Baby Blue

by Pol Koutsakis

  “You think of yourself as a businessman, the kind who has a heart. Usually the businessman has the upper hand, but now and again he lets himself be ruled by his heart,” I answered.

  “So how does that make me different from you?”

  It did. Angelino would just get on with his job and occasionally, when the mood took him, would decide to help people out. As for me, helping people is what I do; it’s my function. No matter that I profit from it. When I take on a case after I’ve looked into it carefully, I know that even if my client is a bastard, my target will be an even bigger bastard who is worth seeing off.

  The most ridiculous thing I have ever heard is that people are neither good or bad and that anyone, given the chance and a good enough motive, can do harm. Armchair philosophy. Everybody deep down has their limits, and these limits make them who they are. The urge to do real harm to another human being has got to come from deep in the heart. And it’s my job to silence that darkness in their hearts – so long as I’m paid properly.

  “What you are is the better businessman,” I said, and this time there was no doubt that he was smiling.

  “Look, I didn’t know Emma – or Themis – very well. I’d seen them doing their Chaplin routine a few times, and at a few rehearsals. I’d always stay and watch them because they kept changing the routine as Emma got older, you know, so it reflected her age. We’d say hello occasionally, that kind of thing. I didn’t know that he used to be a journalist, or where they lived, their names, nothing. Just knew them by sight. Fifteen years ago there weren’t that many of us on the streets, and we knew everything there was to know about each other. But about the time when Themis turned up with Emma, there were suddenly loads of homeless people and you just couldn’t keep track of who everyone was. Even during the years when everyone said that the country was doing well, the number of homeless people was growing; it’s just that most of them were immigrants and they weren’t included in the official statistics so they weren’t officially a problem. If they don’t count you, you don’t exist. Now there are thousands of them, most of them Greeks. I don’t even know them by sight any more.”

  “But Emma and Themis went on the streets during the good times. There were so many papers and TV channels back then that were so worried about being understaffed that they were fishing students out of journalism courses before they’d even graduated.”

  “Yeah. I don’t really get what happened to him. Something went very badly wrong at work, that’s all I know. He didn’t want to go back to it.”

  “And he was successful, isn’t that right?”

  “Yeah. As far as I know. I didn’t watch him on TV or read his stuff in the papers, but when I asked around, everyone said he was really good. So did Emma.”

  “Any particular successes you heard of?”

  He shook his head.

  “I don’t pay any attention to all of that, no. But I could look into it.”

  “Let’s suppose he was. What sense does it make for a successful journalist and reporter to go and live on the streets with a young child?”

  “None. But we’ve both seen stranger things than that. Sometimes all it takes is a little bit of bad luck.”

  That much was true. But trying to explain everything that happened to Emma and her father in terms of random events wouldn’t get me very far. I was going to work on the assumption that there was a concrete explanation for everything, and I would try to discover what that was.

  “Have you found any other homeless people who knew him back then?”

  “No one apart from me.”

  “No witnesses or anyone who knew anything about the murder?”

  He shook his head.

  “How did it happen?”

  “Themis left in the afternoon, and after he’d been away for several hours, Emma started looking for him. You see, he’d never left her on her own for any length of time before. She tripped over him while she was walking around on the hill. She realized it was him from his smell and touch. Her hands are almost supernaturally sensitive. That’s how she pulls off all those card tricks. He was already dead.”

  “And?”

  Angelino grimaced, showing that it was a real struggle for him to think about this, let alone talk about it. He got to his feet, picked up the brandy bottle that was on the bar, filled his glass two thirds full, took a deep swig and leaned against the wall as though he needed the support.

  “She was clinging on to him. She didn’t cry. That was the amazing thing. She was just lying on top of him, silently clinging on to him was she was trying to keep him warm. That’s what someone who saw her there said. Some of the homeless people who found her there pulled her off him. Not even Emma can remember how long she spent lying on top of him, whether it was hours or days. They tried to take her with them, but she got away. She disappeared for three months. Took a few clothes from their cave and the money they’d put aside and lived on her own for a bit, like a wild animal. She slept wherever she found a spot on the hill or downtown, in building entrances and on roof terraces and any basements she found unlocked. That’s how lots of homeless people live, and if you ask them, they’ll tell you it’s not too bad. It’s when you hear that that you know how hard it is for them to escape it, because once you get used to it you don’t even want to return to your old life. Some of my people found her and brought her to me. I’d heard about what had happened and I was looking for her. She was thrashing and flailing about, and wanted to leave. It was three months before she started talking, and she’d cry out in her sleep. I started leaving the square at night and sleeping in the room next to hers so I’d be close by if she needed me. After the first month, she would only stay calm if I was with her – she sort of knew me from the streets. Themis had apparently said nice things to her about me and she recognized my smell. I brought in some specialists to see her, but they scared her. I wasn’t always able to get her to calm down. Sometimes I would try to hug her and she’d kick me, keep howling until she exhausted herself and fell asleep again. Sometimes she’d ask me to take her back to the cave or the orphanage, and then other times she would rip into me with her nails, scratching me hard as if she wanted to tear into my flesh. But she never cried.”

