Disorganized Crime

by Alex A King

  "Because we are the good guys."

  "You have to give me more than that. Even good guys don't do things just because."

  There was a long pause, every moment of it awkward and baggage-filled. Two palms up, he said, "You got me." I lifted an eyebrow. He leaned forward, inserting himself smack in the middle of my personal space. "My son's mother is an informant."

  All my fight fizzled away. "Jesus. What does she do? Drug dealer? Hooker?"

  He pulled back. "She's married to the mob."

  "Which Family?"

  His gaze slid away, landing in his dessert.

  No, no, no, no.

  "Damn it." I dropped my fork on the plate. "Melas … Who else knows?"

  "Nobody. It's over now. It's been over for some time."

  The flavor had magically vanished out of my share of the sweets. Even the sugar was gone, leaving me with chunks of what tasted like tissue. I shoved the plate away, pulled the coffee closer. It was muddy, bitter, strong enough to kick the sandman in the sack. Two gulps later, it was history.

  Who was she? There were a lot of wives at the compound and others camped around the area, some of whom I hadn't met yet. Quite a few of them had at least one son about the right age to belong to Melas. I squashed my curiosity. No good could come from me knowing. That was the only way his secret—and hers—could stay safe. She wasn't just raising Melas's son as one of the family, she was also an informant. She was leaking family business.

  A leak that could wind up plugged by a psycho ex cop. Or by my grandmother, if she found out. I didn't want to see a boy motherless. Been there, done the dead parent. The pain never fades.

  My loyalty jumped all over the place.

  One thing at a time, Kat. Stop the psycho first, then figure out what to do about the leak—if anything.

  "Okay," I said. "How do we do this? Tell me how you're not going to get me killed."

  "I'm wiring you up. Bug in your room, GPS on your phone. Every time you move I'll know it, one way or another."

  "And my grandmother's okay with this?"

  "She didn't scramble to the top of the heap by being stupid."

  "I figured she'd be glad informants are biting it. They're not good for business."

  "Biting what?"

  The babel fish had scrambled our signals again.

  "Biting the bullet. Dying. It's an American thing."

  The confusion on his face cleared up. "They're great for business, as long as they're not informing on her. Anyway, the Baptist has crossed a serious line she's not happy about. He's invaded her turf twice and he's threatened her only granddaughter. She wants him dead."

  "And what do you want?"

  "The cop in me wants him in jail, paying for his crimes. The rest of me knows he won't pay one cent for anything in lockup."

  "He could be long gone, for all you know."

  "He's arrogant. You ever read our mythology? Hubris never wins. Hubris is going to be his downfall—hubris and me."

  "What if it isn't. What if you fail? Who'll find my father then?"

  He reached over, folded my hand in his. Heat radiated up my arm, but it was a comforting warmth. "I will. But that's not going to happen." His eyes were soft and soulful. "I don't play to lose."

  Were we still talking about the Baptist? "This isn't a game to me."

  He leaned back in his chair, laughed like I was something small and adorable. A puppy. A kitten. A junior bacon cheeseburger.

  "You're something else. If things were different, if we weren't on different sides …"

  "The only side I'm on is Dad's and mine."

  He looked at me, and when he spoke it was gentle. "And which side is he on?"

  It was a good question, damn him. I hated that I didn't know the answer.

  Melas walked me to Grandma's door. There was no romance in it—just business.

  And Xander.

  He'd materialized when we left our table. On my own dime I'd ordered him a chunk of moussaka and a piece of galaktobouriko. Melas had offered to pay for that, too, but I'd refused. Grandma's henchman had nodded his thanks. At least that's what I assumed the nod was all about.

  "No time like the present," Melas said. He walked me to my room, pulled something out of his pocket.

  I squinted at the stuff in his hand. A tiny nest of wires and plastic doohickeys was going to save my butt and bacon?

  "That's it?"

  "What did you expect?"

  "Something bigger, flashier. Movie-grade stuff."

  He laughed and picked up my phone. In a flash he had the back off and the guts splayed on my bed.

  "What if he's watching you wire me up?"

