by Alex A King
He sighed again. I'd pushed the guy into using up his yearly allotment of exasperation. "I think someone wants something and they're going to use him to get it. And I think he's in Greece, but he came in via a backdoor, same as you."
"Who can do that?"
"Money can cut a gordian knot faster than a sword."
"So whoever did this has a lot money?"
"Maybe even more than your family. If we can't find him and your grandmother can't either, then we're talking a lot of power. Wherever he is, they're hiding him well, and they'll keep doing that until they can use him. But from the stories I've heard about your father, I bet he's doing everything he can to escape. He's a resourceful man. Now do yourself a favor and go home."
"Never give up, never surrender," I said, and after thanking him, I punched END.
Now what?
With my phone at my disposal, I had a link to the outside world that didn't take a detour through my family.
Where to start? Where it all began, of course: With my Family—capital F—and whoever was their numero uno enemy.
I flopped back on my borrowed bed and got busy scouring the internet.
The internet turned out to be a real know-it-all when it came to organized crime. I typed in what I wanted to know, and it coughed up the name of Grandma's biggest local nemesis. His name was George Kefalas, and he—among other things—was one of the country's biggest producers of table olives and olive oil. Kefalas Olives's main factory was nearby, in one of the city's beachside suburbs. An image search showed him to be a well-preserved mid-seventies man who enjoyed shaking hands with important-looking people.
His grudge against Grandma originated with a political dispute. About what, the internet didn't say. But the two families were enemies—sworn enemies, as far as Kefalas was concerned. Grandma didn't strike me as someone who divided enemies into sworn and not-sworn piles.
My first stop was going to be Kefalas Olives, but not until tomorrow. Jet lag was gunning for me, and it was coming on fast.
For a moment the world was cotton candy-filled, chocolate-scented, and I had my own pony I'd named Delilah. Then the sun snuck into the bedroom and punched me in the eyes. I'd fallen asleep with the shutters open, and now I was paying the price. Something had crawled into my mouth to die during the night. It was currently decomposing on my tongue. Ugh.
The house was deserted again, so I made coffee, ate a piece of the hairy baklava on the counter, then cleaned up after myself. Fed and freshly caffeinated, I hit the shower and planned Operation Kefalas.
Grandma wasn't going to just let me have a car—not to go schmoozing with her enemies— so I rented one of my own online, with GPS and enough insurance to cover another Baby Dimitri molotov cocktail.
Walking through the gate was bound to come with a serving of uncomfortable questions, and maybe orders to sit and stay. So erring on the side of caution, I snuck out of the house and scaled the compound wall. They made it easy for me: lots of finger and footholds.
After a short hike through the orchards surrounding the property, I caught the bus to Volos, riding alongside an old woman with a bag of live chickens. Every so often they'd jostle about in the bag, their clucking bewildered. Probably they'd heard horror stories about soup and pie back in the yard, and now they were thinking this soup thing didn't seem so bad. Poor, stupid chickens.
A half hour—and a stack of paperwork later—the tiny Toyota Yaris was mine-ish, and I was wending my way along the Pagasetic Gulf's beachside road, bound for Agria, a small village that had been recently gulped down by the city.
Pretty place. Very touristy. Lots of semi-naked people strolling around, collecting rays. Just a wild guess, but the tanned bodies were locals, while the white and red had to be out-of-towners, here to cultivate their very own melanomas.
The talking map—which I'd silenced with the stab of a button—told me to hike left at the next corner. So, seeing no reason to get all creative and disobey it, I took the next left and found myself on a street without all the spit polish of the promenade. This one was a mixture of warehouses and smallish factories, most of them with sad, graffitied faces. The place stunk like Brooklyn in early August. Garbage, or something like it. The Kefalas Olive factory was hogging the corner, giant wood door raised halfway, like it couldn't figure out if it was closed or open for business.
I parked at the curb, under the pathetic shade of a wannabe tree, jogged across the street, stuck my head under the door.
"Hello?"
