Island Casualty

by D. R. Ransdell

  I winced. Rachel was absolutely right. The men had gone away instead of trying hard to find two startled motorists. Then I genuflected, an act I hadn’t performed for years. I was surprised I remembered how to do it.

  ***

  “That’s how it happened,” I said. “Rachel took the curve too fast, we bounced off the scooter, and the car kept going.”

  “Thanks God you were not hurt even more,” Soumba said for the third time. For the third time, I wondered who had taught him English.

  Soumba stroked his chin. He’d shaved, but this time he’d missed a strip on the left side. “This is all you can remember?”

  I’d been against making a formal report in case the incident turned out to be a prank, but Nikos had insisted on calling the police station early the next morning. Soumba had helped us retrieve the scooter and then taken pictures of it. Now he sat patiently in Eleni’s kitchen as Rachel and I explained details. Eleni and Nikos listened just as patiently, plying us with coffee and sweet cakes as if this were any other summer morning.

  “Only a minute or so elapsed between the time I sensed something strange and the time we fell off, so I didn’t have time to notice much,” I told Soumba.

  “And you, Rachel?”

  She put down her coffee cup, which she held unsteadily with her left hand. “I was too busy watching the road, not that it did me much good.”

  “You aren’t used to driving defensively. It is natural you lost control.” Soumba reread the few notes he’d taken. “I’m sorry. I wish I could do more for you, but with this information it’s hard to find the conclusions. Eleni, you or Nikos have noticed anything wrong in the neighborhood such as strange noises at night?”

  They quizzed one another before shaking their heads.

  “This is a quiet area,” Eleni said. “Several of the neighbors are quite old. They do not go out a lot, so they notice everything that happens. If they had seen anything suspicious, they would have said so.”

  “Yes,” Soumba said as he wrote. “Rachel, I know it sounds crazy, but you can think of anyone from the U.S. who wants to harm you?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t even get friends to visit here. Everybody back home thinks Amiros is so far away that it’s on another planet.”

  Soumba nodded as if he’d expected that very answer. “Andy, excuse me, but I must ask you the same question.”

  I lied automatically. “I’m several thousand miles from Squid Bay. I can’t think of anyone who would be mad enough to chase me.”

  “No trouble with other musicians?”

  It was a smart question. Professional musicians regularly clashed with one another as egos clouded working relationships and sarcastic comments triggered rivalries. On that level I’d been fortunate. I’d worked at the same restaurant for nearly twenty years with very few problems. I’d caused an older man to retire by refusing to give in to his moods; I’d vetoed hiring a young man who’d begged to play with us but who sang off-key. Both events had occurred several years earlier, and as far as I knew, hadn’t caused any repercussions.

  “The other mariachis and I got along really well. I left Squid Bay on good terms with all of them.”

  Soumba stirred his coffee for the umpteenth time. “Who knew you are coming to Amiros?”

  “My neighbor. My brother and his family. No one else. But it would have been a lot easier to take revenge on me back in Southern California.”

  “That’s true.” When Soumba paused, I assumed he’d run out of questions. Instead he was searching for delicate wording. “I apologize,” he said, directing his words to Rachel, “but I often ask unpopular questions. Andy, you have angered some old girlfriends?”

  For the first time, it occurred to me that Soumba was quite good at his job and more intuitive than I had given him credit for. The truth was that I had an ex-lover who was unstable enough that I couldn’t rule her out. Since she booked flights for an airline company, she could have flown to Athens for free.

  “I don’t think Stefani could possibly be this angry.”

  Soumba reached for another sweet cake. “Was she your fiancée?”

  “She wanted to be. That’s one reason we broke up. By now I’m sure she’s with someone else.”

  I was still lying. Stefani had put up with me for a couple of years, working around my performance schedule and forgiving me for not paying her enough attention. She should have given up, and I’d kept hoping she would. From the beginning, she’d put a lot more effort into the relationship than I had. I never figured out why she kept trying. She was in a position to meet lots of men who were more solid dating prospects than I was. It had taken my folly with Louloudi for her to throw in the towel.

