When the tears finally arrive, they’re mine, and I walk to the kitchen counter. I pretend to explore the innards of the refrigerator, but the frosted yellow bulb spotlights what I’m hiding and I shut the door.
“Are you hungry?” I ask.
“I’m here for seven days,” she says, gathering her hair at her neck. “Maybe if you’re serious and you do decide to go back, we can discuss it then. We can see how it goes.”
“Okay.”
She’s white eyes and white teeth in the darkness.
“And, yes, I’m hungry. Starving,” she moans with exaggeration. “Let’s have dinner down in Kampos by the water. My treat. You paid the last time. Maybe that band is playing. We could dance on the—”
I don’t want Louise to save me. I don’t want her to feel that she should. “Louise?”
“Yeah?” The word is breathless, practically begging for pardon from any more talk of the future.
“It will have to be a short dinner. I have to meet someone at eleven. It’s a work matter for Charlie’s business.”
“So you aren’t getting out? You’re staying on with him?”
I belong where I am welcome. I go inside and gather my wallet. Outside, from deep down the hillside, I hear the rumble of clapping as the band starts up.
AFTER A BRISK, dispiriting dinner with Louise, I head south on the island past Skala and the village of Grikos. My bike judders down the dirt trail, the headlight eking out desert scrub a mere three feet beyond the handlebars. The sea ahead is wet with moonlight, and ridges of the island to the north are pocked with gatherings of yellow. The area leading to Charlie’s dock, however, is a total blackout, and, stripped of scenery, it feels like a longer drive from the main road than I remember. It’s the kind of place that refutes the notion of screaming as a warning call; here a scream would be purely ornamental, a fleeting human trace. I’m reminded of that strange idiom still used in semirural enclaves, “we live within screaming distance of our neighbors,” measuring distance on the wise metric of emergency.
When the beam finds the concrete hangar, I slow the motor and park next to the crane. Moths swarm the headlight before I switch it off—creatures throwing their bodies against the brightness. The night we dressed for dinner at the Plateia, Duck had asked, “If moths love light so much, why don’t they come out in the day? They’d be so happy then.” None of us could wager a decent answer.
Close to the water, there’s enough shine to discern the hangar with its grates pulled down. It must be a few minutes after eleven, but there’s no sign of Charlie. The dock is empty of charter boats, and far into the horizon, the murky rectangles of freighter ships sit motionless like islands unto themselves. The odor of algae and low tide blows inward, and goat bells from a nearby field clang and fade.
“Charlie?” I call. I march toward the trailer. No lights are on in the office and the door is locked, but moonlight pours through the windows. The long plastic desk, once cluttered with documents, is bare. Not a single paper rests on it, every messy layer that Charlie burrowed through to demonstrate his need for my organization skills gone. The hard drive under the computer has been removed. The walkie-talkies on the radio are also missing. The framed picture of Domitian hangs crookedly on the wall. The whole office signals a rapid and thorough purge, and I wonder if I opened the grates to the hangar whether the refurbished yacht would still be on its blocks. There’s such little indication of a thriving boat business that a needle passes through me, that this meeting isn’t a reunion but a good-bye.
He must have been standing by the corner of the hangar all along, but drowned in the night, I didn’t see him. I remain by the trailer as the faint, indistinguishable shape of a human crosses the lot.
“Charlie?” I shout, but the figure doesn’t respond. It simply walks straight toward me. I quickly ransack my body for items I know that it doesn’t possess: a flashlight, or as the figure keeps coming with no word or hesitation, a knife. “Charlie or whoever you are, answer!”
But now I glimpse solid features under the moon: a shaved head with patchy skin, a set of starved, lidless eyes, a mouth with a scar running from its corner. It’s the thief from Athens, and I flatten myself against the trailer’s siding, pulling my bike key from my pocket.
The thief stops a few feet from me. “You got my note,” he says with a frank American accent.
“Your note?”
He notices the key poking between my fingers and smiles. “What? You’re going to stab me with that? And to think I was about to thank you for coming.”
“You wrote that note? How do you even know my name?”
