“Or else the machete will come?”
“Does that bother you?”
“Me?” Kharon gestured no. “What bothers me is that I have absolutely no idea who you are, and I don’t like working for people I know nothing about.”
“You mean money alone isn’t enough?”
“It’s never been just about the money.”
She nodded. “I see.”
“So, who are you?”
“I don’t think it’s necessary for me to tell you.”
“It is if you want me to work for you.”
“What I meant was, ask around. I’m sure some of your colleagues have heard of me, and I’m certain my introduction will be far more effective coming from them than me.” She smiled. “I wouldn’t want you to think I’m a braggart.”
“All this mystery….Is it really necessary? Here? Now?”
She coughed. “It’s kept me alive.”
“So, what is your name?”
The car stopped.
She turned and looked out the window. “We’re already here. I’ll have my driver take you wherever you wish to go.” She reached into her jacket pocket, pulled out a card, and handed it to him.
Kharon looked at the woman’s card as the door on her side swung open.
“There’s no name on this, just a phone number.”
“I no longer have a name. Just call the number and you’ll reach me.”
Kharon stared into the dark lenses of the woman’s glasses.
She patted his hand that still held the shotgun. “They call me Teacher.”
Chapter Eight
“Tassos is here,” came crisply through the speaker on Andreas’ phone.
“Send him in.”
“When I’m done with him. He never came home last night and is trying to convince me he was on official business. You’re his alibi.”
“I’ll let you know whether to believe him after I hear his story.”
The door to Andreas’ office swung open. Tassos stood in the doorway. “Thanks for standing up for me.”
“Any time.” Andreas gestured to the chair in front of his desk. Tassos dropped onto the couch.
“I’m exhausted. I can’t take these all night partying types anymore.”
“Where the hell were you?”
“That sums up the difference between a man and a woman. ‘Where were you?’ is what a man asks, ‘What were you doing?’ is all the woman wants to know.”
Andreas shook his head. “Just let me know when you get to the part I know you’re dying to tell me?”
“In my mind I’m debating that precise point at this very moment. Since I didn’t get back to my beloved’s place until after she’d left for work, there’s a significant chance I may have to stay on this couch indefinitely.”
Andreas nodded. “So it’s protective custody you’re looking for.”
“Glad you appreciate my predicament. Last night I went looking for those paperhangers I mentioned. One of the best places to get a line on them is in busy late-night clubs. Those spots are great for distributing counterfeit. The wilder and busier the club, the easier to pass the stuff. Customers rarely count their change, much less study the notes…even if they know what to look for.”
“How did you expect to catch a counterfeiter passing paper in those crowds?”
Tassos smiled. “By watching for customers who tip big for their drinks.”
Andreas jerked his head quizzically to the side. “I don’t understand.”
“Busy bars are pretty savvy about counterfeit, so for a counterfeiter to pass large quantities of his paper requires cooperation on the inside. The best connection is an owner, but you can pass a lot working with a hustling bartender. They take in the good bills and give out the bad as change.”
Andreas reached for a bottle of water sitting on his desk. “But what’s the incentive to the bartender for passing counterfeit?”
“The principle’s the same as it is for a bar owner who buys counterfeit at a steep discount. Say the bar bill is fifty euros; the counterfeiter gives the bartender a hundred in bad notes and the bartender gives back a legitimate fifty in change. The counterfeiter tips him with a bogus fifty and the bartender passes all the bogus dough out in change to other customers. By the end of the night all the money in the bartender’s pocket and in the register is real.”
Andreas nodded as he finished drinking from the bottle. “And the owner never finds counterfeit in his register to charge back against the bartender.”
Tassos smiled. “Exactly. Never underestimate the entrepreneurial skills of a bartender.”
“I assume you caught a live one.”
“It was so simple I’m almost embarrassed. He was in this hot club off Pireos Avenue, playing the big shot, buying drinks for half the women around the bar, and carrying on as if he were a bastard son of Aristotle Onassis. But the bartender made him pay for each round, and he never complained. That tipped me off. True high rollers insist on running a tab; it’s part of their routine. But this bartender couldn’t let his guy run one because if the guy stayed all night and paid him at the end, the bartender wouldn’t have time to pass the counterfeit back out as change.
“The guy must have spent a couple thousand euros while I was sitting there, and every time he paid for a round he’d tip the bartender the cost of that round. He’d do it by putting twice the amount for the round on the bar. The bartender would pick up the euros, take them back to the register, and come back with change. That’s when the big spender insisted he take the big tip. But the tip never came out of the real notes he received in change from the bartender. He’d hand him different euro notes.”
“Let me guess, you became high roller’s new best friend.”
Tassos yawned. “I slid next to him at the bar as he was paying for a round and it went sort of like this. ‘Hey, guy, it’s an honor to be in your presence. There aren’t many generous guys like you around these difficult times.’
“‘I believe in spreading the wealth while you have it. No telling what can happen in life.’