  Soumba wiped powdered sugar from his lips. “Could you have accidentally angered any husbands?”

  I shook my head. Louloudi’s husband had not been angry at me for sleeping with his wife. I’d been the last of a series of lovers, or at least one of the last, but I’d been the most subtle as well as the least effective. I’d fallen for Louloudi in my own way, but until the final, fatal moment, I’d also done everything in my power to help her. The woman had used me much more than I had used her. Her husband had been wise enough to realize it.

  “Is there anything else?”

  I shook my head. Thanks to me, Louloudi’s husband was in jail. I wasn’t sure how far his hands stretched, but I was pretty sure he’d never heard of the Dodecanese Islands.

  Soumba stood and shook our hands. “Andy, Rachel, I’m embarrassed that this has happened to you, especially since you are guests in our town. I’m more embarrassed that I cannot help you understand it. There has been no precedence for this kind of incident, not on Amiros.”

  “It’s very strange,” Nikos said. “It’s more like something you would expect over on the mainland.”

  Soumba nodded as strands of hair fell back into his face. “Even for someone to have a gun is strange. I don’t understand any of this.”

  “I’m worried they might hunt for us again,” I said.

  “Yes,” Soumba said. “I’m afraid you are right to worry. For the present, however, we can do nothing more than be watchful.” He wrote a number on a fresh piece of paper and tore it from his pocket-sized notebook. “If something happens, call me right away. Don’t worry if it’s the middle of the night.”

  “Sure, Soumba. Thanks for your concern.”

  He sighed. Despite all the coffee, he seemed weary. “For this, they pay me. It is part of my job.”

  At the time, I would have never guessed what a terrible job it really was.

  Chapter Ten

  As a rule I disliked playing with musicians I barely knew. I’d done so on previous occasions, and the experiences had always been uncomfortable. No matter my intentions, the others assumed my goal was to prove my superior worth and edge them out. In this case the circumstances were different. Although I’d listened to Greek music for a lifetime total of about six hours, I was the only possible substitute. When Rachel phoned Spiros and explained the situation, the taverna owner encouraged me to come help out.

  When I arrived, Angelos, the bouzouki player, nodded me towards Rachel’s chair without wasting words on a greeting, but once we started performing and he realized that I was a passable guitar player, he relaxed. Dina, the older guitar player, was more reserved, but Rachel had warned me that the man was easily intimidated because his hearing was so poor. She’d advised me to smile and ignore him. Kostas was the saving grace. The accordion player was the easygoing member, the one attuned to the mood of both the players and the audience. He was also a strong musician. When we performed songs with intricate patterns, Kostas calmly announced the chords in time for me to play them on beat as we went along. He was half British, and his accent demonstrated both his origins at once.

  “Where is the girl?” a man asked. He was the eighth or ninth customer to do so. Like the others, he found my presence unnoteworthy.

  “She wasn’t feeling well,” said Ko
stas pleasantly. “She should be back tomorrow.”

  The man nodded approval and moved away.

  “Do you always get this interrogation when Rachel doesn’t play?” I asked.

  Kostas didn’t answer. I thought he was ignoring my question.

  “It’s the first night she missed all summer,” he finally said. “She even played jetlagged. She must have hurt her wrist pretty badly.”

  “She landed on it when we fell off the scooter. She wanted to come in tonight and sing a bit, but the painkillers knocked her out.”

  An older woman approached the stage. “Where is Rachel tonight?”

  I was glad my friend was so appreciated. She’d explained that few women played in bouzouki groups although she knew of an Albanian woman who’d joined a band in Athens and another with a French accent who sang at one of the capital’s up-scale nightclubs. On a small island such as Amiros, Rachel was a cultural and musical novelty. She might not have known the entire repertoire, but her faults were minimized by her attitude. While she was on stage, she smiled nearly all the time, not because smiling was part of the job but because the job was part of her. If I’d been a customer, I’d have missed her too.

