by Alex A King
“Go back to Greece. Let the family and Detective Melas know what’s going on.” Melas likely already knew, thanks to my call to Pappas, but it never hurt to double down. I’d take all the rescue teams I could get. “Do you still have some of that fake money?” I asked Donk. He nodded. The rest of the fake cash was still wrapped in its brown paper. I’d be putting it to use soon enough. This Mario, whoever he was, would be looking for his pretend money, so he was my starting point. Eventually we were bound to run into each other, especially once I started flashing his package around.
Click. The Ferrari’s trunk door swung up. We stared open-mouthed as the Armani Hobo climbed out. He gave us two thumbs up and moseyed off into the harsh morning sun.
“Hey,” I called out. “Who are you?”
He didn’t turn around, just lifted his hand and waved. It was all very Clint Eastwood. We stood there gawking at him for several moments before reality sank back in.
I slapped the Ferrari on its flank, then immediately petted the smooth paint and apologized. “Drive straight to Greece. Don’t stop until you’re home. You,” I told Donk, “try not to insult her too much. And you,” I said to Marika, “try not to hit him too much, okay?”
“I cannot promise that.” She folded her arms.
Donk glared at her in the rearview mirror. “Get in the front. I can’t see the road with you back there. You are big and round like the sun. You blot out everything.”
I hid a smile behind my hand. I was going to miss them. God only knew what I was walking into. Quicksand, probably. When I was a kid quicksand was everywhere and inevitable, according to television. As an adult I’d encountered precisely none, which meant my quicksand time was coming—most likely here, in this not-that-smallish Italian trash paradise, filled to the brim, if stories were true, with Camorra.
“Scram,” I said. Neither of them understood the word, but my intent was clear. The Ferrari peeled away, gears complaining loudly about the driver.
Brown paper package of Monopoly money gripped under my arm, gun snoozing against my thigh, I took stock of the street. A string of cafes and other eateries. A church—or cathedral—close by.
Which way was up?
Completely clueless about which way to go, I took off in the same direction as Armani Hobo. That guy was up to something, I just knew it. Whether he was a good witch or a bad witch was up for debate. He’d shot at the bad guys in the alley, then he’d tossed his gun in the garbage for me and not some kindergartener to find. He’d led me to bookstore’s step. Then he’d secretly hitched a ride to Camorra-central in the back of a most-likely stolen Ferrari.
Gawd, I really hoped Marika and Donk made it back to Greece in one piece.
I rounded a corner and entered an alley. A quick scan showed it was empty. No Armani Hobo. Another block later I stumbled into a second alley. This one was occupato by a couple of dealers negotiating with a respectable member of no community ever.
“Any of you know a guy named Mario?” I asked them.
It was risky, but then everything about this was risky. If I could find a non-risky thing to do I’d be doing that instead.
One of the dealers pointed to himself. “Mario.” Then he pointed to the other guy. “Mario.” The customer glanced from me to them, then back to me again. He jabbed a finger at his chest. “Mario.”
Great, so Mario was a common name around these parts.
“Are any of you super?”
They blinked at me. Maybe they didn’t have Nintendo here.
“Inside joke,” I said, backing out of the alley.
Sunlight hit me square in the eyes. Maybe I could use some of Mario’s fake cash to score a pair of sunglasses. I’d be sure to keep the receipt and send the store real money as soon as I was safely back on Greek soil and stones. Hand shielding my eyes, I scanned the street for those spinning postcard racks that are ubiquitous outside every souvenir shop on the planet. Where there were postcards there would be sunglasses. It’s one of the laws of modern nature.
I spotted one in the distance and adjusted my course.
The store was what you’d expect, filled to overflowing with mostly useless junk, the city’s name emblazoned on front. Every trinket was there so you’d have something to remind of that one time you went to that one not-that-interesting place, elevated to a higher, more interesting pinnacle, simply because it was in Italy and not Cincinnati or Milwaukee. The cashier had a head like a lemon that had been baked in a too hot oven for too long. Some thoughtful person had then jammed a pair of clove eyes into the skin, plopped a cotton ball wig on top and spray-painted it a harsh, glossy black. She grunted as I inched past.