This was the source of the stink. The factory was pouring an olive brine river into the street, where the hot road and sun were rotting it fast. The place looked empty, what I could see of it.
Something bit my ass. I yelped and jumped in the same moment, bashing my head on the sliding door.
My survival instincts told me to hit first, ask questions when it was too late and I was already in handcuffs, but my customer service training kicked in, limiting my reaction to a primal yell. Two young guys swaggered to a stop as I roared. They blew me kisses, wolf whistled. Barely out of middle school, the two of them.
"Jesus Christ," I muttered.
Both kids had music video hair, gelled into fauxhawks. The one closest to me smirked as he dragged his gaze up and down my body like he was painting a fence. "You don't have to call me Jesus Christ in public. Save it for when you're on my dick."
"Where are your mothers?" I shouted.
The other kid looked at his buddy. "My sister's a bitch when she's bleeding, too."
I launched into them, describing in great detail what I'd do if I was truly my grandmother's granddaughter. By the time they started moving again, their grins were dead and they'd lost some of that swagger.
Did I feel guilty?
Yep.
Must have been the good Greek girl buried inside me. The one buried inside the gangster's kid. Concealed under the all-American slick of makeup. A regular Russian nesting doll. Just two days ago, I'd been the average slightly lower than middle class American woman. Today I was one of the Corleone grandkids. Which made my father one of the Corleone kids. Hopefully not Sonny or Fredo. Spoiler alert: Nothing good happened to those poor saps.
On the other side of the door, inside the olive factory, something moved. More of a feeling than a sound. Someone—or something—knew I'd come calling. Which wasn't exactly a surprise. It's why I'd called out. I wasn't exactly shooting for stealth. Still, now I was wishing I'd brought a flamethrower, because I couldn't help thinking about—of all places—Japan.
When people's minds turn to horrifying, deadly creatures, usually the first place that pops into their heads is Australia. Okay, Australia is filled with snakes, spiders, and jellyfish that want to murder you, but they're working slowly. New Zealand is shipping over fresh meat faster than the wildlife can whack 'em.
But me, my first thought is always Japan. Because they have the hornet to end all hornets (and other living creatures): the Japanese giant hornet, or as they call it in their home country, the giant sparrow bee. It can be the length of a finger and as thick as two. It will puncture you with its stinger. It will holler for all its hornet buddies. And together they will kill you. Why? Because why not? Unless you're a Japanese honey bee, and you've got five hundred or so Japanese honey bee buddies to cook and suffocate the hornet to death, you don't stand a chance.
I was thinking about it now, because that noise, that movement in the factory, was exactly how I imagined a massive Japanese giant hornet attack would start. Given that I was thousands of miles away from Asia, my common sense knew it couldn't possibly be Japanese giant hornets. But my base self—the part that, after all that evolution, still had only one foot out of the primordial ooze and one foot in because it wasn't convinced it was safe out here—told me those hornets might have European cousins.
What a sissy, right?
I ducked under the door, trying not to smash my skull this time. Light painted part of a pale square on the concrete floor, then quit before fini
shing the job.
"Hello?" I called out again, fully expecting to be ignored a second time.
But I wasn't. Whatever had moved in here had suddenly found its voice, which crossed European giant hornets off my list.
"What do you want?"
I shoved away the bowl of cowardly custard wobbling inside my chest. "I'm looking for George Kefalas."
"Dead."
Poof! That was the sound of my lead evaporating. "Oh. I'm sorry."
"Why are you sorry that poutsokleftis is dead?"
A shadow stepped into the thin light. A big shadow. A freighter of a man. Small, mean eyes, thin lips, vocal cords that had been tossed into a rock tumbler along with a handful of glass. Skin the color of a gingerbread man. Face that could take a week-long beating without looking worse. Dark blue overalls covered him from neck to boots. Didn't look like he moved fast, but when he did move it was with calculated, deadly precision. My brainstem fired a warning shot, but I was trying to decide if his calling George Kefalas a dick thief was literal or figurative.
"What do you want with George Kefalas?" he went on.