  When we took a short break, Kostas and I slipped out for a smoke. We leaned against the hood of one of the bigger cars in the parking lot. He offered me a Karelaia, an inexpensive Greek cigarette, and for a minute we puffed away in the dark.

  “Rachel told me about the mysterious man you met at the café the other day,” Kostas said. “And now you have the scooter incident. You’re not having much of a vacation.”

  “I’d been desperate to get out of L.A. Maybe now I’ll appreciate it.”

  He considered me carefully. “Do you think we ever appreciate what we have?” He was neither sarcastic nor judgmental. It was an honest question.

  “Not really. Although Rachel is easy to appreciate.” I said the words glibly, yet I knew I hadn’t learned to appreciate her either.

  “Congratulations. Vangellis is a hard act to follow. Nobody came close until you.”

  I was so startled that I lost my balance. “Vangellis the songwriter? Rachel used to be with him?”

  Kostas choked as he exhaled. “You didn’t know? Bloody hell. Well, you haven’t heard it from me.”

  “Where did she meet him?”

  “He’s from Amiros. They met right here in this restaurant. Then Vangellis got a lucrative recording contract and moved to Athens. Now that he’s famous, he hardly ever comes back home.”

  No wonder Rachel had all of his tapes. No wonder she’d mastered so much Greek; she’d been inspired.

  “What happened?” I asked. “Never mind. It’s none of my business.”

  Kostas blew a long puff of smoke into the air. “You know the routine. The wife always wins. Especially when she has a rich father.”

  “I see. Vangellis went back to his wife, and I’m the substitute.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re the replacement Rachel spent months looking for after Vangellis chose a career over love.”

  I wasn’t sure whether I should be flattered at the comparison or miffed that Rachel hadn’t said anything. On the other hand, I hadn’t planned to say anything about Louloudi.

  “Rachel told you about meeting me?”

  “She was excited. She said she’d found another musician like herself, someone down to earth.” He winked. “And sexy.”

  “Imagine that.”

  I didn’t feel sexy at all. I had a slender build and few muscles. My straight black hair was incorrigible, and even though I was over six feet, I always felt my face was too long for my body. I couldn’t even claim renown in my profession. I was a career musician, but I wasn’t famous, and I wasn’t suddenly going to get that way. I’d become a musician because I liked performing and was good at it, not because I had grand intentions. Women were attracted to me because they imagined I was an extension of the love songs I sang all night, but I wasn’t prepared to sing anyone to sleep with lullabies. I was only romantic on stage when I was getting paid for it.

  “To tell you the truth,” Kostas continued, “I didn’t think you’d make it over to Amiros. Rachel didn’t either. She was afraid you had too many women chasing after you.”

  “The ones who chase you are never the ones you want.”

  “I know that! To be honest, I don’t know any intelligent Greek women I’d want a long-term relationship with. You’ve probably had the same problems as I have. Either women are so dependent that they’re jailors, or their careers have made them so tough they’re no longer feminine. Either way they’re hard to appreciate.”

  “That’s it exactly. Rachel doesn’t fit the pattern. When I first met her, we had so much in common that we clicked.”

  Kostas took a last puff before squashing the butt into the rocky gravel. “She had the same impression of you. That’s why I told her, what the hell, give the bloody chap a call. I’m glad she did. She needed the diversion. She’s been crabby lately.”

  “You’re close friends, aren’t you?”

  He started toward the taverna and I followed. “Absolutely.”

  “Why not more than that?”

  Kostas grinned. “When we first met, I was too wild. She only had eyes for Vangellis. We became close while she was struggling with him.”

  “It’s great to have close friends.”

  He slowed his pace as we reached the back door. “The problem is that when you know someone well, you know a lot about them. Almost too much.” He looked me straight on. “That’s why I need you to tell me what really happened last night.”