  He took one step forward, detaching himself from the wall. Sometimes, when you’ve managed to get the words out, you no longer need any support.

  “What about the murder? What have you found out about that?”

  “Ten bullets, close range. Like they wanted to shred him, body and head. His body was burned by cigarettes. The cops think he was tortured first, so it wasn’t some kind of sick ritual. Whoever did it wanted something from him. Money, I’m guessing.”

  “Did he have any?”

  “He had saved quite a lot. For a homeless guy, that is. He’d told Emma that he was going to lend some money to this other homeless guy who needed it to see a doctor. We found him. He’s on his way out. He never saw Themis that day. Cops reckon that someone got to him on the way, either by chance or because they knew he had the money on him, and they tortured him to find out if he had any more hidden away.”

  That’s what I’d read in the file Drag had given me. I was hoping to get a bit more out of Angelino.

  “And what do you think?”

  He answered immediately. “I think I need to wait to hear from you what happened. Until I do, I don’t think anything.”

  “Angelino, if there’s one person who can dig up any information in this city, it’s you.”

  “Mmm …”

  “This case involves the homeless – your own people. And as far as I can see, you’ve got nothing.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So what makes you think I’ll get any further?”

  “You’ve certain things in your favour.”

  “Like what?”

  “Your obsession with investigations. This strange sense of responsibility that pushes you to find out the truth before you act. Attention to detail. Most importantly, you’re not
known in the homeless community, which means that unlike me, you can use violence to find out the truth. And you don’t care about using violence if you think it’s in a good cause. I can’t use violence against another homeless person. They look on me as family.”

  I also had access to all of Drag’s informers. I’m sure Angelino was thinking the same, though he didn’t say it.

  “And I’ve got an idea about how you can get to the information,” he said.

  “Go on.”

  “I’ve got a friend. Antonis Pavlis. Was homeless himself once but now he’s an icon painter. I’ve put a lot of business his way. He still keeps in touch with the community. He can introduce you as a journalist who is doing a piece on the homeless. As you ask them to tell you about their lives, you might be able to find out something important about Themis too. This is his number. Call him and sort out the details. He was out of the country when my people were asking questions about Themis. Now he’s back, he’ll give you a hand.”

  He handed me a piece of paper with just a phone number written on it in a beautiful hand. No name. Just a number.

  “It won’t be easy, you know. Three out of four homeless people who have been on the streets for over a year have reduced mental functioning, even the ones who aren’t on drugs. So many of them, but there’s no kind of programme or anything to help them. So be warned. A lot of what you’ll hear won’t make any sense at all.”

  “But why should they open up to me if they didn’t want to talk to you or your people?”

  “Two reasons. First of all, we only asked them specifically about Themis. But you can warm them up first. And then because homeless people, just like everyone else, love to have their two minutes of fame. Don’t you watch TV or read the papers?”

  “I try not to.”

  “Everyone’s interviewing the homeless these days. They all want to share their stories, see their faces on screen, in the papers, online. They’re really in at the moment, and they’re loving it. It sort of fills the void in their lives – they’ve lost their homes and feel that they don’t belong anywhere.”

  “Don’t you feel like that too? Like you don’t belong anywhere?”

  “I feel I belong everywhere. This whole city is my home. A house just imprisons you with all its comforts. Comforts are a trap.”

  “Unless you’ve got a young girl to take care of.”

  “Unless you have, yeah. That’s when you need them.”

  “You said earlier that it was all ‘in a good cause’. I don’t know that yet. I promised Emma that I would look into it. If everything turns out to be the way you say it is, then yes, I’m in. Pro bono. I won’t take anything from you. But it will depend on what I find out. You know my rules: I —”

  “I don’t think you’ll end up having to break any of your rules,” he interrupted. “But if you do, remember who’s asking you to break them.” He looked at me. I looked back at him. Neither of us broke the gaze for a long time. Eventually I nodded.

  “Oh, and Stratos? To answer your original question – my main interest in this case is to make money. That’s why I’m helping the girl, that’s why I’ve rented this building for a year: so I can promote her. Strictly business.”

  I recalled how he had held her hand the night before, as well as everything Emma had told me about all the things Angelino had done to help her. I recalled his pained face, only minutes before, when he was forced to remember those three months when Emma was traumatized and alone, waking up terrified at night, and when not even he could comfort her. “Strictly business.” Yeah, right. He loved her.

  “I think I will have that drink after all,” I said.

