by Declan Burke
'About the height of it, yeah.'
'He notice you've a busted arm?'
'I'd imagine he was too polite to say.'
'I thought you'd retired.'
'I did,' Ray said. 'I am.'
'And you told him this.'
'Yep.'
'But he's still asking. I mean, this guy you've only met once, he's persistent.'
'I've met him twice. But yeah, he's offering top wedge.'
They were down on the beach opposite Doyle's place, the Katina, sprawled on loungers under an umbrella facing the port across the bay. The night still warm, stars sparkling, tiny waves nibbling the sand. Doyle thinking how it was all just one willing guy off perfectly romantic.
'He tell you why he wants this guy snatched?' she said.
'I didn't ask.'
'But you're thinking of doing it.'
Ray lit two cigarettes, passed one over. 'He said he liked Anna,' he said.
'Anna's a dote.'
'He likes her for a guard dog.'
'She'd do a damn fine job.'
'Except the only way Anna's doing guard dog for anyone else,' Ray said, 'is if Karen's out of the picture.'
'So you think it was a threat.'
'Maybe.'
'So it mightn't be a threat.'
'It's a threat,' Ray said.
Doyle starting to see it. 'You're not so worried about the threat,' she said, 'as who's making it. I mean, if it's this guy or Karen who's behind it, wanting you to think she's in trouble. Again.'
'Karen can be tricky,' Ray said. 'Y'know,' he said, 'one thing I like about you, a man can assume a lot straight off, just get to the point.'
'I thought you and Karen split,' Doyle said, wondering if Ray, with the compliments, telling her earlier how starlight was good for her eyes, she should think about becoming an astronaut, was working up to making a pass.
'We did,' he said. 'We are.'
'So how come you're still involved?'
Ray shrugged. 'If you're in, you're in.'
Doyle thought about that, then swung her legs off her lounger and crossed to Ray's, hunkered down and took his face in her hands and kissed him, long and luscious.
Ray, pressing his lips together, tasting her strawberry balm, watched her go back to her lounger. 'What was that for?' he said.
'Why's it have to be for something?'
'It generally is.'
'I'm on holiday. On a beach, with the moon up. A guy just sitting there.'
'A waste,' Ray said, 'not to smooch him.'
'You know what's a waste? You running around after Karen, she's trying to screw you.'
'You're not trying to screw me?'
'It's my job to screw you.'
'I thought you were on holiday.'
'The way you're retired, thinking of snatching someone.'
'I never said I was thinking of doing it. I'm just wondering why the guy wants it done.'
'Or why Karen wants it done.'
Ray made to sip some beer then decided against it, pressed his lips together again, snaked the tip of his tongue into the corner of his mouth.
'Try this,' Doyle said. 'I mean, as a theory. Say Karen has this guy screwing you over. What do you owe her?'
'If it's her that's behind it.'
'That's the theory. If it's her, what d'you owe her?'
'Nothing.'
'Okay. So why not play along?'
'What's that achieve?'
'We let Karen tie herself in knots. Then we add a little pink bow, hand her up.'
Ray grinned. 'You're serious.'
'It's self-defence, Ray. If she's screwing you.'
'We don't know she is. And even if she is, no.'
'No?'
'No.'
'What would it take,' Doyle said, 'for you to hand her up?'
'Karen has plenty to worry about right now. And the one thing she doesn't have to worry about is me ratting her out. So let's just leave it that way.'
'You're thinking I want Karen for my score. Bring her home, hand her up, close the case. But if I do that, you're going down with her.'
'The thought had occurred.'
'What if I'm asking you to make a gesture?'
'A gesture.'
'For me.'
'I owe you,' Ray said, 'about as much as I owe Karen.'
'You left me in the middle of a forest handcuffed to Frank. While you ran off with the loot and Karen.'
'Point taken. But you're asking too much.'
'A gesture's too much?'
'Depends on the gesture. You're asking me to Judas Karen.'
'Only because you're thinking she's doing the same to you.'
'Even if she was, two wrongs don't make a right.'
Doyle asked for another cigarette. Ray lit two from the butt of the old, handed one over. 'Noble's one thing, Ray. Blind stupidity's another.'
