She looked at her three men. One stepped forward. He had four inches on Andreas, forty pounds of muscle, and a scowl. “Petro, please show Mister ‘Guest’ to Orestes’ table.”
“Thank you,” Andreas smiled.
“And if there is some mistake,” she put on a smile, “please show him immediately back outside.”
Andreas gave her the thumbs-up. “It’s a deal.”
Petro opened one door and waved for Andreas to enter a dimly lit vestibule leading to another set of doors. They were alone in the vestibule and Andreas started to reach for the other set of doors when Petro put his hand on Andreas’ arm.
“Just a minute, Chief.”
Andreas looked at Petro. “Do I know you?”
The scowl turned to a smile. “I’m a cop assigned to headquarters security at GADA.”
“Are you working undercover here?”
“No, just trying to make a living. It’s a night job.”
Andreas smacked him on the shoulder. “Thanks for not giving me away.”
“I figured you wanted it that way. Come on, I’ll take you to Orestes’ table.”
Whether Petro was an honest cop earning extra money as a bouncer or something else, Andreas had no way of knowing. But he liked the guy’s style. “Stop by my office for a coffee sometime.”
“Thanks, I’d like that.”
Petro opened the door and a whoosh of sounds filled the vestibule, followed by the acrid smell of cigarette smoke. Smoking had been outlawed in places like these years ago, but those charged with enforcing the law rarely did. Inside, El Malaga had its share of de rigueur low lighting, red and gold flocked wallpaper, faux gilt embellished woodwork, and cigarette burns in its almost-leather upholstered banquettes. But what made this place unique were the owner’s two primary passions: painting and women. El Malaga earned him the money to sustain and display them both. Stark, Picasso-like images of exaggerated nudes in exotic poses filled the walls, and one of El Malaga’s grand parlor games involved trying to guess the women who’d been the models. In some cases it was obvious, because the woman had proudly claimed the portrait as her own by writing her name beneath it. Others simply smiled to themselves as they listened to patrons guess at their identities. But the owner wouldn’t name names, for it was his inviolate discretion that kept him in models.
Petro led Andreas through a bar area filled with courting young men and women into a larger room filled with linen-covered tables and an older crowd. A small stage at the far end of the room accommodated everything from intimate cabaret to hardcore urban rebetiko performances, depending upon the mood the owner decided to set for the room. Tonight the stage was empty.
They stopped at a table of six men near the stage. Andreas recognized Orestes. He sat huddled in conversation with the men on either side of him while the others laughed in animated conversation with a group of women at the next table. Andreas assumed the women’s table was next to the men’s for a reason. In these days of ubiquitous smartphone cameras, girlfriends of prudent, married big shots didn’t sit at the same table with their patrons.
“Thanks, Petro, I’ll take it from here.”
Petro nodded and left.
Andreas stood by the table and looked across at Orestes. Orestes ignored him. Andreas cleared his throat. Orestes still ignored him. “Excuse me, sir, my name is Andreas Kaldis.”
Orestes acted as if he didn’t hear him. Andreas walked up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me, sir, but I’m Andreas Kaldis—”
Without turning, Orestes said, “I know who you are. I’ll speak to you when I’m finished speaking to my friends.”
The two men with Orestes smirked.
“But there’s no place for me to sit at your table, sir.”
“Then you’ll have to stand.”
The men laughed.
“No problem, sir.”
Andreas walked over to an empty chair at the women’s table. “Mind if I sit here, ladies?” Without waiting for an answer he sat down and flashed his most charming Cary Grant smile at the blonde to his right and brunette to his left.
“My name is Andreas, what’s yours?”
The women looked nervously at the men’s table.
“Oh, don’t worry about them, I’m here to see Orestes. We’re all old friends.”
The blonde smiled. “I’m Sasha.”
“Hilda,” said the brunette.
Both spoke Greek with distinctly Eastern European accents and looked to be less than half, if not a third, the age of Orestes’ guests.
“So, how long have you known Orestes?” said Andreas.
“We just met him tonight,” said the blonde.
“We’re with his friends,” said the brunette.
“Hey you, get away from that table.” It was one of the two men talking with Orestes. He spoke Greek without an accent.
Andreas turned to the man, lifted his hand, and motioned with his forefinger for the man to come to him.
“Fuck you, asshole, I said get away from that table.”
Andreas turned away from him, leaned in, and said to the girls, “I hope that one’s not yours.”
The brunette gestured no.
Andreas smiled. “Lucky you.” He turned to the blonde, pressed his lips close to her ear, and said, “I assume that means he’s all yours.” He kept his lips next to her ear, but out of the corner of his eye watched the man bolt up from his chair and storm toward him. He looked like a small, sixty-year-old bull. In heat.
Without moving from the woman’s ear Andreas put up his hand in a sign for the man to stop. Instead the man grabbed Andreas’ arm and yanked him out of the chair.
With his free hand Andreas grabbed the man around the waist and laughed as he began quickly spinning them around together. “My, my what would your wife say if she knew about us carrying on like this in public?”
