by Alex A King
“The NIS woman?”
My marshmallow head nodded.
“Take a number. Everybody wants to kill her. I hear even her own sister would not piss on her if she were on fire.”
That sounded true. There didn’t seem to be any love lost—or any love—between Irini and Hera. I understood it; Hera was a skanky bitch-beast.
“If anyone has to shoot anyone, why can’t you shoot Mario?”
“I don’t have a gun.”
I looked at him—at least I tried. There was light now, thin and blurry between the slits. “I have a gun.”
“I know. It was my gun.”
“You can have it back.”
Silence.
“Hello? Anyone there? Armani Hobo?”
I pushed the tray aside, crawled toward the bed, banged my face on the bedpost. I was like an old blind dog, bumbling around, mistaking sticks for bones.
A voice filtered through the door. “Who are you talking to?”
Baked Potato was back.
“Myself,” I fired back, hoping he’d buy the lie. Well, technically not a lie if the Armani Hobo had left the building.
“Crazy Greek,” he muttered.
“Only half.”
“Oh, excuse me. Crazy Greek, stupid American.”
The itching was slowly abating. So was the swelling. My field of vision had increased to an itsy bitsy narrow slit. The world wasn’t quite as black now. Whatever had been in the sweet roll, it was working fast.
“Yes, stupid Americans.” I pulled a page from Marika’s notebook. “Remind me again ... who won World War II?”
The blow was low and hard, but Italy is one of those places it’s difficult to criticize; they’re responsible for pizza, pasta, and gelato, for crying out loud.
On the other side of the door there was a snick as Baked Potato unlocked the door. Seconds later, he burst through. I had to tilt my head up and down to get the whole picture. Puffed up chest. Jutting chin. Pointy finger.
“Say it again, to my face this time, eh?”
I played innocent. “Say what?”
He lunged. I felt the whoosh of displaced air and stepped aside as he slid past. Baked Potato landed with a thud that made me wince.
“Stupid she-dog,” he said, peeling himself up off the marble tile. “You think you can win against me?”
I swung my leg around, knocking him off his feet. It was a fall that took a long time. It began with arm flailing and wide-eyes. His mouth moved into the ‘oh shit’ position. Then he crash-landed on the ground with a mighty crack, using his wide butt as a landing pad. For the record, marble tile beats human buttocks.
“You broke my ass,” he said, tears flooding his eyes. He wiped them away with the back of his hand, then he grabbed me by the neck and shook. “I should have killed you in that alley. Or when you asked to borrow my phone.”
“It wasn’t your phone,” I said. The words came out breathy. Having your windpipe crushed will do that. “You stole it.”
“After you steal something it becomes yours. That’s how it works.”
“That’s not how the police see it.” My fist swung up, crashing into the side of his face. He made an oof sound but his hands didn’t relax.
No way in hell was I going to die under this bloated tuber. This time, instead of a fist I used a pointy finger, glad that it came complete with ragged hangnails and rough cuticles. I jammed it into his eye.
Baked Potato squealed and pulled away. As he did, I punched him in the junk. It wasn’t hard but it was enough to send him into an immediate fetal position.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Beaver poked his head around the corner. His eyes widened, big as saucers, when he drank in the sight of his gagging buddy.
“You want some of this?” My breath came in short huffs. Turns out beating up guys is hard work. In the movies they make it look so easy. “I’ve got more where that came from.” Not really, but they didn’t know that.
Beaver shook his head and ducked back around the corner. He’d be back. Probably with Mario and the rest of his security—if he had more security. For a loaded guy in the organized crime business he seemed light on manpower.
I flopped back on the tile, panting. Getting up seemed like the thing to do next. Get away while the getting away was good—and possible. I leveraged myself up off floor and limped away, rubbing my tender throat.
Whatever the Armani Hobo had given me it had worked fast. My vision was nearly back to normal and the itching had stopped. Whoever he was, I was grateful for his help. Not the part about killing Mario, but definitely the other part. If we ever crossed paths again I’d thank him ... after a lot of yelling.