“‘Amen, brother.’ At about that point the bartender gave him his change and the guy put the tip down on the bar. I clamped my right hand on top of the change and the tip, and held my badge out in my left. The bartender looked at the badge and walked away. Big Spender just stared at me. I thought he was going to cry.
“I explained that passing counterfeit euro notes brought big-time EU sentencing attention and perhaps we should adjourn to a quieter place to discuss a resolution of the problem.”
Andreas smiled. “He must have thought you were shaking him down.”
“Considering the ways of so many of our brethren, how could he not? And I did not discourage him. He offered me a few thousand real euros but I said I was looking for a bigger score. I needed an angle on someone who could counterfeit booze labels. He said he had no idea but knew some guys who might. Turns out he wasn’t a paperhanger, but passed the stuff for a few who were.”
“And so you spent the rest of the night looking for ‘some guys’?”
“Yep. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”
Andreas shook his head. “You better get used to the couch.”
“The guy talked to me like I was his father confessor or something. We must have hit a dozen bars, and in every one I got another chapter of his sad, miserable life story. And the guy’s not even thirty.”
“How much of it was true?”
Tassos shrugged. “Who knows? But I finally told him if he didn’t stop with the bullshit and deliver, the next bars he’d see would be those of a cell in Kordydallos. So around sunup we hit this tiny bar in Monasteraki, hardly a soul in it, but my guy said the fellow sitting at the bar was the da Vinci of Athenian engravers.”
“Yet, da Vinci was Italian.”
&
nbsp; Tassos waved his hand in the air. “The guy wasn’t an art historian. Anyway he introduced me as a friend looking for someone to do labels. And da Vinci asked ‘What kind?’ I said, ‘booze and wine.’
“That’s when he said, ‘Seems to be a big market for that sort of talent these days. Hard to imagine why what with all the digital shit taking over the business.’
“Next thing I know, he’s telling me his story. Maybe Maggie’s right and I should lose some weight. I’m starting to think I look like a priest. Anyway, so now I’m hearing this guy’s story, and since he’s close to sixty, I figure it will be noon before I hear the end of it.”
Andreas picked up the water bottle again. “Sort of how I feel right now.”
“Screw you. Anyway, about two hours into it, he says how he’d just finished a really neat job for some ‘big-time’ Greek hood doing labels of all the big French and American wines.”
Andreas paused in taking a sip of water. “Not Greek wines?”
Tassos nodded. “I asked the same question. He said the guy who hired him told him French and American are where the big money is in wines these days, so that’s what he wants to get into.”
“Did he name the hood?”
Tassos gestured no. “He was bragging about his work while trying to sell me on how discreet he could be. But I have a pretty good idea who the guy is. Da Vinci was pretty blasted by the time he got around to telling me that part of his story, and I kept pressing him for a name. Finally he told me, ‘Fuck off, I’d never give your name to Tank, so I’m not going to give you his.’”
“Tank?” Andreas put down the bottle.
Tassos spread his arms wide. “As in built like one. It’s his nickname and he operates out of Thessaloniki. Not a big-time mobster, but connected. Sort of the black sheep of a politically very powerful, deep and dirty, battleship gray flock.”
Andreas nodded. “I know who you’re talking about, but I never knew him to be into bomba. I thought drugs and the sex trade were his thing.”
“His front operation has always been a small-time legitimate alcohol and cigarette distribution business. He runs it out of a cafenion up in Thessaloniki. He got the licenses through his father’s connections and they’re his cover for his real nightlife-scene operations.”
“I guess he’s expanding,” said Andreas.
“The only thing is, he doesn’t fit the pattern. He’s Greek, not a Balkan mobster operating in a foreign country like the others.”
“Anything else?”
“No. Da Vinci’s story is that he’s just ‘an artist’ and takes no part in the business of his clients. If he’s as good as he and his buddy said, I’m sure he’s also into counterfeiting euros, but I couldn’t raise that without sounding like a cop and burning the guy who introduced me. Besides, he’d never answer me, anyway, and I figured I knew where to find him if I ever needed to talk to the great artist again.”
“How’d you leave it?”
“I told da Vinci I’d check with my boss and get back to him. I told the thirty-year-old that if he wanted to make thirty-five rather than serve thirty-five, he’d better land a different line of work.”
Andreas smiled. “What did he say?”
“If I could find him a job he’d take it. I said that’s a great one-liner, but I doubted the judge will be moved by it.”
Andreas laughed. “Indeed.”
Tassos looked down at his tie and brushed away a bit of lint. “I guess I should go out and make up with my beloved.”
“I’m sure she believes you about last night.”
Tassos cocked his head. “How can you be sure?”
“Because if she didn’t she’d have taken her ear away from the door, stormed in here, and killed us both.” Andreas raised his voice. “Isn’t that right, Maggie?”
A few seconds passed and the speaker crackled. “Damn straight.”
***
“Well, if it isn’t my hotshot, in-demand buddy,” called out Jacobi from a table in the rear of his taverna. “How’d the job interview go? I thought I’d hear from you yesterday.”
