Athenian Blues

by Pol Koutsakis

  I had no intention of making the same mistake. I’d concentrate on the money. I’d take it and forget the woman.

  Glancing back as I left, I saw the name of the restaurant. “La Luna”. “The Moon”. Glowing in neon. Anyone who wants to see the real moon grabs a snack and stretches out on the nearest patch of grass. Those who are not so keen on reality go and eat incomprehensible food at five-star restaurants on Sacred Way Street.

  I looked around. An unmarked police car was parked at the junction of Sacred Way and Constantinople. I’d seen it before. The driver got out and came towards me. Tall – almost as tall as myself, but much thinner. Thinning blond hair, slightly round-shouldered, he was wearing a white raincoat that was much too long for him.

  “Mr Gazis?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Costas Dragas. Athens Police. We’d like you to accompany us.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “Officers. Everywhere. You’re surrounded.”

  “Looks like I have no choice, then. Where are we going?”

  “Souvlaki?”

  “Just ate.”

  “When did that ever stop you?”

  “I’d prefer pizza.”

  “Since I’m hungrier shouldn’t I make the choice?”

  “OK. What’s with your raincoat?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Shabby, grubby, made for someone twice your size.”

  He looked down as if seeing it for the first time.

  “I’ll take it off,” he said.

  Costas Dragas, or “Drag” as everybody knew him at school. After only a short while in the force he had made such an impression that he could choose whatever division he wanted to work in. They really wanted him in Narcotics but he chose Homicide and was talked of as the best they’d ever had. And he’d stayed my best mate; the best cop and the best caretaker. Ironic.

  5

  You never forget the day you met your best friend.

  The three thugs who surrounded the boy and his sister were shaven-headed. They were all twice the size of the boy, who was tall but slight. The street was empty. Rarely does the temperature in Athens drop below freezing, but that winter was one of the coldest recorded. I had the silent streets pretty much to myself. A joy, to be one of the city’s shadows.

  “So, this your little sister?” one of them said to the boy, reaching out his hand to stroke her cheek. “Real cute.”

  The frightened girl flinched and hid behind her brother.

  “Shy, too,” said the one who seemed to be the leader. The other two stood around sniggering.

  “I like them shy. They scream more. Do you like to scream, cutie?”

  “Look at those juicy little lips, how they’re trembling!”

  “Get lost!” said the boy, who appeared to be about my age, early teens. The thugs fell about laughing.

  “The big man’s giving us orders!” the leader spluttered, slurring his words.

  “Get lost!” one of the others mimicked in a high voice.

  They guffawed.

  “I’m not going to tell you again,” said the boy.

  “Because I’m kind-hearted I’ll give you a choice,” the leader responded.

  They couldn’t see me standing at the corner of the street. Dressed all in black, I had melted into the night. The only dim light in the street was over the group. I put my hand into my pocket and gripped my army knife.

  “You can join in,” the leader said to the boy. “We’ll go off in our lorry over there, choose a nice place and, after we three are done fucking Cutie’s brains out, we’ll let you give it to her. You’ve dreamt about it, right? Me, in your place, with a sister like that, I’d think of nothing else. And afterwards, if you behave, we’ll let you go. We’ll even take you back home, so that we know where we can find you.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said one of the others. “Maybe Cutie will tell her mum what a good time she had and mum will want some too.”

  The boy just stared at them.

  “OK,” said the leader, signalling their attack.

  They weren’t quick enough. The boy leapt into action, punching one of them in the neck and toppling the other with a kick behind the knee. The first one was out cold and the second stayed where he was after a kick in the face. But the leader didn’t just stand there. He grabbed hold of the girl and put a gun to her head.

  “Well done, warrior boy! Who do you want to die first – you or her?”

  The boy, helpless, stared at him and the sobbing girl in his arms.

  “Please… please, we haven’t done anything to you,” she said in a voice that trembled almost as much as she did.