I locked the door from the outside. I had more problems than Jay Z, but Baked Potato wouldn’t be one of them. Temporarily, anyway.
Finding the way out wasn’t a hassle for long. Super Mario’s castle was skimpy on staff and other potential tattletales, and from the looks of things all doors lead to the courtyard. I took the first one I encountered and burst out into the sunlight, instantly blinded by unfiltered rays.
Sunglasses? Forget it. Jamming my Hay-Beans onto this misshapen, oversized head wasn’t happening. I kept my eyes on the ground and trotted toward the path I knew lead to the beach. Despite the Armani Hobo’s orders I had no plans to kill anyone. Taking orders from complete strangers struck me as foolish, sweet roll spiked with antihistamines or not, especially when those instructions involved murder. So my plan involved getting to the beach and winging it from there. Maybe one of the distant neighbors had a phone I could use.
Then I realized I wasn’t alone in the courtyard. Mario’s stepsons were lounging beside the pool in chaise lounges. They’d dipped themselves in grease for another hot Italian late-summer baking session.
Sneaking past wasn’t doable. They’d already spotted me and lowered their sunglasses accordingly. On any other day I might be flattered. Today ... nope. Today I was the elephant woman. My skin was violet. I looked like the side effects pharmaceutical commercials warned people about and the Ringling Bros recruited in the old days.
Okay, and I had blood in places there shouldn’t be blood. The outside, mostly.
“What are you looking at? You live with a criminal and you’ve never seen anyone bleeding?”
“What happened to you?” the one in the white speedos wanted to know. Yikes, that thing was see-through. Didn’t they know about lining in Italy?
“Poison ivy. Life pro tip: See the vine over there?” I hooked a thumb at the exterior wall. “Don’t touch it.”
“And the blood?”
“Fight,” I said.
“Who did you fight?”
“Some guy who looks like a baked potato.”
They gave me a thumbs up then went back to their sun worshipping. Guess they didn’t like Baked Potato any more than I did.
“Hey,” I called out. “Where’s Mario?”
White Speedo lowered his mirrored sunglasses. “At the beach with Mama.”
I rolled my eyes. That was just great. The beach was my exit strategy. Making a getaway in front of my captor didn’t seem like a solid or covert escape plan. I might have to shoot a man in front of his wife. I wasn’t sure I could do it without her present; with an audience, definitely not.
Wing it—that’s all I could do. My stomach churned. Europe was hell on my nerves.
Dealing with Mario ... there had to be another way. I’d have to be resourceful and find it. Shooting the guy because he made money (literally) struck me as serious overkill. To me, firing a gun at someone was a last resort, a life or death thing. Me or them. Bodily injury would never be casual. Not for me. And that’s what this would be if I went through with it. Which I wouldn’t.
I was still Kat Makris, kid from Portland. Bill collector. Daughter. Friend. All-around mostly decent human being.
What if I shot Mario and he died?
I gnawed on the problem all the way to the beach, kicking pebbles in my espadrilles. Was th
e Armani Hobo watching, waiting to see if I had the stones to finish off Mario? What would he do if I didn’t pull the trigger?
Sure enough, Mario was on the beach, his arm held out in a stiff triangle so that the senior citizen at his side had something to grip. He didn’t look comfortable being this close to boobs. Granted, they weren’t that close. His wife was five-foot-nothing and her sweet chariots were swinging low. Not that I could talk. Every time I saw Grandma I saw my future, and it came with a pair of low riders. Mrs. Mario could see Grandma’s generation from where she was standing in the sixty zone. She must have had her sons on the brink of forty. Taking Mario’s previous wife into consideration, maybe living with the counterfeiter was hard living, each year the equivalent of working the land for ten during the dust bowl days. For all I knew she was really my side of forty.
I pulled back my shoulders, hoping it would be more than an inch of prevention.