Kharon sat down at Jacobi’s table and slid a backpack across toward his friend. “I had some thinking to do. Thanks for the use of your shotgun.”
“I assume you didn’t fire it.” Jacobi pulled the bag off the table and onto his lap.
Kharon nodded. “What do you know about a woman named Teacher?”
“Teacher? What kind of teacher? There are a lot of them around here, what with the university practically next door.”
“No, not a real teacher. I’m talking about a serious mobster type, but a woman who looks around fifty, who calls herself Teacher.”
Jacobi stared at Kharon but said nothing.
“What’s wrong with you? Didn’t you hear me?”
“Yeah, I heard you. I just wish I hadn’t.”
“Stop messing with me. Tell me what you know.”
“That kind of telling can get someone hurt real bad, even killed.”
“So can silence. But she told me to ask my ‘colleagues’ so I assume by that she meant you.”
“Fuck.” Jacobi looked down at his hands. “Promise me you’ll keep this to yourself.”
“Done.”
Jacobi kept looking at his hands. “Everything I know is second-, maybe thirdhand. But I’ve heard the rumors enough times to stay as far away from anything having to do with Teacher as possible. She’s said to bankroll quite a few of the biggest criminal enterprises in Eastern Europe. Ones that didn’t have the good fortune of ex-KGB connections.”
Jacobi looked up at Kharon. “I’m sure the pay’s great, but there’s a story about her that should make you think long and hard before going to work for her. Doing business with Teacher is a lifetime commitment. There’s no way out unless she ends it.”
“I get your point. Now tell me the story.”
Jacobi cleared his throat. “An Albanian mob boss built a hugely successful digital pirating network using Teacher’s money and contacts. But he decided he’d shared enough of his profits, hired on a small army of muscle to protect him, and told Teacher to go fuck herself.
“Less than a month later he watched as his wife and three children were doused with gasoline and burned to death. One by one. But he wasn’t killed. Instead, his every other toe and finger were snipped off with pruning shears and his penis and tongue burned with a blowtorch. The man now pays on time.
“End of story.”
Kharon stared across the table at his friend. “Do you believe it?”
Jacobi shrugged. “Even legends have a basis in fact. I’d prefer not to learn firsthand how much of this one is true.”
Kharon kept staring. “Aren’t you curious to find out what she’s heard about me?”
Jacobi leaned forward. “No need to, my farmer friend. I can guess. ‘You’re a brilliant, ruthless, nutjob.’”
Kharon smiled.
***
“Come in.”
Kouros opened the door to Andreas’ office.
“I’m surprised. You actually knocked,” said Andreas.
“Maggie wasn’t around and I didn’t want to barge in on something.”
“She must have gone out to buy me a present,” said Tassos.
“Probably a GPS to keep track of your late-night wanderings.” Kouros dropped into one of the chairs in front of Andreas’ desk.
“You heard about it too?” said Andreas.
“Only the part about our friend here staying out all night. Nothing about what happened.”
“Enough about me,” said Tassos. “Did you come up with anything?”
“Not much. Petro and I followed the guy to what seemed every hot bar and club in town. He knew his way around but never carried more than a bottle or two of booze into any place.”
�
�Sounds like he was dropping off samples and picking up orders,” said Tassos.
Kouros nodded. “That’s what we figured. About three hours ago he headed north out of Athens toward Rafina, got off the highway, and made his way to an old warehouse not far from the port.”
“What sort of warehouse?” said Andreas.
“A busy one surrounded by razor wire, with trucks going in and out, and forklifts loading and unloading pallets. It had the sort of high security you’d expect for a place holding valuable goods. Or illegal ones. The gate had a guard, so we couldn’t get close enough to verify what was inside, but our guy went through a door marked OFFICE and stayed there for about a half-hour. A half-dozen other salesman-looking types went in and out the same door while we waited for our guy to come out.
“When he did, we followed him to Kifisia. He parked next to an apartment building listed as the address for the car. He went upstairs to an apartment, and from the street we could see him with what appeared to be his wife and two young children.”
“Just your typical, hardworking, Greek family man,” smirked Tassos.
“Trying to make ends meet selling bootleg,” said Kouros.
“From the neighborhood you tailed him to, I’d say he’s making a hell of a lot more than any liquor salesman I ever knew,” said Andreas.
“I checked him out. He’s connected through his wife to a political clan up north.”
“Let me guess.” Tassos gave him Tank’s family name.
“How the hell did you know that?” said Kouros.
“Lucky guess.”
Andreas answered for him. “An informant told him that a member of that family had gone into the bootleg business. It all fits. His nickname is Tank and he keeps his organization tight by using family members wherever he can.”
“The warehouse looks like it could be a major distribution point for his booze. We could hurt him real bad with a raid,” said Kouros.
“He’d probably claim he uses it for his legitimate booze business and didn’t know anything about the counterfeit,” said Tassos. “But even if you nailed some of his relatives in the warehouse in the act of putting phony tax stamps on bomba, I doubt you’d catch more than small fry.”
Devil of Delphi: A Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis Mystery Page 8
