Island Casualty

by D. R. Ransdell

  “We’ll be glad to,” Kostas lied.

  “Do you remember how to get to the house?”

  “Dina has a friend who lives further down the road. It’s no problem.”

  “Fine,” said the man. “Come after you finish. No hurry.”

  The men paid in cash, the bills spinning on the table as they left.

  During a brief pause between songs, I asked the waiter to bring me a double coffee. I was sure I’d need it.

  Chapter Eleven

  It was three a.m. by the time Dina’s tired car made it up the drive of the two-story house where we were supposed to play. No wonder Angelos had been so disappointed. He probably preferred going to bed before dawn just as much as I did. There had been a time when I’d considered money more important than sleep, but I couldn’t remember how long ago it was.

  The house was in the middle of deserted stretch a few miles inland from Amiros Town. We found the dwelling tucked away, partway up a hill whose trees and bushes threatened to overtake the narrow, neglected road.

  The house would have been luxurious when first built, impressive for its use of the newest building materials. Several decades later, it was elegantly run-down. Weeds ruled the yard. The roof had shed tiles. The gravel path was grooved. Yet the house stood at the apex of the property, its picture window boldly naked against the bright electric lights.

  Three cars and a motor scooter occupied the yard. Even before we reached the house, we heard the loud sounds of a reunion going full blast. We had to knock on the door several times before anyone noticed us.

  A short Greek man opened the door. He was about my age, but he wore a low-hanging muscle shirt and a shark’s tooth around his neck. “Welcome. Come on in.”

  We trooped into the living room, which was furnished with two upholstered sofas and several armchairs. A cardboard box in front of the sofas served as a coffee table. A full ashtray vainly tried to keep order. Three Cubist prints, Picassos or Braques, were thumbtacked to the wall.

  Seven men were assembled. In addition to the businessmen who’d come to the taverna was a third who also spoke Spanish, a fourth who sounded British, and three who were Greek. The man in charge was one of the Greeks. He introduced himself as Stelios Panos.

  I disliked Panos instantly without having a reason for it. Maybe it was the stiff way he carried himself or the abrupt way he rose from the armchair and shook our hands while in the midst of another conversation.

  “Ah! Yes. Pleased you could come. We need music to help us celebrate! Joris, bring them some chairs,” he said to one of the Greeks. “Filipos,” he said to the other, “bring them something to drink.”

  Empty beer bottles adorned the table, but the men weren’t drunk. They were focused, deep into their own conversations, several of which were going on at the same time.

  Filipos brought us beers while Joris set up chairs facing the sofa.

  Angelos was more cheerful with a beer in his hand. He brightly asked Panos what the man wanted to hear.

  “Suggestions?” Panos asked the others.

  None of his guests answered. Our job was to punctuate the activities, not lead them.

  “Play anything,” Panos said. “No. Play happy.”

  The request was common, and my friends had the repertoire to match. They chose folk tunes, mostly instrumental, in major keys. I studied Joris and Filipos. They were clearly subordinate to Panos, but so was everyone else in the room. I assumed the same septet had been present on the previous occasion.

  “You have outdone yourself this time,” the shorter Hispanic told Panos. “They will be surprised back in Athens.”

  “Never did they expect this,” said the Brit.

  “Opus Shipping will never be the same,” the Hispanic continued.

  “That’s the beauty of being underestimated,” Panos purred, spreading his arms over the back of the couch. “Afterwards people can hardly believe their mistake. They spend years trying to figure out where they went wrong. Remember, you can’t stay ahead without employing surprise. Yet the market could shift. You have to be ready for that.”

  “You don’t expect a shift right away, do you?” asked the Brit.

  “No. There will be signs. We’ll have to rid ourselves of undesirable elements.”