  “YOU OR HER?”

  “Me,” said the boy.

  “Good choice.”

  He turned the gun on the boy but let out a scream as I knifed him in the back. He tried to turn to look at me but I thrust the knife in deeper. He collapsed at my feet, the gun falling from his hands. I’d pierced his lungs. Blood gushed out of his mouth and nose. He struggled to breathe but all he could do was make a gurgling sound, the sound of someone drowning in his own blood.

  I turned to look at the boy and his sister. The girl was sobbing, her brother was trying to calm her. He stared at me, still on the alert.

  “It seemed like you needed some help,” I said.

  “Thanks.”

  He held out his hand. I held out mine.

  “Costas,” he said.

  “Stratos. Nice to meet you.”

  6

  Drag is the second person I would trust with my eyes closed. Those three punks, twenty years ago, brought us together and we became inseparable. We soon discovered that we lived close to each other and I changed schools to be with him. Teri then raised our little gang’s number by one. The alphabetical system for sorting pupils into classes helped us to spend every day together: Dragas, Gazis and Berikis, the second, third and fourth letters in the Greek alphabet. Lefteris Berikis – that was Teri, when she still wore a goatee.

  Drag has no problem with my profession. So long as I take care of people who deserve it, as he puts it, he has no reason to intervene. Though he often intervenes to protect me.

  Like my last job with Yevgeni, a fine Russian fellow who, with his gang of equally admirable associates, tried to break into the protection racket in the city centre. One of the bar owners refused to give way to their threats. Yevgeni and his mates turned up late at his bar and explained succinctly to the customers that they should leave, and held the owner, the barman and a waitress captive. Later, one of the men brought in the owner’s wife and five-year-old girl, bound with rope. They took turns raping them for three hours in front of him and then executed them, shooting the daughter in the head and clubbing the wife to death. Then they left the owner and his staff tied up and blew the place up. The other bar owners got together, approached and hired me, and now Yevgeni can’t rape and murder five-year-old girls any more. The evening I went to visit him, however, I nearly joined Yevgeni in his journey to the other world. Luckily, Drag, armed with a high-precision Harrington & Richardson rifle, was watching events from a building opposite the warehouse where I had arranged to meet Yevgeni. Drag put two bullets in the neck of one of Yevgeni’s men who had crept up on me unawares. Before leaving, I stood over Yevgeni’s dead body and shot his head to a pulp. Sometimes you can be excused for going over the top.

  Drag and I had arrived in Sacred Way Street much earlier than his colleagues. One of Drag’s snitches had tipped him off that a killer was posing as a refugee among the immigrants in the building that was to be evacuated. A killer who had escaped from a Syrian prison and had joined the jihadists. The Greek government was already receiving a lot of heat after the terrorist attack in Paris, where one of the jihadists was revealed to have entered Europe through Greece, as a refugee. Drag didn’t give a rat’s arse about any Greek government, but he didn’t like killers lurking around his city. So he went, and I joined him. We work together, backing each other in our jo
bs when we get the chance. Unfortunately, I can’t help Drag as much as I’d like – when the time comes for action, he is usually accompanied by hordes of cops. It’s not a great idea for me to mingle with them, especially since some of them have their sights fixed on being number one and are waiting for Drag to make the slightest slip-up, to bring him down. Luckily, my friend’s adventurous nature leads him to undertake some missions on his own. He’s earned that right with his successes.

  Drag kicked open the door of the apartment where the Syrian would be hiding, only to hear a baby’s cry. That could have been a ploy from the Syrian to get us to let down our guard. Drag went in, with me covering his back, but we found no Syrian killer. A gaunt, dark-skinned woman was lying at the far end of the room, breastfeeding a baby. Another baby, the twin of the first, was lying dead beside her. These little rooms were usually packed with refugees, but the babies and their mother were so sick that the other immigrants had allowed them their own space, to avoid infection and to let them die in peace.