Ray mulled that one over, then said, 'You never had anyone wouldn't rat you out like that?'
'Other than family?'
'Family's family. Family don't count.'
'Then no, I've never had anyone wouldn't rat me out like that.'
Ray got up and went over to her lounger and sat down straddling it. Doyle pulled her knees up to her chest. Ray scooched up the lounger, put his beer down on the sand, leaned in with her knees against his chest. This time the kiss went on a little longer, a lot deeper.
'If I sent Karen over,' Ray said, tasting strawberry, 'then you'd always know I could do the same to you sometime.' Then ducked in again for another lingering smooch. Doyle felt that one in her toes. She pushed him back, got him upright again.
'What're you guaranteeing me here?' she said.
'There's no guarantees, Doyle. You get down into it, all the way down, down past the atoms into the quantum level? Everything, and I mean the whole damn universe, is based on probability and uncertainty.'
'A girl needs a bit more than lectures on quantum physics, Ray.'
'You'll laugh every day.'
'I'd settle for a pension plan.'
Ray sat back and reached for his beer, took a sip. Eyes on hers, he said, 'This gesture you're talking about. You have any joy yet with my name?'
'Nope.'
'What'd you try?'
Doyle went through the list: Raymond, Raphael, Rainier, Reynaldo, Raymundo, Rumpelstiltskin …
Ray said, 'You didn't try Israel?'
'Israel?'
'It's Biblical,' he said.
Rossi
'Seriously, yeah. He's sitting in front of me right now.' The English guy, Roger, behind the desk on the phone to Johnny Priest. 'Yeah, Rossi Callaghan. Says he's half-Sicilian, half-Dirty Harry.'
Rossi winking at Sleeps. Roger saying, 'Why would I kid you about this? He's here, the other side of the desk. Looking for some ten grand he's owed.'
Rossi a little disappointed with the poky office over the Blue Orange, just enough room for a battered desk, a filing cabinet, an empty water-cooler. A mouse-trap in the corner by the skirting-board. Rossi'd been expecting something plusher for Johnny's Greek island hub.
Roger, a peroxide surfer-type wearing a t-shirt that read Everything Rhymes With Orange, said, 'I don't know. Ask him yourself.' Then handed Rossi the phone.
Rossi sat forward clearing his throat. 'How're they hanging, Johnny?'
'Rossi?'
'The one and only. What's new?'
'You made it?'
'Mission accomplished, man.'
'Yeah … Any, y'know, trouble on the way?'
'I don't do trouble, Johnny.' Rossi poking a finger in his good ear. 'The right thing the simple way, man, that's how it gets done Rossi-style. Anyway, if you'll just authorise your man Roger here to kick free the ten grand, we'll be --'
'Hold up,' Johnny said. 'Roger there's just looking after the bar. Jochem's guy is on Crete, won't make it to Ios 'til tomorrow. Some problem, he said, with flights to Santorini.'
'Crap.'
'You on your own? Everyone make it?'
'Lemme talk to Sleeps.'
'Sleeps? How come?'
'I just wanna be sure everyone made it. That way I know there was no fuck-ups.'
'There was no fuck-ups. We're here, aren't we?'
'Lemme talk to Sleeps.'
Rossi, fuming, handed the phone to Sleeps, who said, 'What?'
He said, 'None of your fucking business.'
He said, 'Like I give a fuck.'
He said, 'You and whose army?'
Rossi snatched the phone back. 'Johnny? Don't mind him, he just gets antsy when he's tired. It's been a long trip.'
'Lemme talk to Mel, Rossi.'
'She's, ah, she's not here right now.'
'Where is she?'
'Back at the room. Minding the stuff.'
'What stuff?'
'The stuff. Luggage and shit.'
Static on the line. Then, 'Where're you staying?'
'Place in the village,' Rossi said, not willing to mention they hadn't sorted a place to stay yet, how unprofessional that'd sound.
'Whereabouts exactly?'
'I dunno, man. That village, there's no street-signs, it's a fuckin maze.'
'Okay, but what's it called?'
'Something Greek,' Rossi said. 'The name right now escapes me.'