“Ian,” he shouts to prove his familiarity with it. “You don’t recognize me? I guess it has been a long time. I didn’t used to look this beat-up. You should take it as a warning of what a few summers with Charlie can do.”
“I don’t know you. We’ve never met.”
He laughs, or at least his mouth mimes laughter.
“Met? We graduated together. Buckland Academy, go Blue Knights! You don’t remember me? I guess I was closer with Charlie. You and I never really hit it off. It’s Gideon, Gideon Frost. We had bio together, and weren’t we conversation partners junior year in French?” The name is an excavator, a backhoe digging up bones of memory down to a scrawny, disturbingly prepubescent boy save for about eight black hairs of an anticipatory mustache, too many in number not to be deliberate and too few to attract the wrath of the school’s strict no-facial-hair code. Gideon lived in Queens, which, at Buckland, served as shorthand to indicate that the Frosts weren’t rich. But now I recall that Gideon was friendly with Charlie; they’d been in chess club together. I can picture the name FROST emblazoned on the back of Charlie’s maroon alumni shirt, a thief hiding all along in plain sight.
“What the hell are you doing here, Gideon? All the way here?” I mean on Patmos; I mean a decade later in time. “Why did you leave me a note in my cabin?”
“Your cabin?” This too induces a silent laugh. “It was my cabin before it was yours. It was mine for almost three years until about a month and a half ago. I still have my key. That’s how I got in.” I feel a sting at the memory of the initials G.F. in the front of the Henry Miller novel. “Who do you think had the job of being Charlie’s whipping boy before you were shipped in and taken out of your box? I started up this business with Charlie.” He waves his arm, as if presenting his estate. “I suppose he didn’t bother to tell you. Does he still call our job his number two? Man, I hated that. I never wore that stupid cap, either. At first, he didn’t mind. At first, he still treated me like a friend. Those are the honeymoon days. I hope you’re enjoying them.”
There’s no hint of the child I remember in Gideon’s face. That kid has long died in him and the scar of that murder is a face sunken at the cheeks and shrouded in sweat. This face would prevent me from spending an hour at a bar reminiscing about school days if I’d accidentally run into Gideon on a Manhattan street. Alone, on an Aegean island, on this purposefully vacant stretch of coastline, it causes me to bunch my hand protectively over my wallet.
“How did you end up working for Charlie?” I ask.
“End up is a good choice of words. Ended up, washed up, locked up. I didn’t have such a good run for a while. It was a lot of bad luck in New York and one or two nasty habits. So much for our sterling education, right? So much for all that conversation française. Charlie and I kept in touch.” He simulates tapping keys on a computer, the nub of his index finger not as agile as the others. “He knew I was in a tight spot and needed money, so he brought me over. I almost kissed him for the opportunity. It saved my life. And what a life, man, right on the beach! I spent summers here working for Konstantinou Charters and the winters in Turkey. I’ve got a girlfriend in Istanbul. Or had. Funny how everything falls apart when you’re suddenly stripped of your only source of income.” This comment does not end in laughter, only a tongue rooting along the narrow passage of his bottom lip. “When I saw you at that hote
l in Athens, I knew you’d been brought over as my replacement. You and Charlie were best friends as kids. By the way, I looked you up online. Jesus, Ian, you’ve gotten yourself in a nasty corner. I’m sure Charlie loved those credentials. But, honestly, you look great, exactly like you did in school, still innocent, not a single gray in that clown hair. It’s nice to see you.” He smiles. “Don’t look so scared. I’m not going to hurt you.”
That promise is all I need to regain my composure. And my disgust.
“How’s stealing wallets working out? You must be thriving on Patmos with all the drunk tourists.”
He juts out his chin at the insult. As if to show he isn’t bothered, he casually extracts a cigarette from his shirt pocket, taps it on the flat of his palm, and lights it.
“You do what you have to do to get by,” he says while expelling smoke. “You think I wanted it to work out like this? That was Charlie’s doing. He cut me off without a fucking dime as severance. Without a fucking dime! After all I did to get this business off the ground. Look at me.” He presses on the side of his mouth where the scar runs. “See that? And this.” He holds up his mutilated finger. “That was my down payment on Konstantinou Charters, year one. I’m owed more than a plane ticket back to New York.”