  Grandma's voice filtered down the hallway. It didn't have far to go. "That door better stay open."

  "It's as open as it gets, Kyria Makri," Melas called out.

  "I like you, Nikos. It would make me sad to burn you."

  "Not as sad as it would make me," he muttered. He glanced up, winked at me.

  There's something decadent about watching a man like Melas work with his hands, even when ogling is supposed to be off-limits. Maybe especially then. It's the whole forbidden fruit thing. That one piece of candy you can't have is ten times more delicious than the gummy bears melting in your pocket. It was hard to believe he was on the good side, because the man looked pure bad boy, the kind of man who's seen a lot of beds that weren't his.

  "What exactly are you doing? The phone already has GPS."

  "Backup. What if the phone's off?"

  "The NSA can track a phone even if it's switched off. Allegedly."

  "NSA?"

  "National Security Agency."

  "I'm not the NSA. I'm one guy." He snapped the phone back together, turned it on. "I'm also installing an app that can monitor your calls and texts."

  "No way. What for?"

  "What if he calls or texts?"

  "Why would he do that?"

  He grinned. "You never know."

  "Cretin. You just want to listen in on my calls."

  "Why would I want that?"

  "Because you're a creep? I don't know."

  "I don't care about your personal calls," he said. "But I do care about keeping you alive. Where's the wall socket?"

  "No spy toys," Grandma called out. "Your spy toys will not work inside my house."

  "Ears like a hound," I said. "Except when it suits her."

  "My mother's the same way," he whispered.

  "I will tell her you said that," Grandma said.

  After a brief and mutual eye-rolling, I pointed him toward the lone outlet. Whether Grandma was right or not, he got to work wiring my room for professional eavesdropping.

  "Do you think he'll come back here again?"

  He shrugged. "I wouldn't rule it out. Hubris, remember?" He drew something out of his pocket, dumped it in my hand. A tiny velvet-covered box; the magical kind, with the power to make a woman smile, cry, or run away screaming.

  Not me: I gave it the hairy eyeball.

  "Don't you think this is too soon? We only went on one not-date."

  "Open it."

  Inside was a simple gold cross, a pendant with a matching gold chain threaded through its top loop.

  "Pretty," I said. "I have one at home just like it in silver." You can't escape them if you've been baptized Greek Orthodox.

  "This one is special." He lifted the necklace off its plush bed and did a turn around movement with his finger. One-handed, I swept my hair out of his way. Yes, I noticed how he lingered way too long on my collarbone, and goosebumps flocked to my skin as he fiddled with the clasp.

  "It's a transmitter."

  "What, no tape recorder strapped to my waist?"

  He laughed, sat the box on the bedside table. "Me or one of my guys will be shadowing you twenty-four-seven. You won't see us, you won't hear us, but we'll be there. You need help, just say so. We'll hear it."

  "What exactly do you want me to do?"

  "Whatever you want. Do what's norma
l for you."

  When I laughed it sounded like a cat hawking up a hairball. "Nothing about any of this is normal for me."

  "So do what's normal for a tourist. Go sightseeing. Charbroil on the beach."

  "Maybe the Baptist won't come after me. If he used to be one of you he'll know your tricks."

  "He'll come. But I'll be there."

  "What happens after? If you got orders not to bring him in last time, what's to stop them this time?"

  "He was only a suspect last time."

  This time he'd be the perpetrator. He didn't have to say it—I knew it in my bones, and also in my feet because they wanted to run.

  "What about the guy or guys up the ladder? They won't like you stopping their buddy."

  "One problem at a time." He pulled out his phone, scrolled through his messages. "Got to get moving."

  "Who's my babysitter tonight?"

  "Your grandmother's guys are on high alert. Xander's gonna be my ears and eyes."

  "The mute guy. Great choice."

  "He's almost as good as me. We were in the army together. The man can fight. He can do what needs doing."

  Chapter 18

  Sleepless night. Greece cooled down, but the air, for me, stayed hot and confining. This was what it was like to be a cupcake in a too-high oven. Outside I could hear water licking the sides of the pool as someone did laps.