I planted myself on the concrete—hard—and tried not to look like a dull roar could blow me away. My hand I offered without wincing. "Katerina Makris."
"Where'd you get the s?"
"America."
He did the math, came up with a number that smeared a greasy smirk across his mouth. "You belong to the old bitch."
No need to ask which old bitch he meant. I only knew one in Greece, though she wasn't exactly showing me her bitch card. I was, after all, her only granddaughter.
"And you are?"
"Nobody you want to know. But maybe you will know me anyway."
Deadpan: "Long name. How's that fit on your driver's license?"
Either he didn't get the joke or he was born without a funny bone. "They call me the Baptist."
Until then, he'd ignored my hand. When he accepted the offer, his hand was cool and dry. Snakeskin.
"Like The Edge? Or just Edge? Or the Edge? Because there's a difference."
Nothing. I guess he didn't know U2. Okay, next question. "Who is they?"
"People."
The question came out on its own. I tried to hold it back, but sometimes my mouth, it just does things without permission. "Did you kill him?"
"Who, Kefalas?"
"Forget I asked." The disclaimer rushed out with a whoosh.
"Maybe I don't want to forget it, eh? It's a good question." He swung around, still holding my hand, looked at the huge shapes near the rear of the factory floor. As my pupils adjusted, I saw they were vats, probably meant for curing olives. "You could say George Kefalas killed himself."
I jerked my hand away. "The Baptist? Why do they call you that?"
His throat and lungs rattled, then he spat on the ground, a big shiny oyster of a glob. "You never answered my question. What do you want with Kefalas?"
Spine straight, I tried to look as intimidating as a hundred-and-twenty-something-pound woman can look. "If you're not Kefalas then it's not your business."
"Not my business," he said, smile in his voice. "But it could be. So how about you tell me what you know."
When did we switch sides? Wasn't I supposed to be the one asking questions? Yep, pretty sure of it. "When did George Kefalas die?"
Nothing.
"Did he have any visitors lately? Maybe visitors in handcuffs?"
Silence. A whole lot of it.
"Did he maybe send some of his guys to America?"
The back of my neck prickled. Kefalas Olives was on a regular street so it was no surprise that there was some traffic (foot, bicycle, motorcycle, and cars) at my back. But this was something else. I was being watched. Or someone was eavesdropping on this mostly one-sided conversation. Whoever they were they were adding to my already chronic case of the willies.
The Baptist smiled. Probably he was the kind of guy no one wanted to see smile. He seemed like a man who got his jollies when people begged for mercy.
"You want to see George Kefalas? I'll take you to see George Kefalas."
Wow, what an offer.
"I'm not really good with dead people," I said. "But if he comes back to life, let me know."
"Most people in your position would want to see he's dead for themselves. In your family's business they like proof of death."
"You know what, if you say he's dead then I believe you." I wouldn't swallow anything else he told me, but that I believed.
"Dead, alive, maybe Kefalas can still help you."
Only a few feet stood between me and the outdoors, but if I dived for it I'd probably get concrete rash. Would it be worth it? Definitely. "Gee, I'd love to, but my ride is waiting."
"No ride." His smile went away. His voice took on a metal edge. "You came alone."
A bucket of ice emptied into my gut. I tried to ignore my bladder's sudden nagging. I pulled my phone out of my hip pocket, checked messages that weren't there.
"Got to go, otherwise my grandmother's henchmen are going to come looking for me." I bolted for the door. He was quicker. His fingers snapped around my wrist like a metal cuff. He squeezed until the bones sang. Tears flooded my eyes.
"Did I say you could go?"
"I wasn't asking for permission."
The emptiness of the factory thickened. All this equipment, all those offices upstairs around the rim of the factory floor, not a living soul in one of them who'd come to my rescue. If I didn't save myself, who would?
Nobody. That's who.
"Look," I said, trying to reason with my first—and hopefully last—psychopath. "I don't have a problem with you. I don't care why you're here or what you did to George Kefalas—if anything. I'm just looking for my father, and I was hoping Kefalas might know something. If Kefalas is dead and you can't help me, let me go find somebody who can."