Sunglasses were located on a second spinning rack near the front of the store. I tried on a dozen pairs, peering into the tiny mirror each time, before settling on a pair of aviators with black lenses. I carried them up to the counter and, with what I hoped was a steady hand, gave the cashier a fifty-euro note. Wordlessly, she accepted the cash and immediately held it up to the light.
My stomach clenched. My bladder began to complain about a growing space issue. Tonight I’d be in prison, scrambling for rats. Should have had Marika work out my inmate name.
The lemon whipped out a pen and slashed a line across the bill’s face. Not a literal face; euros don’t wear famous faces. Instead they have styles of architecture. The fifty features the Renaissance. She sniffed. Reluctantly, the cash vanished into an ancient cash register. The over-baked citrus dumped change on the counter.
Impressed by the moneymaker’s considerable skills, I shoved the sunglasses down on my nose and skedaddled. Not only did I have sunglasses, but I was also in possession of some genuine cash, thanks to the souvenir store. I didn’t feel bad about exchanging some of it for a steaming latte with a sprinkle of chocolate.
Outside once more, I looked around for the Armani Hobo but there was no sign of him. He was probably voiding his bladder someplace inappropriate. He seemed to be good at that. When he was over being a hobo he’d make an excellent centerpiece in a small European town’s fountain.
A moped pulled up beside me. When I saw who was perched on back, I just about dropped my latte. Baked Potato and Beaver had found me. They were cheerful about the situation.
Baked Potato grinned at me. “What is that thing when something happens, and it is a strange thing that it happened because it has something to do with another thing?”
“A coincidence,” I said. “The word you’re looking for is coincidence.”
He snapped his fingers. “A coincidence.” His grin died a swift death. “This isn’t one of those.”
“We followed you,” Beaver said, like I was too stupid to figure it out.
“So I see. Busy here. Can’t stay and chat.” I waggled my fingers at them. “Toodle-oo.” Off I trotted down the street.
The moped cruised alongside me. Sheesh. Some people couldn’t take a hint. Both bozos were watching me.
“Are those new sunglasses?” Beaver wanted to know. “Nice.”
Baked Potato wasn’t interested in sunglasses. “Where did you get money, eh? You told us you had nothing.”
“I found a twenty on the street,” I said. “Now go away.”
Thanks to my excellent peripheral vision, I saw Baked Potato make a face.
“Lucky,” he said.
“That’s my middle name. My mother was a Jackie Collins fan.”
“Really?”
“No.”
“Then why—”
“Go away,” I said. “You’re harassing me.”
“This?” He made another face. “This is nothing. This is friendly. This is what Italian men do when they see a pretty woman.”
Whatever I was right now it wasn’t pretty. The woman in the store window’s reflection had been something conjured straight out of a Tim Burton movie. I was someone’s nightmare—possibly mine.
“I think maybe you spent some of Marco’s money,” he went on. “I see you still have his package. Marco does n
ot like it when people take his things.”
I hugged it tighter. They couldn’t have it. This pretend money was my ticket out of Italy.
“Leave me alone or I’ll scream.”
“So scream. The Camorra owns this city. They love the sound of screaming.”
The Camorra is the Naples area’s organized crime. They’re like the Mafia, only more criminal and less organized.
“My family is in organized crime, too,” I said in what sounded an awful lot to me like a sad attempt at one-upmanship.
“American Mafia. Ha!” Baked Potato mumbled something, then he said, “That was my Don Corleone imitation. You like?” He spat on the ground without waiting on my answer. “I spit on Sicilians.”
I winced. Camorra or no Camorra, you didn’t spit on Sicilians. Probably it was best not to even think “spit” and “Sicilians” in the same sentence.
“Not the American side of my family tree,” I told him. “The Greek side.”