  Not Xander. He was indoors, Kat-sitting. "I can't sleep," I whispered, wondering if he'd dozed off inside his cupboard.

  There was movement in the kitchen.

  Five minutes later a soft knock, then my door opened. Xander sat a mug on the bedside table, then he was gone.

  I took a sip. Hot chocolate. Not ideal mid-summer, but it was sweet and delicious and so thoughtful that suddenly I had grit in my eyes. They sprang a tiny, damp leak. "No cookies?"

  There was a snort outside my door. Apparently the hospitality service around here was drinks only. Good to know.

  Tears brushed aside, I sat up, held the cup between my hands like I did in the old days when the weather was cold and I was a lot shorter.

  "Thank you," I said, knowing he could hear me. "You know, I was hoping to die of old age, preferably surrounded by a loving family, who wouldn't be just waiting to shake the loose change out of my pockets. I'd have maybe three kids and a dozen or so grandkids, and maybe a couple of great-grandkids by then. And they'd all like me because I'm cool and awesome. What's your family like?" The next sip went down as easy as the first. "Do you even have a family? I suppose you do—everyone has a family of some sort, even if it's deranged and dysfunctional. Unless you don't, in which case I'm really sorry for bringing it up. That's thoughtless of me.

  Another sip; more like a slurp, really.

  "Well, looks like I'm probably going to die a lot sooner than old age. I should probably write a will or something. Dad can have everything. Anything he doesn't want can go to those sad puppies on TV. Do they have those here?"

  I talked for a while, about nothing mostly. If any of it registered, he never did say. But I imagined him in his cupboard, head leaning against the wall. And I imagined that my words inspired him to want to share a conversation, even if he couldn't.

  Morning came and I almost missed it. I scraped myself out of bed just before noon, flung the shutters wide. Grandma's gardenias were showing off and their perfume had drowned out everything else—which was fine with me. This was the life, I thought.

  Then I remembered a serial-killing former cop wanted me dead and Dad was still missing, presumed kidnapped. That was like a bucket of cold water in the kisser.

  I shoved my feet into slippers and shuffled into the kitchen, yawning. Nobody home except little ol' me.

  Party time.

  I went all out with coffee and cookies. There was nobody around to tell me I couldn't eat cookies for breakfast, so why not? It was almost lunchtime anyway, and therefore respectably past the no-cookies zone. I cleaned up my mess, squeezed into my new bikini, threw a sundress over the top, stuffed my beach bag, and trotted off to find a car. If Grandma was down with Melas's plan someone would pony up a vehicle, with her blessing.

  Sure enough, there was a car waiting. A drop-top VW Beetle in a lemony shade of yellow. A couple of cousins were leaning against the limo smoking. When they saw me they jumped to attention and crushed their cigarettes under their heels.

  "I saw nothing," I said.

  They relaxed, lit up fresh cigarettes. "The keys are in the car," one of them said. I gave him a thumbs-up.

  The Beetle still had that new-car smell. The seats were leather, the sound system fancy. A wave of nostalgia flattened me. I missed my Jeep. It smelled like me. It smelled like home. Still, I wasn't about to look a gift car in the tail pipe.

  "Off we go," I said into the gold cross. The guard was nose down in his cell phone as I passed the guardhouse, but he waved anyway. I took the road down to Volos, then cut across to the beach I knew. The Beetle was a sweet ride. It hugged the corners and kept to the posted speed limits, much to the chagrin of the drivers on my curved tail. I blasted some 1980's Motley Crue for fun.

  Penka was on her stoop looking ghettorific—if Bulgaria and Greece even had ghettos. Somehow she'd squeezed herself into a red tank top and persuaded it to be a dress. Her powers of persuasion were mighty. I stood back a few feet in case the whole contraption snapped and I lost an eye.

  "Oh." She lit up a new cigarette. "It is you. What you want?"

  "I'm on my way to the beach, figured I'd say hello. Where's Tasha?"

  "Busy. She eat dick for money."

  My stomach growled. "I had cookies. They're not filling either—not unless you eat a bunch."

