an accident."

  "To you." I snuggled my face up to the bars. "But that's okay, I forgive you."

  "You forgive me, do you? What a lucky woman I am." She swung around, snapped, "What are you waiting for? An invitation? Open the door!" at Melas.

  "Don't open the door," I bit back.

  Melas froze, hand and key midair.

  "Open it."

  "I'd prefer to stay here."

  Grandma stomped out. I'd won.

  Hooray!

  I'd stood my ground and won this battle. To celebrate, I flopped onto the narrow cot, hands behind my head. So what if I was in Shawshank? I'd fought the great and terrible Baboulas and kept my head.

  Victory turned out to be short-lived. My grandmother returned several moments later with her hellhound. Xander was coming at me like I was a basic math problem and he was armed with a pencil and a calculator. He wanted to work me out so he could move onto the next, hopefully more challenging, problem. And his plan was to do it in style. He was in black dress trousers, fashionable black shoes, and a crisp white button-down shirt, with the sleeves rolled to the most flattering point on his tree trunks. He nodded to Melas, who unlocked the door and swung it open.

  I leaped off the rock-like slab and hurled myself at the bars this cell shared with the next. My arms curled around the metal. This was my tree. I was going to hug it until the bulldozer rolled away.

  Xander hoisted me up by the waist. Pulled. But I didn't budge.

  "Not going," I said through gritted teeth.

  He pulled again. Whatever he did for a workout—sparred with orcs, wrestled with giants—it was paying off. My resolve wasn't loosening but my arms were suggesting I should consider letting go if I didn't want them to perform a humiliating twig-snap.

  Melas was leaning against the doorjamb grinning. It was a miracle he hadn't brought popcorn to this spectacle. But he had bro
ught friends. The rest of the department was crowding in, jostling to get a good look at the American and the henchman tussle.

  "Katerina, enough!" Grandma's face was unreadable.

  "It's my life," I said. "I'll say when it's enough." To my dismay I was losing ground, fast. My arms had thrown in the towel—I was down to fingers.

  "My Virgin Mary, you are obstinate like your father!" She flung open the door to the adjoining cell, delivered a crushing blow to my knuckles with her handbag. "Let go!" My fingers unclenched. They couldn't take a beating, the pansies.

  Xander threw me over his shoulder.

  And that's the story of how I left the building.

  Grandma said nothing. Not a peep the whole way back to the compound. I turned in the backseat to see Takis struggling to keep up with the SUV. The grimace on his face said he wasn't a fan of the pink scooter.

  Cry me a freakin' river.

  When we arrived back at Grandma's the compound was quiet, apart from the cats and dogs. In the sky the sun was touching noon, and everyone was eating the day's main meal before siesta. Some were inside. Others were outside on their balconies, eating al fresco.

  Takis tugged at his shirt's buttoned neck. A bug had committed suicide on the white cotton. "My God," he said. "Marika is making tiganites for lunch. I don't want to miss them. If I don't hurry the kids will get them all."

  "Her fries are that good?" I asked.

  "Nobody in the world makes better tiganites than Marika. I don't know what magic she does to the potatoes, but …" He kissed his fingertips. "This is why I married her, for her fried potatoes." He trotted over to the far left side of the compound, where the stairs would take him to his roomy apartment.

  Now it was Grandma, Xander, and me. Or rather: Grandma, Me, and Xander, and a cloud of dogs.

  I turned around and said, walking backwards, "Miss me?"

  Xander snorted, but I thought he kind of did miss me. He was trying to hide a smile, but bits of it were leaking out the edges.

  "Katerina!" Grandma barked. For a tiny woman she sure could project.

  "Hey!" a male voice called out.

  I turned back around to see Cookie jogging towards us across the courtyard. He'd stuffed his package into a Speedo that outlined all its contents. Mostly undressed, he reminded me of a castaway from Miami Beach. He was missing the mojito and the gold medallion, but he was cultivating a wicked pornstache to make up for the loss.

  "Look who it is! Mikey Far's girl. You're back! "Where'd you go? Did you find Mikey yet?"

  "No, and I probably never will now. Not with—" I mouthed, Attila. "—running the show."

  He chuckled. Grandma shot me a dirty look, but I blew her off with two palms up and an innocent shrug.

  My goat was glad to see me. He trotted over, showing his affection by scarfing down the tissue in my pocket.

  "You didn't cook him," I said to Grandma.

  "Too tough. Too stringy. Who wants to eat that?"

  I cupped his head in my hands, gazed into his slitted eyes. "Don't listen to her. She likes you, otherwise you'd be on the spit." Now that he'd said his hellos, my goat went back to romping with his new canine buddies.

  Cookie followed us into Grandma's house, flip-flops flapping on his feet.

  "Sit," Grandma said when we were all inside, and she'd closed the door so I couldn't bolt. She picked up my grandfather's oil tin, stood it in the middle of the kitchen table. "I am the reason you are not in jail right now."

  I nodded to Granddad on the oil can. "Is he allowed to do that?"

  She looked confused. "Do what?"

  "Put his feet on the table."

  Xander's lips twitched. Cookie roared. "I like this girl," he said, patting his gut.

  Grandma was unamused and refused to be diverted from the point she was desperate to make. "I want you to take a good look."

  "At the oil can?"

  "At your grandfather."

  I leaned forward, elbows on table. He was still dead, still wearing a toupee.