The Baptist shoved me away from him. Aww, Jesus—further away from the door.
"Maybe I can't help you with your father problem, but maybe I can help you with something else. the Baptist is good at fixing problems." His gaze took a tour of my curves, taking a short break on my boobs before returning to my face. "You got a problem you want me to fix?"
He was the problem I wanted fixed—fixed like a dog. Despite the fact that I was potentially about to have lunch, dinner, and breakfast with Mom, I almost laughed. Thinking about getting a dog fixed always reminded me of Gary Larson's The Far Side cartoons. I pictured the Baptist hanging his head out a car window, crowing about how he was going to get tutored.
"Are you scared of the Baptist? Worried I might show you how I got the name? That's good. Scared is where you should be."
I had nothing. No gun, no pepper spray, no knife.
No hairspray.
Just my luck to be born not long before mall bangs collapsed, otherwise I could have Aqua Netted the guy into an asthma attack. Why hadn't I raided the compound's armory before sneaking out? Did the compound even have an armory?
If I survived this I'd have to find out.
Who knew if I could even shoot the guy if I had a gun?
"I'm going now," I said.
"Who said you could go? You're not going anywhere until I say. And I haven't said." His breath inched up my nose. A lot of garlic and something sour. His face contorted, and for a moment I imagined him as a slick skull, straight out of a horror movie. His mouth could open and I'd magically vanish, never to be heard from again.
This time he grabbed me by the ponytail, twisting it in his fist until I yelped. What flashed in front of my eyes wasn't my life—just parts of it. The bits where I'd sat too close to the television, mostly. That had nothing to do with what I did next. Understand that if there had been any other choice I'd have taken it, but sometimes you just have to hit a man where it really freakin' hurts.
My fist shot out, nailing him square in the twig and berries.
He gagged, dropping to his knees, hands on crotch.
Time for a getaway—or s
o I thought. the Baptist lunged forward, snaking his meaty hand around my ankle. Bam. I kissed the concrete floor—with teeth and tongue and both lips. Up close, the caustic brine stench burned my eyes. That hand reeled me in, dragging my body along the rough surface. I clawed at the ground but I wasn't moving forward. Out of luck. Almost out of time.
A gun bit into the silence.
Two shots.
The hand pulling me stopped. Dimly, as though through a closed door, I heard boots beating the ground—running, I decided, away from me. Away was good. I leopard crawled toward the factory door, hoping those bullets weren't meant for me. I really didn't have any place to put them.
Another bullet whizzed past my head. Then a hand reached out, grabbed me by the scruff of the neck, pulled me into the standing position. I squealed and flailed, then I went limp where I saw who had me.
Xander. He'd busted in like the Terminator, and apparently I had to go with him if I wanted to live. Except he said nothing, the way he always did. All the noise was coming from me. I'd cornered the market on whimpering.
No sign of the Baptist, so now seemed like a good idea to bolt back to my car, in case he decided Xander was out of ammo. Except I wasn't going anywhere: Xander still had a grip on my neck. I was hanging there like a kitten.
"Help," I whispered.
My voice box had quit on me after that last scream. My face was slippery with sweat, my pits, too. Those smoldering women gyrating on dance floors in antiperspirant commercials never met the Baptist, I'd bet. I reeked of decaying olive brine and fear.
Xander didn't seem to give a toss. He tucked me under his arm like I was luggage, carried me down the street, my hair and limbs dangling. Which left me to alternate bargaining with threatening the deities of all the major and minor religions I could recall on short notice. Which turned out to be quite a few, although—I suspected—some of them were characters from Pratchett's Discworld novels.
He jagged left at the next street, toward, I realized, the factory's rear. Not cool. I wanted to be moving away from the Baptist, not closer.
I might have said something unintelligible like, "Arrrrgh."
The narrow street contained a small clutch of shops, where people were going about their business and—being Greek—everyone else's. I tried lifting my head, but gravity was working against me. I suppose I could have screamed for help, but this was what passed for help in my messed up family.