“Yeah, yeah, you said some name we never heard of earlier.”
“Katerina Makri.”
“Still never heard of her.”
“We never heard of her.” Beaver couldn’t help tacking on his echo.
“I bet your buddy Mario has. If he hasn’t then he’s not anybody important.”
So help me God and gods, I was cobbling together a plan as I went along. I needed to find Mario and these two bozos knew him. Ergo, if I tweaked their noses hard enough they might take me to meet with him. There was a good chance they’d chain me to the back of that Vespa and drag me there, but there were worse ways to travel. I’d already flown first class next to Takis, and I’d been drugged twice by my own family and tossed onto a plane. At least this would be a travel method of my choosing.
“Mario is Mario. He knows everybody worth knowing.”
“Then he’ll know the Makris family name.” I waved the package at them. “Take me to your leader. I have his money.”
Neither of the bozos looked happy about that. “He is expecting us to deliver it.”
“You’ll still be delivering it. I’ll be holding it, that’s all.”
They exchanged marginally less unhappy glances. This wasn’t their plan but they were thinking as far as plans went it wasn’t so bad. In their heads they’d be bringing in the money and the American bimbo who’d dared to steal it. I’d be a twofer. Fine. Let them think that. Their plan and my plan were two different plans, but they didn’t need to know that yet. Mostly I didn’t know what my plan actually was yet, but it involved this Mario, whoever he was.
Baked Potato shoved his phone up against his ear. He released a rapid-fire burst of Italian that made Greek seem like the slow children traffic signs warned you about. A moment later he thrust the phone back into his pocket, then he turned around and made an obscene-in-several-languages hand gesture at Beaver.
“Mario wants his money,” he said. “You ride with me. That one can walk.”
“Why do I have to walk?” Beaver whined. “You’re the fat one.”
Baked Potato ignored him. “Get on.”
I climbed on the back of the moped. With Baked Potato on the front there wasn’t much room for a regular sized person.
He shot me a worried look. “Is that a gun or are you happy to see me?”
“I’m not happy to see you.”
He laughed like I’d just made a joke. Figures. Half the time I didn’t take me seriously either. The gun, though, that was pretty serious. I was suddenly glad I hadn’t played my loaded hand in the bookstore. I might have to use it soon enough, and I’d rather it was a surprise.
My stomach turned sour at the thought of having to use a gun on anything with a pulse, even if they were out to get me.
CHAPTER 6
Mario was young.
Mario was hot, delicious beefcake.
Mario was also so light in the loafers that he was a walking, talking David Blaine act. Not that there’s anything wrong with that; how other people live, and who they are, is none of my business. When it is my business is when it’s my fiancé’s fish bone crammed down a starving male diner’s mouth. Way back when I was still engaged to Todd, I caught him playing Hide the Boner, using his mouth as a hiding place.
Not that I’m bitter. Much.
“Oh my God,” Mario said in high-pitched English, delivered with a garlicky Italian twist. “I love those shoes! Where did you get them?”
I mean, my shoes were nice but they weren’t scream-worthy. Baby Dimitri’s shop sold the same shoes as fifty other stores in the area. But maybe Greece’s fashion didn’t stretch as far as the Naples area.
“From a Godfather of the Night named Baby Dimitri.”
He laughed. It sounded like crystal in a blender. “Baby Dimitri! I have heard of him. He killed his whole family, or so they say.”
So they did say, but he had a living sister—or half-sister—and his nephew Donk.
“They do say that,” I said.
“He sells shoes, you say?”
“And souvenirs.”
He tapped his chin thoughtfully with one finger. “Is the store his cover?”
“Maybe. Mostly I think it’s just his store.” Baby Dimitri’s favorite spot in the world seemed to be his shop’s front doorstep, directly across from the beach. Sooner or later every pair of boobs in the world swam past.
“I like it,” he said. “Very provincial. The gangster who chooses to spend his days at a shoe and souvenir shop. What do you think, did he kill his family?”