  “I told you already. We fell off the scooter.”

  “Rachel drives that thing like a bicycle.”

  “Probably the wheel was loose, and—”

  “Stop.” He’d turned into a public servant stuck defending a serial killer. “I know you’re lying. I hope to God you have a good reason for it. But if anything happens to her, I’m holding you responsible.”

  For the next hours I played woodenly, reflecting on my shortcomings and worrying that Kostas meant every word he said.

  ***

  Halfway through our last set, Spiros ushered two businessmen to a table close to the stage. They were the same men Rachel and I had seen carting orange sacks down by the port. Although the tired musicians greeted the men, Angelos started whispering angrily and Dina replied in kind. For the next several songs they whispered amongst themselves as they played. This meant that Kostas couldn’t cue me. Worse, several times one musician started in on the chorus while another started in on the next verse, causing a scramble as the third decided whom to follow.

  I didn’t have to speak Greek to understand the gist of the situation. The musicians were anticipating the end of the evening, but they knew the customers would want music after hours.

  Kostas set his chin on his accordion as we paused briefly between songs. “Andy, did Rachel mention anything about the house gig we played a couple of nights ago?”

  “She said it paid well.”

  “That’s true. The clients paid us four hours in advance. Then they got tired and sent us home an hour early.”

  “So you still owe them some time.”

  “Exactly.”

  In Squid Bay we’d averaged two late-night gigs a month. They were inconvenient because by the time we got done with our regular stint we hardly felt like continuing the work someplace else, but we never turned such jobs down. We charged double for the bother of going to someone’s house late at night. If the customers wanted music that badly, they gladly paid what we asked. Sometimes they even paid up front as a gesture of good will. As long as they cashed out before they got drunk and nodded off, we didn’t mind.

  “I’m sorry for the lack of notice,” Kostas said, “but would you mind helping us out?”

  “I’m not all that much help, but I’m happy to do what I can.”

  Kostas winked. “You’re a warm body, and that’s what counts. Also, I th
ink those fellows are from South America. They’ll appreciate Spanish-language songs.”

  He spit out a few sentences in Angelos’ direction, but the leader grunted and nodded.

  “He doesn’t want to play,” I told Kostas.

  “I told him you would cover for him and that we could do without him. Then, of course, he agreed to it.”

  I tried to keep my smile invisible. Angelos had been hoping for an uprising, but no one joined in. I knew plenty of musicians like him. Once the money was in their hands, nothing else mattered because they conveniently forgot how it had gotten there.

  “Those customers,” I said to Kostas a few songs later, “do you think they’re okay?”

  He focused on their table. “They’ve only had a couple of brandies. I don’t think they’re drunk.”

  “No, I mean as customers?”

  “Last time they were polite enough. For the most part, they didn’t make requests. They let us play whatever we wanted to.”

  “Kostas, do you think they’re dangerous?”

  My companion cocked his head. “What are you talking about?”

  “They have a lot of money, right? Usually that means something illegal.”

  Kostas squeezed shut the bellows of his accordion, creating a wheezing, sagging sound. “What kind of people do you play for around L.A.?”

  I suddenly felt silly. “Sometimes we run into rough characters.”

  “I guess you would. It happened to me once too, though not on Amiros. The man turned out to be loony. Shot a dog a few months later, and then got caught because he stored it on the balcony.” He indicated the newcomers. “These men are harmless.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Do you know something I don’t?”

  I didn’t want to tell him that Rachel and I had imagined a dead body in a sack labeled “Oranges.” “I don’t know. They seem shady.”

  “No,” he laughed, “they’re just rich. Sometimes that’s the same thing.”

  For the moment the businessmen were more focused on food than on music. They ordered plates of roasted meat and devoured the morsels with relish, paying scant attention to us or the other customers. After they’d finished coffee and fruit, the smaller one approached, nodding hello to all of us but addressing Kostas. “Stelios wants to know if you’d come play tonight.”