  There was a round of laugher. My eyebrows shot above my forehead. If they’d “gotten rid of ” Hari, they would have paid attention to the newspaper article about him. Sooner or later they would recognize me. I tried to look blank, but the sweat on my forehead wasn’t from the heat of the crowded room. While I played, I focused on the Hispanics, the people who were the least likely to read The Amirosian, and tried to understand why Hari would have needed getting rid of.

  Ironically, none of the men seemed to notice me at all. If they looked up when I sang, they looked back down by the time I’d gotten through the first line. I seemed to have blended in with the background. I’d never been so relieved to feel like a wallflower. Once or twice I reassessed the men’s attention, but they seemed perfectly focused on one another.

  This too was familiar to me. At many of our own gigs, even the ones we were being highly paid for, we often were treated as superfluous. While that wasn’t comfortable, it wasn’t unusual. The first dozen times I’d been in such a situation, I had to fight off a sensation of either anger or incompetence. Then I’d learned to deal with it. Often, the less interaction we had with our customers, the better. They wanted to have their parties brightened with live music, but inside those parameters, they usually wanted to be left alone.

  After fifty-five minutes, since Angelos was careful to shortchange our patrons only slightly, he stood, thanked Panos for inviting us to play, and tried to say good night.

  Interrupted mid-conversation, our host held his hand out, fingers extended. “Leaving so soon? You have somewhere you need to go, someone you need to see?” He looked directly at me. “Maybe the new boy has a date? You are the new boy, aren’t you?”

  “I’m filling in,” I muttered.

  “He’s not as pretty as the woman,” Joris laughed.

  “Maybe she’s the one with the date!” Filipos continued.

  “Why not give us another hour?” Panos asked. “Don’t worry. I’m good for it, aren’t I, boys?” He chuckled, reaching for a fresh beer.

  We musicians exchanged glances, nodded, and sat back down to play. I’d often run into the same deal playing private parties back home. If the customers were willing to pay for another hour, it was cost effective to satisfy them. We’d already put in the travel time.

  After the first song, I flexed my fingers, cracking the knuckles.

  “Are you all right?” Kostas asked.

  “Just tired.” I bent towards him. “What do these guys do?”

  Kostas surveyed the men over the top of his accordion. “As long as they pay us, I don’t care. Why are you still worried?”

  Angelos started another song, and we scrambled to catch up.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling,” I muttered over my strumming.

  “Get rid of it,” said Kostas.

  I tried hard to follow his advice and willed the time to pass faster. If the men had recognized me, they hadn’t let on. I concentrated on the house’s floor plan rather than on our singing. We’d come in the front door. From where I sat I could see into the next room, which was designed as a dining room although it was currently devoid of furniture. Beyond the empty room lay the kitchen and a staircase to the second floor.

  I watched for signs. The men didn’t act like regular partiers. Usually at late-night gatherings, the longer the event, the more boisterous the crowd. Partiers got louder and more self-assured. In this case, time had no effect. The men didn’t change composure. Then again, they’d been self-assured from the beginning, so they didn’t need more confidence. They were operating at full capacity, and all of them were wide awake.

  When Panos spoke, which was half the time, the others listened. Yet he said almost nothing. He’d gotten off th
e business angle and was recounting everything from the newest Toyota model to a recent movie he’d seen, a Dutch film with a sexy rising actress. His professional education had included exposure to culture. He could have been anyone I’d met on a plane, at Noche Azul, or among Joey’s clients, a perfect criminal type because he blended into the fabric of daily life as a chameleon. No wonder I’d disliked him.

  I understood less about Joris and Filipos. They did as told, but Panos’ instructions were ordinary: fetch this, check on that. The men were paid assistants and seemed content enough with their work. When Panos made a request, they complied automatically. They neither worshipped Panos nor feared him. He was a simple fact of their lives.

  When there was a lull in the conversation, the shorter of the Hispanics addressed us. “No Spanish music tonight?”

  Kostas nudged me. “Andy, what can you sing?”

  “Probably anything Rachel could. Two keys lower.”

  “¿Cómo que no?” he asked. Why Not?