“Hey, look who it is,” Mario called out, big grin sprawling across his handsome face. The smile didn’t reach his eyes. They were frosty steel. “Your head still makes me laugh. And your skin ... you look like a strawberry. How is the itching?”
His wife nailed him in the face with an epic stink-eye. If looks could kill, he’d be battered on the rocks, the sea slowly sloughing the flesh off his bones. Yikes. Better stay on her good side. If she wanted him dead I might actually consider pulling the trigger just to avoid her wrath.
“Who is this? One of your putas?”
“Jeez,” I said. “Do I look like a prostitute?”
Or a man.
She ignored me. “Answer the question, Mario.”
He patted her on the arm. “She is our guest, my beloved.”
Guest, my milky white butt. Mrs. Mario wasn’t convinced either. Smart woman.
“If she is our guest then why have I not met her?”
Panic filled his eyes. “Uh ...”
Speaking of eyes, I rolled mine. I couldn’t believe I was actually going to do this. “Because I just arrived,” I said. “You’ll have to forgive my appearance. Travel is hell these days.”
Mrs. Mario sniffed the air, made a disgusted face. “How did you travel—donkey?”
The past couple of days caught up with me in one fell swoop, dumping ice water on my head. Abducted and dumped in yet another foreign country, with no money, no phone, and two dependents. Threatened, yelled at, and held hostage. Then there was the poison ivy episode. And now this sagging heap of kohl eyeliner and gaudy jewelry wanted to judge me for how I looked?
Enough. More than enough. That’s how much I’d had of Italy and its alleged charms.
I reached down, whipped out the Armani Hobo’s gun, pointed it at the bitchy old bat, and waited for her to crumple or run.
Whatever effect I expected it to have, it totally didn’t.
She scoffed. “Come on, do you think this is the first time someone has pulled a gun on me? My first husband used to hold a gun to my head while I juggled his balls in my mouth.”
Mario and I stared at her in horror.
“Go on, shoot me,” she went on. “It’s okay. Death is cheaper than divorce. When I die, Mario gets nothing. If we divorce he gets half.”
Shock buttered his face. “What do you mean I get nothing?”
“Okay, you get something.” She grinned. Gray teeth stuck up like little tombstones. Someone really loved the red vino and cigarettes. “An unmarked grave at the bottom of the sea. My family will make sure you disappear.”
“Seems fair,” I said.
“I think so, too. He’s a terrible husband. And I would know—I have had a few.”
“How many exactly?” I asked.
“Counting Mario? Seven. Wedding cake is my favorite dessert.”
Mario got all huffy. Poor widdle baby didn’t like the joke being on him.
“Are you going to shoot somebody,” he said to me, “or are you going to just stand there?”
“I’m thinking.” I chewed on my lip. “I’m supposed to kill you, but I’m not really a fan of shooting people for fun. So I’m trying to think of a good reason to do it.”
“I can give you many excellent reasons to shoot him,” his wife said.
“Shut up, my little cupcake, Mario said. “So are you an assassin or a thief?”
“Not even close. I’m just a bill collector.”
Mrs. Mario had something to say about that. “In Italy bill collectors double as assassins. That way we only have to pay one salary.”
“That makes good business sense,” I said. “But my job just involves calling people on the phone and asking them to pay their bills—or part of their bills.” I thought about the way I did it, compared to most of my coworkers. “Politely.”
The married couple gawked at me, aghast. Mrs. Mario said, “You ask them on the phone? Politely? You say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and they can hang up or lie?”
“Pretty much.”
They looked at each other and laughed like I was the best joke ever.
“Sometimes they pay up,” I said in my defense. At least I could sleep at night—or I used to. These days my nights were restless and dream-filled.
A voice wafted over the rocks. “Katerina? Just shoot him, okay?”
Mario whipped around. “Who is there?”
Shock squeezed the trigger for me. The gun went BANG. Mario yelped, then he fell to the ground, cradling his foot. “You shot off my toe!” he screamed. “Do you know what that will do to my balance?”
“She could shoot off the other one,” his wife said helpfully. “Then they will match.”