“Charlie told me the last guy who had my job stole from him. You must have gotten greedy. What was he supposed to do if you took money, give you a raise?”
“Got greedy.” He raises his voice, mimicking mine. “Money. Is that what he told you? Maybe I dipped into the vault a little bit, but Charlie’s the greedy one. That’s what gets me about rich people. They’ll give twenty thousand dollars to a bunch of unknown refugees at an NGO camp, oh, yeah, sure, like Charlie did in June no problem. But they’ll bite your fucking head off if so much as a rubber band goes missing.”
He smiles again, tempering the anger, and performs a scan of the dock.
“You think Charlie can run this kind of operation without me? You really think he has the balls or the wits? Look at it now, just as I suspected. Doomed without me. I’ve been biding my time the past month in Athens waiting for Charlie to come to his senses and hire me back. How the hell is he going to do all the dirty work that’s needed? He wouldn’t dare get his face roughed up. You know the talent he has? He has the talent of someone who won the lottery. It’s the talent of cashing a check.” Gideon sucks on his filter, his marble eyes gleaming beyond the swelling orange ember. “Well, I finally got the chance to rough up that face. I have to admit, it felt good to put my fist to it for once.”
So it was Gideon who furnished Charlie’s first black eye. I saw him hiding in the alley leading to Charlie’s house that night at dinner in Chora. Gideon must have been waiting for him.
“Maybe you’re not cut out for this business,” I respond. “If you managed to ratchet up that many injuries renting yachts to vacationers, you should really rethink your calling. Unless you happened to be picking their pockets on the side.”
“Vacationers?” His bony chest heaves gleefully, and he stares up at the sky, his throat a white, crooked pillar with bruises at the base. “Is that what you think this business is about? Oh my god. Don’t tell me you’re that naïve?”
My throat closes on me, and even if I did have an answer, I couldn’t get it out.
“Ian, pal, wake up! Have you ever seen a single tourist at this dock? The few that come only serve as cover. To be fair, we did try that route at first, the up-and-up chartered vacation route. It just wasn’t profitable. And Charlie needed to show some sort of profit or Papa would have cut him off.” Prince Phillip said as much: find a career or come home . . . but Charlie proved himself, and his father’s stranglehold on his money loosened. I want to refute Gideon’s claims, but the few boats I’ve watched cast off from Konstantinou Charters have lacked the tanning, demanding renters that would justify the entire apparatus. It’s been all luxury and no one paying to appreciate it.
“I guess Charlie hasn’t filled you in on the whole picture yet.” Gideon shakes his head in mock disappointment. “Let me help you out. What do you think those shells Ugur welds to the bottom of the hulls are for? I had a hand in that invention,” he says proudly. “There’s a little button wired on the console, and if by chance the Greek coast guard stopped a yacht, which, of course they never do because they know what that red K painted on the bow stands for, but if they ever did. . . .” Gideon leaves the cigarette dangling from his mouth and forms a trapdoor with his hands. “One press of the button and it all dumps into the sea.” His hands flip open. “Sure. Come aboard, officer. You’re welcome to search the boat. Pretty clever, huh?”
“What are you saying?” But it’s already said. Charlie warned me that his business wasn’t squeaky clean, although he neglected to mention the variety of dirt he’s been smuggling underneath the polished oak.
“With all of the shit going on out in the Aegean these days, who’s going to get suspicious about expensive white yachts helmed by a crew in blue uniforms?” Gideon asks. “Especially when they’re owned and operated by one of the wealthiest families. The best way to hide bad money is in a bundle of cash.”
“What is Charlie smuggling?”
Gideon takes one last drag and flicks his cigarette. A tiny firework blazes against the trailer.
“You need to have a chat with Charlie. He can answer the rest of your questions. I’m not your fucking oracle, Ian. Sad to say, I didn’t invite you down here because I’m concerned about your well-being.” He rubs his palms together, keeping his thumb bundled over the nub of his pointer. “In fact, when I realized you were taking my job, I decided I might as well head back here and make a proposal. What do they call it? A golden parachute? I tried to talk to Charlie that night in Chora, but he refused to listen. So I need you, his number two, to deliver a message. Can you do that?” He nods encouragingly, as if I’m just intelligent enough to understand simple English. “I want money to go away.”