“I don’t think about it. I just shop there.”
Mario circled me, tapping on his chin thoughtfully. “And who are you that you buy shoes from a gangster?” He paused to wave a finger at me. “They say you took my money.”
We were standing inside the cavernous living room of a Eurotrash mansion. Lots of palm trees outside. Inside decorated with too many reflective surfaces and a herd of cows worth of black leather. Glass featured prominently. Silver was the precious metal of choice.
“One, it’s not real money. And two, I didn’t mean to take it. I tried to tell the shopkeeper I’d never heard of you. But it all worked out.”
He raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. Somebody manscaped. “What?”
“I only took it to get to you—or someone like you.”
“Why?”
“I want to learn.”
I was going to hell, wasn’t I? Lying to this Mario guy. Conning the bad guys. Stealing from the same bad guys. Italy was turning out to be bad for my mortal soul.
Mario went back to circling. Very sharkish of him. And here I was in my diver’s cage, wondering if the bars were going to hold when he finally lunged.
“Learn what? Tell me.”
“How to make money.”
“Get a job,” he said.
“I mean make money.”
“You are talking counterfeiting, yes? Let me tell you something about counterfeiting. Here we are famous for it because we are the best. People come to Giugliano from all over to learn how to make close-to-perfect euros. But making money is not a big moneymaker. Can you believe that?”
I couldn’t, and I made a sort of scared snorting sound as I shook my head.
“We use the money to buy things. Countries. Wars. Power. Fake, worthless money to buy the things that matter. People in poor countries do not care that the money is fake. That money you took? Not fake money.” He stopped directly in front of me, and got right up in my face. “THAT WAS REAL MONEY! MY REAL MONEY!” He flicked the sunglasses off my head. “And you bought those sunglass with my real money.”
Real money? Yikes. “They were under twenty euros,” I said in a tiny voice.
“And the rest of the money?”
“I used some of it for a family emergency. The rest is still in the packet.”
“What emergency?”
Great—now I had to lie again and the way things had been going I didn’t have a story to explain the missing euros. They were supposed to be fake. Someone
was supposed to be able to whip up another fresh batch.
I whipped the change out of my pocket. “Here’s your change from the sunglasses and the coffee. I had to have a coffee, otherwise I’d go Godzilla on your country.”
Shrug. “All civilized people drink coffee in the morning. I forgive you for the coffee.” He held the smaller bills up to the light. “Fake,” he declared.
Fake money was real, and real money was fake. What was wrong with this place?
“Huh,” I said, “how ‘bout that. What are the odds?”
“You gave away my real money for counterfeit money. Do you know what you just did?”
“Gave away your real money for counterfeit money?” I ventured.
“Very clever. You are, how you say, smart ... for a stupid person. You have made me the laughing stock of Giugliano de Campania. From now on I will be known as the man who was too stupid to know he was being swindled.”
“I don’t get it. I mean I bought those sunglasses. It’s not like that old buzzard in the souvenir store knew it was your real money.”
“Of course she knew,” he said. “That is my ex wife.”
My mind boggled. “Arranged marriage?”
He gave me a blank look. “No. Why would you think that?”
Oh, no reason. She was around when Mussolini was storming Greece, and Mario looked younger than me. I couldn’t imagine what they had in common except diapers and pudding.
I shook my head, not wanting to dig a deeper hole. “You don’t seem her type.” His type came with a penis, I would have bet money on it. Not my money; but his money—sure.
“In her youth, Gina was a voracious lover. She and her store belong to a famous Camorra family.”
Eww ... and uh-oh.
“Everybody who walks out of her shop walks out with something fake,” he went on. “Look at your sunglasses.”
I tugged them off my head, peered at the label. Huh. My Ray-Ban lookalikes were Hay-Beans. What was I expecting for less than twenty euro?
“I bought them for the style and price, not the name.”
“Everything in that store is counterfeit, including the money. And now everyone is laughing at me.”
“Already?”