  “Actually, that’s more of a woman’s song.”

  Kostas laughed. “Yes, I know. Rachel explained that she liked the revenge songs. Do you want to sing Spanish Eyes?”

  I told my companions the key. The Spanish speakers clapped, launched into their native language, and told me they were all from Venezuela. They spoke to me as I sang, which would have been a problem if I hadn’t already performed the song fourteen million times. They asked for another Spanish song, so I asked my friends to play Solamente una vez, but by then the Venezuelans had turned back to business.

  Nobody seemed to have recognized me despite the mug shot from the paper. Better yet, none of the Hispanics had requested Alma llanera, a South American song I wasn’t sure I could sing.

  “How soon can you deliver the reports?” the Brit asked.

  “I have preliminary figures drawn up.” Panos addressed Filipos and pointed to the ceiling. “Can you bring them? They’re on top of my desk.”

  Angelos stood as well, signaling the end of our second hour.

  Panos thanked us, complimenting us on the high level of entertainment before pointing us towards the door.

  When we got outside, I was relieved that Dina’s car was still there, the moon was high, and everything seemed normal.

  Kostas nudged me with his accordion. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Feeling any better?”

  “My imagination ran away with me.” I said. I didn’t believe what I’d said, but for the moment, there was no reason to share additional qualms. Something was not right about Panos even though I couldn’t sense what it was, but I wasn’t sure it had anything to do with me.

  Kostas slapped me on the back. “Don’t worry. You’ve seen too many movies or maybe not enough.”

  “Thanks for coming at the last minute,” Panos said as he exited the house and handed Kostas the extra cash. “We appreciated your coming at the last minute. The music sounded great.”

  “Good luck in your business,” I said. “I hope it continues to go well.”

  “Ha, ha!” cried Panos. “It will! People will always want to buy—diamonds!” Laughter followed us out to the car.

  I climbed into the back seat behind Kostas. As Dina pulled away, I watched out the window to see if Panos or his men were still visible. Then I focused hard on the road in case I needed to come back.

  Chapter Twelve

  Rachel and I had enjoyed a great swim, the afternoon was warm but not broiling, and now that we were ensconced at Nikos’ Café, she was sitting by my side. Her tight pink shirt accentuated both her tan and her breasts, and I liked the result. I had every reason to concentrate on my companion and anticipate the evening, but I couldn’t shake the unease I’d felt since the night before. I kept mulling over the house gig, wondering what I’d missed.

  Rachel didn’t sense my tension. Painkillers had dulled her perceptions. She’d slept until noon but no longer walked as if every movement were an effort.

  I forced myself into conversation. “What first got you interested in Greece? Did you read all the classics in school?”

  “A couple of plays. A bit of The Odyssey. All I remember is that Odysseus was trying to get back to Ithaca. Where is Ithaca, anyway?”

  “I assumed it was imaginary.”

  “I think it’s on one of the coasts, but I’m not sure which one. Back home I went to a lecture for the Greek Club one time. Professor Romer’s theory is that The Odyssey was a promotion for risk-taking. What do you think?”

  “If I ever read Homer, which I doubt, I don’t remember much.”

  She leaned closer. “I don’t mean about literature. What do you think about taking risks?”

  For nearly two decades, I’d kept a steady job and always showed up for work unless I sent a sub. I didn’t move around. I’d kept the same apartment, not because I loved it, but because it was so close to Noche Azul that I could cover the distance on foot in under ten minutes. When I had extra money, I let Joey invest it for me. My entire life had been risk-free until I’d gotten involved with Louloudi. I’d taken so many risks for her I’d stopped counting.

  “I avoid them as a general rule.”

  Rachel nodded, her eyes following the rugged fisherman who had removed a heavy basket from his boat and was heading towards a small grocer’s.

  “Sometimes you fall into difficult situations rather than choosing them,” I continued. “Then you cross your fingers and hope you can rise to the occasion.”