“I’m sure he’ll be surprised to hear that.”
He laughs resentfully. “You’re hilarious, Ian. Don’t ever lose your sense of humor.”
“It went a long time ago.”
“Yeah. Panama knock it out of you? You always were a prick at Buckland.”
“Thanks.”
“I want two hundred grand. Don’t worry, Charlie can afford it. I’m sure he tosses out that amount monthly for the upkeep on his cunt of a girlfriend. You two getting along? She was never nice to me, steered ten feet around me to prevent so much as a hello.”
“But you’re so charming.”
“Just deliver the message. He might be surprised I upped it from one sixty, but he shouldn’t have waited. He should have talked to me last month. I was more reasonable then.” Gideon folds his arms over his stomach. His vexed smile extends the scar’s trajectory. “I want it in cash, American dollars. And you tell him, if he waits any longer, someone else has shown interest in what I have to say, someone Charlie wouldn’t want me talking to. I might have to if he doesn’t pay.”
“The inspector from Kos? Is that who you mean?” But my bullet doesn’t seem to hit its mark. Gideon’s smile remains intact.
“I saw you go into the police station down in Skala. Haven’t you learned yet that the police are useless on the islands? It won’t matter what you tell them. All they’re interested in is keeping their jobs—that’s their idea of keeping the peace. You rat out anyone with means, they’ll just cut in front of you in the bribe line. And they won’t touch the Konstantinous. So you be a good boy and deliver my message. And good luck, Ian. Good luck keeping your head down here.”
Gideon turns to go.
“I can’t find him,” I say. “No one can. He’s on Patmos, but he’s not answering his phone. He missed a meeting in Bodrum. Even Ugur doesn’t know where he is.” There’s a joy in relaying the truth to Gideon. Even the slightest sabotage to his plans feels like a victory.
“What?” His voice rises. “Don’t lie to me. He didn’t go to Bodrum?
He must have.”
“He didn’t.”
“But then how—”
White light pours over us, and we’re exposed. Two headlights shine from the road, our flinching bodies bleached, as if caught in an extended camera flash. We squint, hands against our eyebrows.
“Did someone follow you here?” Gideon hisses.
My eyes adjust to make out the hood of the white Mercedes station wagon, moths flittering around the shine. Petros, priest of vehicular homicides, steps forward, blocking one of the headlights with his thin silhouette. But there’s movement behind him, the shapes of two men climbing out of the backseat, bulky, dressed in midnight colors. Their faces are covered in black scarves except for the meager human trace of eye slits. The light catches the muzzle of a rifle.
“Oh, shit,” Gideon squeals. “Oh, shit!” He takes off toward the beach, sprinting as his feet kick the dust into clouds. Petros gestures in a sideways dice-throwing motion, and one of his goons races after him. I hear their competing, scattered footsteps along the pebbled shore. I stand against the trailer, fear overriding my brain, unable to transmit basic signals to my legs. The goon by the car jiggles the rifle on his shoulder, the muzzle pointed toward the sky, and Petros, in his long, tailored robe, walks toward me. His grin is framed by a manicured beard, and he extends his hand, as if to give assistance to an injured man.
“Won’t you come with us?” he asks me softly. “We need you in the car.”
“What for?” I hear my voice answer.
His grin stiffens but doesn’t fade. I would prefer no grin.
“It will be easy,” is all he says.
I keep standing in place, incapable of complying with Petros’s simple request. There’s a long pause of silence before Gideon stumbles into the light, the dust clouds reclaiming him. The goon holds his arms behind his back, and a wet trail runs from his crotch down the side of his pant leg. He glowers at me as he’s pushed forward, whatever ounce of toughness he possessed giving way to the panic of a little boy.
“You didn’t even run,” he howls. “You should have, you idiot. What’s wrong with you? You didn’t even try to run!”
The Destroyers Page 33