  Drag took the mother and the baby to the hospital, gave his snitch a piece of his mind and returned to Sacred Way Street to wait for me to finish my meeting at the restaurant. As usual, he had a crime novel to read. He didn’t have much of a social life.

  I’m not sure why I asked for his help. How dangerous could a meeting with Aliki Stylianou be? I asked myself that question many times during the following, totally crazy days.

  7

  We had just got into Drag’s black Nissan when my mobile phone rang. The screen showed that Teri was calling. I put the phone to Drag’s ear.

  “Who is it?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Really pretty girl. Say something nice,” I whispered.

  “Hello,” he growled.

  When he realized it was Teri his face flushed with anger. They’d quarrelled over all kinds of little things ever since their schooldays. They quarrelled and made up so often that usually they didn’t know what state they were in and waited for the other’s reaction to determine how they should behave. Their latest row had happened two weeks earlier, during one of our regular poker games at Teri’s place. Drag had a terrible run and kept on losing all night until, just as we were reaching the end of the game, he found himself with four eights. He didn’t care about money, but he hated to lose. Teri had won most of his chips, but he staked about a third of what he had left to prevent her from suspecting he had a monster hand. I folded straight away. Teri squinted at Drag through half-closed eyes – we were all smashed – and smiled.

  “See you and raise you whatever you’ve got left,” she said.

  The best hand that had appeared all evening was a low full house. Drag thought with his four-of-a-kind he was king. He pushed the rest of his chips to the centre of the table, turned over his cards with a howl of victory and kicked away his chair to celebrate.

  “Mmm… very good. But not good enough,” Teri said, revealing four nines.

  Drag just stood there, gobsmacked. Slowly, he managed to locate his chair and lower himself into it, without once taking his eyes off the cards.

  If the scene had ended there everything would have been alright, but it didn’t. Many things have changed about Teri but not the competitive characteristic she has had in common with Drag since childhood. She let out a howl of her own, then showed off by turning a double somersault, pulled up her blouse, whipped off her bra and revealed her newly acquired knockers. She wiggled them in front of Drag, who, despite the many things he has seen, remains deeply conservative. In a state of shock, he got up and left without saying another word. He hadn’t spoken to Teri for two weeks. In a way, I understood him. However much you love a person, as we did Teri, however much you know, as we did, growing up with her, that all her characteristics are female and that her birth as a boy was one of nature’s mistakes, there is a limit to what you can accept. Not that it is easy to explain that to her. Even after Drag had stormed out that night, all Teri could say, still showing off her breasts, was, “What’s got into him? Don’t tell me they’re not convincing or I’ll lie down and die.”

  I was already grinning in expectation of an outburst from Drag when his expression changed. Something was going on. He handed me the phone and accelerated away. By the time Teri had explained, we had already reached the top of Achilles Street, turned right and were heading full speed towards Karaiskaki Square.

  8

  The square was so quiet there was no need for him to slow down. Outside a high-class clothes shop with a green neon sign I caught sight of two homeless people, a man and a woman, spreading their blankets next to each other. All their possessions were next to them in two black rubbish bags. You rarely see two homeless people together, they’re usually solitary and like to monopolize their little corners and benches. Once I had found my mum in that state. Alone. All her possessions stuffed into one of my old schoolbags.

  We soon found ourselves at the crossroads between Favierou and Mayer. The police station was less than three minutes away but Drag was the only policeman around and he was officially off-duty.

  Teri had given Drag accurate directions. Aliki’s 4x4, a brand-new silver BMW X5, was stationed diagonally in the middle of the crossroads. It was peppered with bullet holes. The only living thing around was a large stray dog, looking for scraps. A shower of bullets has a tendency to empty places. Especially in Athens, the Balkan centre of the Kalashnikov trade. The guns were favoured by foreigners working for Greek gangsters, but anyone can become a victim in this city.