“It was an accident,” I wailed. “I was startled.”
The Armani Hobo leaped up onto the rocks. He was still in his long coat, looking like he’d spent the last year convening with the garbage that collects under an overpass. “Finish him,” he said in Greek.
Gun still in hand, I grabbed my head, trying to make sense of all the craziness. “Could we all just use one language? You’re all confusing me. I can’t think, and I really need to think.”
“What is there to think about?” Armani Hobo wanted to know. At least he wanted to know it in English now. “Just shoot him. Squeeze the little trigger until it goes BANG. You did it once, you can do it again.”
“Can’t I just maybe do his foot again?”
“No!” Mario howled. “It hurts.”
“Come on, Katerina. Kill him. He’s not even shit. He is shit’s shit. Maybe even shit’s shit’s shit. He’s the grandshit of shit.”
“You have toilet training issues, don’t you?” I commented.
The Armani Hobo shrugged. “My mother wasn’t really committed to parenting.” He nodded to Mario, who was rocking back and forth, still hugging the bloody appendage. His wife was watching over him, her expression clearly saying she wished she’d married a man instead of this child. “Killing him would make a lot of people happy. Happy people are grateful people, and in this business grateful people are good people to know.”
“I’d be grateful,” Mrs. Mario said. “My sons would be grateful. Of course I would have to find another husband ...” She batted her eyelashes at the ragamuffin on the rocks.
The Armani Hobo cut her off. “I have a wife.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Really?”
“Ten happy years.”
“Shoot him anyway,” the wife said.
“You will have to do it sooner or later,” the Armani Hobo said to me. “Look at your heritage, where you are going, what you are doing. You think you can step into Baboulas’s shoes after she’s gone without being able to shoot one worthless man?”
“That’s the thing—he’s not worthless to everyone. What about his father?”
The Armani Hobo laughed. “Aldo? Who do you think gave these orders?”
Mario looked stricken. “Papa?”
“Funny story ...” In a few short leaps the Armani Hobo left the rocks and landed beside me. He poked at Mario with his scuffed boot. “Aldo Fontana is
your father in name, but you are not his blood. He didn’t tell you?”
“It’s not true!”
“It’s true. Consider this him telling you that you are no longer welcome in his family.”
“Jeez,” I said. “That’s cold.”
“That’s the business,” the Armani Hobo said. He made a swishing motion with his hands. “Can we hurry this up?”
I looked down at my feet. After a brief interlude as visually challenged, I appreciated my eyesight more than ever. “I don’t want to wear Grandma’s shoes. Her feet are smaller than mine and we don’t share the same taste.”
“So who will take over the family business when she dies?”
“Aunt Rita? My uncle in Germany. Dad. Xander. Takis.” The last one was a terrifying thought. Takis was more of a doer, less of a thinker. He made a good fist. “Anybody except me.”
“Xander?” He snorted. “I could tell you a story or two about Xander.”
I turned to face him. “How exactly are you connected to my family?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Mario took a brief break from wailing. “He’s crazy like you. He has to be related.”
“Shut up,” we said in unison.
Mario held up his hands. “Okay. Okay.”
I waved the gun at the injured Italian. “Now that I think about it, that’s actually a pretty good guess. Are we related, Armani Hobo?”
Mrs. Mario raised two overly plucked brows.
“That’s not my real name,” the aforementioned hobo said.
“It fits,” she said, inspecting his outerwear. “That used to be a very nice coat.”
“You could tell us your real name, then we could call you that,” I said.
“He looks like a Rocco to me,” Mrs. Mario said. “Dirty Rocco.”
He did look dirty but he didn’t look like a Rocco, on account of how Rocco was an Italian name and this guy was definitely Greek. Dirty Not-Rocco looked at the gun in my hand. “You can be a good person or you can be a dead person,” he said. “And you have about ten seconds to choose.”
Alarmed, I glanced around for signs of impending death. We were on the beach. Options were limited unless this was a Jaws situation. “Why? What’s happening in ten seconds?”