The man let go of Andreas’ hand and Andreas abruptly stopped spinning, letting go of the man’s waist as he did and sending him stumbling into the women’s table. Before the man could regain his balance, Andreas steered him by his shoulders down onto the seat between the blonde and brunette. He tried to stand, but Andreas gripped his shoulders and held him down. “I suggest you stay here. It will be far less a scandal than what will happen if you try to stand up.”
Andreas smiled at the people staring at them from the other tables. “Don’t be alarmed, folks, just a little lovers’ quarrel.” He leaned down, kissed the top of the man’s head, and whispered. “Like I said, stay.”
Andreas stepped over to Orestes’ table and sat in the now empty chair next to him. “So, what is it you want to tell me? Or would you prefer that I ask you to dance, too?”
Orestes glared but didn’t respond. He waved for a waiter. “Please find us a private table for two.”
The waiter bowed. “Certainly, please follow me.”
He led them to an isolated table in the corner farthest from the front door.
Andreas sat with his back to the wall and stared at Orestes’ eyes.
“Do you know who that man you just embarrassed is?” said Orestes, staring back.
“You mean my dance partner?”
“He’s the most successful contractor in Greece. His companies build harbors, airports, dams, bridges, power plants.”
“I assume you mean the most successful unindicted contractor in Greece.”
“I don’t like you, Kaldis.”
“I don’t want you to.”
“I can have you replaced.”
“Try.”
Orestes turned his head and motioned to a waiter serving a nearby table. “Bring me my drink.” He looked back at Andreas. “You should know better than to turn on your own kind.”
“My ‘own kind?’ What kind is that?”
“Greeks, of course. Bu
t not just any Greeks. I’m talking about those of us with the power and ability to achieve great things.”
“Not sure I follow you.”
The waiter arrived carrying a bottle of scotch and a snifter. He placed the glass in front of Orestes and poured in a ten count of Johnny Walker Blue Label.
“A glass for my friend.”
“No thank you, I’ll have a Mythos.”
“Ahh, despite your champagne bride, you retain your beer roots.”
Andreas pointed at the glass in Orestes’ hand. “Don’t let the courage in that go to your head. You keep talking like that and you’ll learn a few more practices I’ve carried over from my roots.”
Orestes raised his free hand. “No offense intended. I simply meant to compliment you on how well you’ve retained the charm of your origins. But I do wonder how you would have turned out had you not found your way to Lila.”
“And I wonder how you would have turned out had it not been your father’s sperm that found its way to your mother.”
Orestes’ hand shook as he squeezed his glass. Andreas had clearly struck a nerve. This man was the scion of a political family, with a prime minister or two in his ancestry. But on his own, Orestes had achieved no more than what easily came through profiting off the influence of his father’s name.
“Easy there, you wouldn’t want to break the glass and bloody your own hands.”
The waiter returned with a beer and placed a glass in front of Andreas.
“In deference to your social standing, I’ll drink this beer out of a glass,” said Andreas.
The waiter poured the beer.
Andreas lifted his glass up toward Orestes. “Yia sas.”
Orestes jerked his snifter forward, clinked Andreas’ glass, and mumbled, “Yia sas.”
Andreas took a sip and put down the beer. “As I see it, you need me a lot more than I need you. Your buddies over there don’t know it yet, but you’re all on the verge of becoming extinct. It’s the curse of getting what you wished for. For generations your family and others like it have been turning every government opportunity into personal jackpots. It didn’t matter what was involved. Defense, hospitals, public construction, agriculture—anything our government had a hand in, you found a way to squeeze something out of for yourselves. But that was never enough. You wanted to be ‘as rich as the Arabs’ and along came these Cretan gas fields and you thought they’d be your payday. But surprise! Something’s happened you never anticipated. You’re used to playing in a rigged, small-time game against amateurs. But now the stakes are much larger and mega-rich big boys who play by rules far tougher and dirtier than any you ever imagined are taking over the game. You’re scared shitless of losing your money spigot.”
Orestes waved his hand. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Really? Let’s see. Greece’s finances are under microscopic scrutiny by a host of world financial powers to whom we owe umpteen zillion euros. It has a reputation as one of the most corrupt countries in the world, a disenchanted population heading more into poverty than out, political extremists in Parliament ready, willing, and, God forbid, able to plunge the country into civil war, and you think you can continue to do your little back room ‘a bit for me a bit for you’ bullshit dance to get anything you want out of our government? Wake up and smell the coffee, man. But you’d better hurry, for soon it, too, may not be Greek.”
“That’s just my point.”
“What is?”
“Greece should profit Greeks, not foreigners.”
“I assume you mean some Greeks.”
“Does it matter as long as the money stays in our country? If foreigners control our gas, the profits will leave our country. Greece will be nothing more than a colony, exploited to serve other countries.”
“Spare me the political rhetoric. Money squirreled away in Swiss bank accounts isn’t helping Greece.”
“But foreigners won’t care what happens to our beloved Greece. They’ll destroy our seas, our beaches, our very way of life to profit themselves.”