  12

  The kitchen was on the ground floor and the units were all built out of solid wood. The walls were painted in the magnolia of the sitting room. There were too many cupboards for me to count and the white worktops shone with cleanliness under the glare of a chandelier shaped like a train track and weighed down with so much crystal that its price tag must have been something to rival the national debt. I wondered if housekeeping was part of Jimmy’s brief.

  I had left Angelino’s office, and as I came down the stairs I noticed the light on in the kitchen and cooking smells filling the air, which I followed to see who was in there. It was Emma. She had heard my footsteps and turned towards the west door where I was standing. The other door, the north one, led to the bedroom. She was in pink pyjamas and the white cardigan I’d seen her in the day before.

  “Hi. It’s me, Stratos,” I reassured her.

  “Hi.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “What does it look like?”

  “You’re cooking.”

  “Is that so strange? Judging by the surprise in your voice, anyone would think you were watching me fly.”

  After what I had already seen she was capable of, I wouldn’t have ruled that out.

  “No – it’s just that …”

  “Angelino and I have been living here for almost a year now. I know exactly where everything is. Please try not to touch anything, will you? Because if you do, I might not be able to find it easily later.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I never knew much about it before, but there are loads of solutions for the blind. You can put Braille labels on things, or special labels that you can record voice messages onto. And the ovens we have here are so simple – both the regular oven and the microwave. They’ve got standard functions, so you’re soon operating them without thinking about it. But there are still a few things that you can’t do. Just a few.”

  “Like what?”

  “Frying. The hot oil spitting up from the pan. Always having to wear long oven gloves so you don’t burn your arms on the hob or your wrists when you’re taking things out of the oven.”

  “What are you making?”

  “I’ve finished the feta-stuffed peppers. Now I’m making beef with puréed aubergines. When it’s ready I’ll call Angelino down to serve. He likes eating late in the evening so he can lend a hand,” she smiled.

  A regular father–daughter set-up. I thought about my own baby growing inside Maria and suddenly felt very jealous of Angelino.

  Emma picked up the very sharp knife she’d left on the side next to what was left of the beef. There were three onions in front of her. With precise movements, she cut them into tiny pieces, scooped them up, tossed them into the saucepan and began stirring.

  “Do you want to stay for dinner?”

  “Thanks, but …” But what? I had somewhere to be? Someone was expecting me home?

  “OK. I’ll stay.”

  “Great. This is one of my specials. But I cook everything. It’s a hobby of mine.”

  “What about the meat? How do you weigh it?”

  “Angelino’s bought me some electronic scales which read out the weight – just like the electronic thermometer we have for roasts so I can tell when they’re nearly done. And then there’s the classic method for stews – I just take off the lid and taste.”

  She picked up a bottle of wine, poured a few drops into the saucepan and went back to her original position by the chopping board she used for cutting lettuce, this time with another small-bladed knife. As she cut up the ingredients, she moved them in little piles to her left so that she could tell them apart.

  I stared at her for a while; neither of us spoke.

  “Any news?” she asked, her back turned to me. I got the impression that her voice was shaking.

  “It’s far too early for —”

  “Yes, yes, I know. It was only yesterday that we spoke. I know,” she said, cutting me off as though embarrassed to seem impatient.

  She grated a tomato, put it in a bowl and then threw it into the saucepan together with a whole tin of chopped tomatoes, a generous amount of salt and some pepper. Her body had tensed up completely from the moment she asked me that question.

  “What about the recipes?” I asked to relieve the awkwardness.

  “A lot of th
em are mine. Some of them I get from audio books. That’s how I’ve learned some old magic tricks that I’m perfecting. My dad bought me some in Monastiraki a long time ago and Angelino brings me back various things – not just recipes and magic tricks, but novels too. But I can’t be bothered with them. They’re in English and it’s really tiring trying to work out what they’re saying. Even the audio books with the recipes often don’t help much, ’cause they say things like ‘Stir until the colour changes.’ So I have to get Angelino to tell me when the colour changes and then make a note of the time it’s taken so I’ll know for the next time.”

  She was moving about all the time she was talking to me. Absolute command over the space, hardly ever stopping to think. If you didn’t look into her eyes, it would have been impossible to tell that she couldn’t see. She took the four large aubergines she’d left to dry by the sink and put them in the oven.

  “There’s something I want to ask you,” I said.

  “Yes?”

  “What kind of reporter was Themis?”

  Before she had a chance to answer me, a series of muted staccato sounds could be heard coming from the direction of the front door. If I didn’t recognize the sound, I would have thought someone was letting off cheap fireworks. But these were no fireworks. It was a large gun with a silencer attached to it. The second I heard it my hand automatically reached for my thigh, forgetting that Jimmy’s heavies had taken both my guns off me before I went up to see Angelino. Had he heard the noise?

  “What was that?” asked Emma. But I was already next to her, my hand covering her mouth.

  “Shh … Please – do as I say. Be quiet till I’ve seen what’s going on,” I whispered.