  It wasn’t really my business to be there with Drag. I wasn’t under any obligation, I hadn’t decided whether or not to take the contract and I hadn’t received any money. If a contract is cancelled, I do what every other worker does – go and look for another job. The employer’s problems are really no business of mine. I would help Drag, if he needed me. And I’d get Aliki Stylianou out of my mind.

  Drag parked about fifty feet from the BMW and whipped out a Glock 26. He didn’t like heavy weapons, unlike me who can’t take a step without my favourite Sig Sauer P226.40 S&W when I’m on the job. When you’re not an expert marksman and your hands are too big for most firearms, you need the best gun to ensure the job will get done, even if you don’t hit the bullseye. Drag, on the contrary, never misses. Except once. When Teri was still working the streets, Ayis, a young pimp, and two of his bouncer friends, had tried to hustle her into giving him a cut of her takings. Some girls who had refused ended up in hospital. As Teri was one against three, she managed to restrain herself and asked us to intervene. Drag had suggested scaring off Ayis, but the bullet he claimed was meant to go wide ended up in Ayis’ head. Drag still says he missed. I pretend to believe him.

  I stayed behind Drag to cover him, but I was ready to disappear if a cop who was actually on duty suddenly showed up. I’ve never been arrested but there was no reason to get involved in explanations of who I was and what I was doing there.

  Drag opened the 4×4’s door on the driver’s side. I saw him pick up a woman’s body, lay it gently on the pavement and bend over it.

  Eyes like the sea.

  He’s often told me that he’d kill me if he thought I was going to leave him. And he’ll find a way to cover it up.

  The scent of jasmine.

  Dimples.

  A little black bag with huge gold lettering.

  I walked towards Drag. He was feeling her neck for a sign of a pulse, but we both knew it was useless. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t.

  She was very beautiful, even in death. Her face was pale, as though she was asleep. There was a small black hole at the base of her neck. Her killers weren’t satisfied with the Kalashnikov; they wanted to make sure with another shot at closer range.

  A police siren made me straighten up. Drag and I exchanged confused looks.

  Because the body at our feet wasn’t Aliki Stylianou.

  9

  Every man meets three important women in his life, and I learnt from a film how to know if you’d just
met one of them.

  It was A Bronx Tale, directed by Robert De Niro. You have a date with a girl. You park your car, get out, lock it and go off to fetch her. When you bring her back to the car you open her door and let her in. Then you walk around and look through the rear window. If she doesn’t lean over to unlock your door you should dump her fast, however much you fancy her. If she does open it, she could be the woman of your life.

  It works. I know, because I tried it when I was seventeen.

  Maria Armyrou came to our school when we were in sixth form. Morning assembly was over and there was a lot of noise as we waited for our first lesson. It was philosophy, with a sweet old man who often dozed off and only really got our attention when he came up close to our desks stinking of garlic. When Maria appeared – she’d transferred from her school in Rhodes, where her father was a tax collector – the noise faded to a hush. A hush of desire from the boys. A hush of jealousy from the girls. Over the next two years Maria was lusted after by every boy in the area, including Drag and Teri, who, though she has a clear preference for men, never says no to a beautiful woman.

  Maria Armyrou was chestnut blond, with deep green eyes, sensual lips and a toned body that was the result of exercise she took for its own sake, as competitiveness bored her. She could translate Ancient Greek, solve unbelievably difficult geometry problems, and hold her own in rough football games with boys twice her size, scoring from every position with her amazing left foot. She was the best student when she could be bothered, but when she wasn’t she played truant.

  Maria Armyrou leant over and unlocked the driver’s door for me. Without having seen the film. She’s the third person, after Teri and Drag, who I would trust my life with. She’s also the only important woman in my life, as I’m still waiting for the other two.

  Leaving Stylianou’s bullet-riddled car I went straight to Maria’s. We’re neighbours. The place I live in, a flat in Psychiko, belongs to her. Her and her husband.