“You’re really trying to push every button, aren’t you? Trouble is, your facts are wrong. Foreigners have shown more concern than our government at protecting our environment. Greece has been penalized so often by the EU for environmental violations that fines are considered part of the cost of doing business here.”
Orestes impatiently waved off Andreas’ words. “I’m talking about massive, irreversible ecological disasters on the scale of what happened to America’s Gulf Coast in 2010 at the hands of disinterested foreigners. And look what the Russian geologists did to Turkmenistan in 1971. They tapped into a cavern filled with natural gas and started a fire that still burns today. The locals call it their ‘gate to hell.’ Then there’s Chernobyl. No one likes to talk about it anymore, but it still haunts and poisons us every day. If that’s the kind of foreign expertise the world has to offer us, I say no thank you.”
Andreas knew he was getting Orestes’ “Greece is for Greeks” bullshit sales pitch, not a search for truth. It was a lobbyist pitching to get his client what it wanted and damn everything else. But as insincere as Orestes undoubtedly was, the environmental issue was a real one, and it wouldn’t be prudent politics to give him an angle on claiming Andreas, and by extension Spiros’ ministry. He wasn’t concerned with environmental threats.
“I’m not sure environmental issues fall within the domain of my ministry, but I’m willing to look into what you’ve raised to see if any illegal activity might be compromising environmental safeguards.”
Orestes’ face lit up like a kid’s on Christmas morning. “That’s terrific. Come, let’s rejoin my party. Tomorrow I will give you the names and details of those you should be investigating.”
Before Andreas could respond, Orestes stood up and headed back toward his friends’ table. He waved for Andreas to follow. “No need for you to carry my glass and the bottle. The waiter will do that for me.”
Asshole.
***
Andreas stood outside El Malaga, trying to remember where he’d left his car. He’d been inside with Orestes and his crowd until four. Now he had a whole new batch of connected “friends” trying to draw him into their networks. It was age-old, lure-the-fly-to-the-spider style politics. Spiros said Andreas wouldn’t like the political game. Guess he was right about one thing.
Orestes had announced with a flourish to his table of friends that Special Crimes Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis has agreed to conduct an investigation into the efforts of certain foreign elements to exploit our nation’s resources for their own national interests. That brought on a round of toasts to Greece and to Andreas. It was pure theater, with Orestes cast in the role of noble savior of the nation, having found the “perfect” champion for their cause. Andreas had decided simply to smile. That was all Orestes really wanted anyway—the opportunity to play hero to his guests. Where it all would lead was something for Andreas to sort out with Spiros in the morning.
He remembered he’d parked his car on a sidewalk somewhere around a corner. He waved good night to Petro at the door and headed toward the corner in front of him.
Andreas knew to stay alert to his surroundings. On a scale running from white to red—white being asleep in your mother’s arms, red being balls-out raging with an AK-47—on the street he kept perpetually in orange. But with all he’d been drinking, at the moment it felt more like peach, as in Bellini. At the corner he turned left and saw his unmarked police car about a block away. He smiled. Right where I knew I left it.
Halfway to the car, two young men came running around the corner in front of him heading straight at him, with a third coming up fast behind them. Andreas backed into a doorway to let them pass. He heard the crack of a gunshot and saw one of the two men in front grab the back of his thigh and fall to the pavement five feet before the doorway. The other kept run
ning. The third man stopped at the man on the ground and shot him three more times. He looked up, saw Andreas in the doorway, aimed his gun at him, and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
Andreas was on him like a wounded grizzly. He’d already snapped the man’s trigger finger yanking the gun out of his hand, broken his jaw with a palm thrust under the chin, cracked two ribs with an elbow to the chest, and was kneeling on the man’s chest pounding away at his face when someone pulled him away yelling, “Chief, stop. That’s enough.”
Andreas didn’t struggle. He breathed in and out deeply, trying to calm himself.
“Are you, okay?” said Petro.
“Yes, thanks.”
“I heard the shots and when I came around the corner I saw that bastard aiming at you.”
“He pulled the trigger.”
“You’re damn lucky his gun jammed or he was out of ammo.”
Andreas shut his eyes and nodded. “Tell me about it.”
“What happened?”
“No idea, but in this neighborhood at this hour, my guess would be drugs.”
“You don’t think it was a hit meant for you?”
Andreas gestured no. “Not the way this was done.” He fluttered out a long breath. The adrenaline was still there. “I shouldn’t have gone ballistic. But I was so angry at myself for not picking up on what was going down, I took it out on him.”
“I don’t think he’ll be expecting an apology.”
Andreas laughed and patted Petro on the shoulder. “There was another guy running away from the shooter.”
“Yeah, I got a look at him.”
“Do you mind dealing with the blue-and-whites on this? I’d like to get home. If they need anything from me, they can find me in my office.”
“Sure, no problem. Besides, I think you’re right about this being over drugs.” He pointed at the dead man. “He’s a dealer from another neighborhood. Locals don’t like outsiders cutting in on their territory.”
Just like Orestes and his friends.
Sons of Sparta: A Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis Mystery Page 5