Rossi listened to static. Then Johnny said, 'Come back tomorrow, Rossi. All three of you. I want to know there's been no fuck-ups. Say two-ish, Jochem's guy'll be there by then. Once he knows everything's kosher, he'll sort you out. Put Roger back on.'
Rossi handed Roger the phone. Roger listened, then said, 'No chance.'
He said, 'I pull beers and count the money.'
He said, 'Yeah, that's the way it is. And that's the way it's staying.'
Then he looked at the phone, shrugged and hung up. 'Sorry, boys. Johnny says I can't take the package.'
'Try and fuckin take it,' Rossi growled.
Roger looking puzzled. 'I just said, I'm not touching it.'
Sleeps said, 'Rossi? Let's roll.'
Downstairs the low-ceilinged bar looked like two living rooms with a wall put through. The walls roughly plastered, white-washed. A pool table to the right of the door, a dart-board near the bar. A smattering of customers huddled in dark corners. A guy behind the bar, headphones on, wearing a t-shirt said 'Human Jukebox'. Don Henley's Boys of Summer a mellow hum with occasional kerrangs.
'I been in libraries had a better buzz,' Rossi said.
He bellied up to the bar and ordered two Singapore Slings from the cute Scottish girl wearing squarish specs, then asked for the darts. Drank off his Sling in one go, told the girl Johnny said they were on the house and walked out, pocketing the darts.
'See,' he said, as they strolled away down the narrow alleyway, the parcel tucked under his armpit, 'this is the kind of crap you don't get when you're an independent, unaffiliated. You see what I'm saying.'
Sleeps said, 'Rossi? I think we should take a look-see in the parcel.'
Madge
Anyone ever asked Madge about the twins she'd say they had hearts of gold. Meaning, hard and cold, buried miles down. So she figured, even if Rossi kept up his act, playing hard to get, she'd had plenty of practice digging.
'Here they come again,' Terry said, drinking off his beer, tucking a twenty under the glass. 'You ready?'
'Let's not just jump in there,' Madge said. 'He's like a half-wild cat, y'know?'
Madge and Terry at the front window of a restaurant that was, Madge was guessing, someone's front parlor in the off-season, the window looking out onto the alleyway, the Blue Orange across the way, the sign in blue and orange neon above a little window-seat, a low-linteled stable door with the upper half open. Rossi and Sleeps slouched away down the gentle incline towards the heart of the village, arguing. Rossi, Madge'd been surprised to notice, looked dapper, very business-like, in a suit and tie, nice shoes.
'I can appreciate,' Terry said, 'how you're worried about being rejected again. Can't be nice to be denied, it's your own flesh and blood. But if we don't stick tight to this guy, we'll lose him.' Terry impressed with Rossi's strategic thinking, the way he'd criss-crossed and double-backed earlier on, coming up through the village, Rossi covering the angles, watching for spotters, tails. 'The least we need to know,' he said, 'is where they're staying. We get that, we can relax. Maybe, tomorrow morning, touch base by phone first, break the ice easy. Set up a meet.'
They stayed well back winding down through the village, Sleeps' bulk hard to miss even if Rossi was swallowed up in the thronged streets. Madge blaming herself for Rossi's skinny frame.
'You think I'm crazy, don't you?' she said.
'Yep.'
'You can't see it?'
'Anyone giving away money's crazy to me,' Terry said. 'After that, you're asking if I can see the logic of a three-way split, Rossi and the twins, then yeah, I can see it. Although,' he said, 'you want to push the logic, it'd make even more sense to cut the twins out, they've had all the breaks so far. Rossi's had none. So he's got a lot of ground to make up.'
'Maybe I should give him half,' Madge said, 'let the girls split the rest.'
'I was Rossi,' Terry said, 'that'd sound just about right to me. Hold on, here we go.'
They watched Rossi and Sleeps disappear into a pension, the Poseidon, then took a seat on the low whitewashed wall overlooking a weed-choked parking lot, a floodlit basketball court at the other end. Twenty minutes later the pair reappeared, Rossi now with his shirt open at the neck, no tie. No sign, either, of the parcel he'd had tucked under his arm.
'C'mon,' Terry said, taking Madge by the hand and leading the way across the street, up the steps to the Poseidon's foyer.