  "Is just like dick then."

  I'd have to trust her on that one. I was a one-at-a-time kind of woman. I sat down next to her, tried to look like I wasn't a customer or a co-worker.

  "How's business?" I asked.

  "Terrible. You?"

  "Still unemployed."

  My phone buzzed. Incoming text from Melas.

  Jesus Christ, what are you doing?

  Hanging out with my friend.

  "Boyfriend?" she asked.

  "More like a pain in the ass."

  She shrugged. "Is okay once you get used to it."

  Something told me we weren't having the same conversation. "He's a cop."

  "And you are Baboulas's granddaughter?" She laughed. "You have big problem, America."

  "Tell me about it," I muttered.

  The sun kicked me in the face for a few minutes and I let it. If things went wonky I wanted to die with some color on my cheeks. My phone buzzed again.

  Your friend is a felon.

  My family is the mob. I win.

  No reply.

  "What would you do if a psychopath was hunting you?"

  She took a long, dramatic drag on her cigarette. "Leave country."

  "I can't leave Greece."

  "So stay and die."

  "That's kind of the plan—minus the die part."

  "Everybody dies. Who try to kill you?"

  "A former cop."

  Her head swiveled on its chunky stick. "I know who you mean. The man you ask about yesterday."

  Another buzz.

  Skasmos.

  Melas was telling me to shut up. Too bad, I was kind of on a roll. "Do you know him?"

  "Some people are not good to know."

  "But you know him? Yesterday it sounded like you might."

  She blew out a bedraggled plume of smoke. "I know him."

  "Do you know where he is?"

  "Try house."

  I didn't know where he lived, but Melas did. That would have been the first place he looked. "Not home."

  She shrugged. "I don't know. When Tasha come maybe she knows."

  Yet another buzz. Jeez. This eavesdropping thing was already getting old fast.

  Tasha's dead.

  Shit. Shit. Shiiiiiiit. I went hot. I went cold. I went halfway crazy. It was bad enough wh
en strangers pulled on their pine overcoats, but it was terrifying when it was people I knew.

  My hands shook. You sure?

  Russian. Small-time sisa dealer. Found this morning. Washed up on beach in Kala Nera.

  Kala Nera. A small village ten minutes east of where I was sitting.

  "When did you last see Tasha?" My voice wobbled out.

  "Why?"

  Small headshake. "Just curious."

  She snatched the phone out of my hand, took herself a good look. "Stupid coochka! What did I say to her? I said, Put your putka away, do not sell." Under the baked-on tan she was the color of hotel sheets, but I had to hand it to her, she gave good steely veneer. With that kind of composure she could be a Brazilian waxer.

  "You okay?" Because me, I wasn't all that okay. In fact, ice water was sluicing around in my veins and those cookies were clawing their way up my throat.

  She dumped the phone in my lap. "I am Bulgarian. I eat some tomato, some cheese, and the world will be good again. A hungry bear cannot dance."

  Looked to me like she went light on the tomato, heavy on the dairy.

  "There are worse things you could eat."

  "That is why I have cigarette. It burns fat." She looked me up and down. "You want cigarette?"

  Surely the cookies hadn't worked that fast. "I'll pass, but thanks."

  "Is your funeral." Then she burst into big, wet, ugly tears. Her dam had exploded, and there I was not even remotely Dutch, without a place I'd be willing to stick a finger.

  My arm went around her shoulders, gave her a squeeze.

  "It'll be okay," I said, lying my butt off. A friend dies, a mother, nothing is okay again. Life afterward is a crude, threadbare quilt that doesn't quite cover pain's feet or elbows. Sharp, shiny hurts poked out when you least expected them to. But I said it because that's what you say.

  I texted Melas.

  Was it him?

  There was a long pause, or maybe a short pause that had been stretched to fill a larger gap.

  We think so.

  I thought for a minute.

  Where are you? I asked.

  The beach was packed. The streets were clogged with cars and other fast moving traffic. Every person in sight was in various stages of undress. I scanned the parked cars and the crowd for Melas, but couldn't spot him.