  “That’s what happened to me here on the island. The group at O Kapetánios suddenly needed another musician. I offered my services, and they let me try.” She crossed her legs, making me even more aware of them.

  “I take on challenges by accident,” I said. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

  “It’s practical. You accept things if they come along.”

  “Shit!”

  “What?” Rachel asked.

  “Don’t turn around. Soumba’s headed right for us. I hope that doesn’t mean more spy reports.”

  Soumba was a few yards away, walking the “strip” with Petros.

  Rachel laughed. “It won’t be a business visit. Soumba comes in nearly every day around the same time. If he doesn’t come early enough, Nikos sometimes runs out of his favorite ice cream.”

  Petros started to sit at a table next to the street, but after Soumba spotted me, he led Petros our way. They came over and pulled up chairs.

  “Andy, I see finally you are enjoying your vacation.” Soumba shook my hand as if I were an old friend. Petros did the same. “I hope you’ve been to the beach?”

  “You bet. After years of swimming off the frigid coast of the Pacific, your warm, crystal-clear sea is a luxury.”

  “Always, you will find that the simple things in life give the most pleasure. Everything else—bah! You can forget.”

  “How’s your investigation on Hari going?” Rachel asked.

  Soumba grimaced. “We found a note to explain the suicide. It’s unfortunate to think the man was so unhappy, but thanks God now we can close the case.”

  Suicide? No. He was too happy to be a candidate to take his own life. My stomach churned as I forced myself to imagine him jumping in the water, hoping for a quick death.

  “What did the note say?” Rachel asked.

  “The normal thing,” Soumba said. “He told his parents he was sorry and that he hoped they would understand.”

  “That’s all?” I asked.

  “When people are depressed, they don’t waste words. Their family members know what’s wrong. We’ve seen it before.”

  A young couple approached hurriedly, signaling for Soumba’s attention.

  Soumba rose. “Can I help you?”

  “My wife’s purse!” The man waved his hands at the sky. “A man on a motor scooter ... We should have been more careful ... ” He sounded Australian.

  Soumba put his arm around the man’s shoulder as if he were a relative. “You’re on vacation
. It’s natural that you were feeling relaxed. When did this happen?”

  “Ten minutes ago.”

  “We will make a report. Come, we’ll go to my office.”

  Just then Nikos appeared with sundaes for Petros and Soumba.

  “Sorry, Nikos,” the police chief said as he accepted the dish. “We must leave. We can return these later?”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Soumba reiterated as he walked off with the couple. “The important thing to remember is that you were not hurt.”

  “They got my credit card!” the woman yelled.

  “Bah! It is plastic.”

  Nikos wiped his hands on his apron. “That poor man never gets to finish a sundae sitting down.” He headed back inside.

  I turned to Rachel. “Soumba has a knack with people, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes. He’s able to make a quick assessment of a situation and act accordingly. Back home I don’t even know any police officers. Here Soumba is part of our regular world.”

  “Purse-snatching,” I said. “I suppose that makes it a rough day on the Amirosian crime scene.”

  “Think he’d throw me in jail if I snatched something from you?” Rachel kissed my neck before I had time to react. Then she took my empty glass to the kitchen to mix another frappé.

  The subtle hint made me tingle. Eventually we’d be alone. Meanwhile I worked to appreciate island life. While the sun lowered along with the temperature, the hum of the port increased as the café culture swung into gear. Unlike L.A. where most people spent their afternoons commuting, Amiros dictated a relaxed pace. With practice I could thoroughly embrace it. I was comfortable in Southern California because I’d grown up there, but I’d learned to minimize its disadvantages. I’d organized my life so that I spent most of my time in the radius of five blocks. I lived there, worked there, lunched with my brother there, and saw my friends there. My only other regular destinations, the beach and the public pool, required ten-minute scooter rides. Rachel’s set-up on Amiros had a similar, simplistic beauty.