  "Is this like Spot the Difference?"

  "What is she talking about?" Grandma appealed to the men. "I have no idea what she is talking about."

  "It's a game in the newspapers," Cookie told her. "Two pictures side by side. The same. Until you look closer. The goal is to find what's different about the two pictures." He'd pulled up a chair at Grandma's table, helped himself to a couple of diamonds of baklava. "This is great," he said. "Almost as good as my sister's."

  Grandma's eyes were black shiny pebbles. "Almost as good, eh? What a compliment."

  No. No compliment. His days were numbered—single digits.

  "You want a little baklava, Katerina?" she asked me.

  No. No freakin' way. Everything in her kitchen was officially suspect. "I'm not hungry."

  "I think you should eat the baklava."

  When she put it like that … "I guess I could eat."

  She made a satisfied noise and lifted the glass dome on the countertop, where the treasure sat steeping in its honey syrup.

  The screen door screeched pitifully and Aunt Rita teetered in. Today she was one of the Pink Ladies from Grease. Pink jacket, tight black pants, high-heeled clogs, pink scarf knotted around her neck.

  Cookie looked her up and down. "Rita, I saw you at my wake. You looked good."

  Hand on hip: "Honey, I always look good."

  "I remember when you used to have balls."

  "I still have them," Aunt Rita said. "I just tuck them up high, that's all."

  My grandmother's mouth tightened, but she said nothing.

  The baklava's thin layers snapped as I hacked through them with my fork. "How does that work?" A lot of the time it didn't seem like there was enough room in my underwear for woman parts, so it boggled my mind how a guy could tuck it all up and go.

  "It's like wrapping a gift."

  "Never ask me to wrap a gift. I'm hopeless at it," I admitted.

  "Not me," Aunt Rita said. "I can make wrapping paper look like anything you want." She wiggled her fingers. "Origami."

  Grandma had reached the end of her very short rope. "Xander, privacy. I want to talk to my granddaughter."

  Maybe it was my imagination, but it looked to me like the blood drained out of Aunt Rita's pancaked face. Good luck, she mouthed, then she skedaddled with the two men.

  Two fighters left in the ring. I had youth, but Grandma had a warped sense of morality. She took her seat at the table. Her face was hard. Her lines seemed as though they'd been carved eons ago. Life hadn't been easy for the woman. I wondered who she used to be in the old days, before she was left holding the Family's bloody reins.

  "Look at your grandfather. No jokes. What do you see?"

  "A picture of a dead man taped to an olive oil can."

  She shook her hands at the ceiling. "Yes, that is what you see. And do you know why that is what you see?"

  Was this one of those trick questions? Because it felt like a trick question. "No?"

  Her hands landed in her lap with a dull thud. "Because your grandfather is dead and he is inside that can. I am worried—" She thumped a fist on her chest, held it there as though she were trying to prevent her heart's next beat. "—that soon I will have another can on that window ledge, and on it a picture of you."

  I gulped. "Are you going to kill me?"

  "No! My God, Katerina, of course not. You are my family, my blood. My only granddaughter."

  "You drugged me."

  "For a good reason."

  "Then you sent me home—against my will."

  "To protect you."

  "I'm twenty-eight. Staying here to find Dad was my choice. You don't get to decide otherwise."

  "You are my grandchild. I care about you."

  Her words punched me all the painful places. She had no right—not now. I couldn't help lashing out.

  "Really? Where have you been all my life? Where were you when Mom died? Nowhere, that's where. In your stupid hut, running the underworld. So you d
on't get to control me now."

  Silence. Then, "You do not like my house?"

  "It should be condemned. The toilet is outside. Outside."

  "In my day, many people had toilets outside."

  "Well, in my day they don't."

  She pushed back her chair. Stood. A shriveled old coffee bean shrouded in black, she appeared benign, fragile, yet she kind of scared the dickens out of me.

  "Do not cross me again, Katerina. I run this family." She stabbed at her chest with her index finger. "I protect it. Never defy me in front of the others or I will be forced to act against you."

  Did I back down? Nope. "Have you learned anything about Dad's kidnapping? Even one tiny thing?"

  "No."

  "Don't you think that's strange? You have money, power, a … a dungeon, but you can't find out anything?"

  "I am bothered by it very much. But it is only a matter of time until somebody talks or his abductor reveals themselves. They want something—something that belongs to this Family."

  "What?"

  "Who knows? But I am afraid it will be something that is not mine to give and I will not be able to save my son."

  "Like what?"

  No answer. She shuffled over to the pantry, pulled out the flour, the sugar, the butter. This, I was starting to notice, was how she dealt.

  Late afternoon, while the compound was beginning to stir after a long, peaceful siesta, the dogs went wild. Grandma was sprinkling chopped walnuts on what looked like turds drenched in honey syrup. We hadn't slept. Something told me she never did, and that same something told me I never would. I was too Americanized and too old to take midday naps, even if the idea of them made me drool over the decadence of it all. Grandma dropped the nuts, wiped her hands on her black apron and bustled out the front door.

  I bolted after her.

  The dogs had congregated around the pool's fence. They were attempting to leap over or push through the bars, but so far they had only managed to be ineffectual battering rams. A fully dressed Xander was wading into the pool, and the rest of the family was beginning to dribble out into the courtyard to see what all the commotion was about.