A young guy, early twenties, was behind the desk watching football on a TV bracketed high in the corner over an archway. Terry said, 'Hey, how're you doing? You speak English?'
'Well enough,' the guy said. 'How can I help you?'
'We're supposed to be meeting up with some friends, a guy called Rossi Callaghan, he said he'd be staying here.'
'That's correct,' the guy said. A little too handsome, Madge decided, with a glossy sheen to his olive skin, thick black hair, dark and sullen eyes. 'They checked in half-an-hour ago. We serve breakfast only, so they've gone out to eat.'
'That's a pity,' Terry said. 'You mind if we leave a note?'
'Of course.'
'You got a pen, some paper?'
While the guy hunted up the necessaries, Madge whispered to Terry, 'You think we could stay here? I mean, we still need somewhere to stay, right?'
'If you're okay with that,' Terry said. 'You don't think it'd freak Rossi out.'
'I'll stay out of the way,' Madge said. 'Let you meet him, like an intermediary. It's a lot to ask, I know, but --'
'Not a problem,' Terry said. He said to the guy behind the desk, 'You got any rooms free? One with a balcony? A kind of suite vibe to it?'
'Certainly.'
'Great, we'll take it.' He held up a hundred folded in two between fore and middle fingers. 'One thing, though. We left our luggage down at the port, it's in --'
'Allow me,' the guy said, 'to take care of that.'
'Nice,' Terry said. 'I appreciate the gesture.' He tucked the hundred into his breast pocket. 'Now,' he said to Madge, picking up the pen, 'what is it you want to say in this note?'
Melody
The phone-book being in Greek, all the operators speaking Greek, it took Mel ages to get the right number. It didn't help that the phone-booth was a head-and-shoulders affair across the road from Sweet Irish Dreams beside a souvlaki vendor that had a generator buzzing, a transistor radio with a semi-hysterical football commentary dangling from a strut on an old leather dog-leash. Mel twitching every three seconds, glancing left and right, on the off-chance Ray might wander out from the hordes of drunken tourists flooding by, singing. One group so blitzed they were doing A Fairytale of New York, maggots and lousy faggots and bells ringing out
for Christmas Day.
But she got through in the end, went straight into her spiel. How Rossi'd forgotten the name of the bar, was too embarrassed to ring himself and ask for directions. She'd had to sneak away so he wouldn't know she was calling.
'Is that a fact?'
'Rossi's really the shy type when you get to know him. As most Sicilians tend to be, I find. Don't you?'
'I don't know if I've ever met any. Italians, though, I wouldn't as a rule describe them as bashful.'
'You're so right. So where can we, um, find it?'
'It's getting late, Mel. You just relax there, kick back. If you do find the Orange, just get them to run you a tab, I'll fix it up when I get in. That's about noon or thereabouts, so I can take you to lunch first, then show you around.'
'Super. But I should warn you, there's a bit of a hitch with the ten grand.'
'A hitch?'
'See, I'm owed for the passports.'
'The passports.'
'The ones I got for Rossi and Sleeps. Like, they owe me ten grand. So now that I've got the, y'know, you really won't need to meet with them at all, really. Will you?'
'I don't suppose I do. Not really. It's still sealed, right?'
'Absolutely.'
'Okay. Can you meet me off the Santorini ferry, the hi-speed? At noon.'
'Should I wear a carnation?' Mel said, being of the opinion, it was a philosophy she generally adhered to, there was no such thing as a wasted flirt.
'That's okay,' Johnny Priest said. 'I've got a good memory for faces.'
SUNDAY
Sleeps
'What's it say?' Rossi said, shovelling home a forkful of bacon.
Sleeps flattened the note with his elbow while maneuvering a slab of toast into his mouth. 'Dear Rossi,' he read, chewing. 'If you'd like to have a chat about some money you're owed, meet me for lunch at noon at Ali Baba's. Yours, an Admirer.' He swallowed the toast. 'There's also two x's on the end, I think they're kisses.'
'Ali fuckin Baba's?'
'What it says. Who d'you think it's from?'
'Johnny?' Rossi hazarded.
'Signing off with two kisses?' Sleeps said. 'Besides, we're already meeting his guy later on, back at the Orange.'