More sirens in the distance now: their chorus sounding almost like the city warned of some great, natural disaster to come, and the men fought on the sidewalk, fewer faces looking through windows, now that the kid got shot down, and no one else on the street that wasn’t a body...
Maniotis thumbed Mesrine’s eye, an admittedly cheap shot, but it was so he could get the gun strap around his neck to choke him. Mesrine kicked against the side of the car with both legs. Maniotis went with the momentum and spun, cramming his fingers into Mesrine’s mouth and pulling him along by the jaw. Maniotis slammed the back of his head into one of the lower windows of the building, webbing it. By now the fight had gone on too long and it was either the cops or pending exhaustion or a vital blood-letting strike that was going to end it. And from the periphery, Mesrine glimpsed his hair’s now unkempt position and got real mad, channeling a second wind. Maniotis hit. Mesrine blocked and hit. Maniotis swung the rifle but Mesrine stomped it downward, scraping concrete. Maniotis underarmed him, palm to chin, causing him to bite shut, severing the tip of Mesrine’s tongue. He tasted blood and spit. Wrangled Maniotis into a headlock and when he couldn’t quite manage the grip to twist hard, he kissed him on the cheek, leaving blood lips. He whispered “I like your outfit.”
Maniotis fireman’s lifted him, flipping Mesrine onto the pavement. Mesrine grunted, wind knocked out of him. Maniotis stomped, but Mesrine rolled out of the way and kipped up. Grinning like a shithead, he pulled the 9mm now. Maniotis froze up immediately, knowing he was toast.
Mesrine pulled the trigger—misfire.
Hasrad had sold him trash and if he survived this, he swore he would correct that fault.
Mesrine dropped the pistol and they both sprinted opposite toward the bodies of the police officers. Maniotis Luke Duke slid over the hood of a blue-striped Citroën and fell on the other side, next to one of the cops, who was apparently still breathing, and the cop was hurt bad, choking on blood, as the rest seemingly pooled around him. Crouched behind the police motorcycle, Mesrine was scrambling to free an MP5 from a dead cop. It’d already dawned on him that this had escalated beyond his bid. He yanked the strap free around the cop’s neck and sprayed in the direction of the cars, more suppressive than anything, already calculating a way out. Mesrine fired again, trying to press his hair back into place with his free hand. He gauged the distance to the end of the block and thought he could make it. He took off sprinting. Maniotis claimed the dying cop’s holstered Ruger and checked it: all six loaded. He shared a round and ran down the street in pursuit.
“I started putting together my treatment.”
“Yeah?” Takis unlocked the shutter, pulled it up. Karras wasn’t anywhere to be found and nothing had been done at the bar. He unlocked the front door and they went in, turning on lights.
“Well, just some sketches.”
“Let me see it.”
Aesop handed him the steno book.
first day on the job:
fade in. closest surrounding buildings have their faces ashed. scorch marks. glass is missing in some of the windows. some residents peering out. the dust is unsettled. onlookers at the curb staring at the destruction, gossiping. police holding a perimeter, barring local media already turning up in vans. one reporter calls them “fascists” and a cop slaps the microphone from his hand. more squad cars pulling up. flashing lights. the explosion wrecked the street bad. enter our heroes.
det. john stamos: goddamn shame. decent neighborhood and all.
his partner, det. 0241: I don’t detect anything with my robot eyes.
0241 turns in place at angles. he scans up and down the building.
stamos: let’s just be thorough ok rookie?
0241 clicks his tongue—
“Wait, wait, wait. John Stamos? Really?”
“Placeholder name. He’s the first famous Greek that came to mind.”
“Ante, re—no Telly? He was motherfucking Kojak.”
“. . . I can’t believe I forgot Telly.”
“Do you know how to open the bar?”
“Nope.”
“Me either. Damn.”
“If he doesn’t show, I’m going to go to his house and get him.”
“Why are you drawing snakes all over my book?”
“Huh? Oh. Sorry.”
Takis grimacing, like a migraine was hitting.
“You alright, man?”
“Can you give him another call. I need to go for a walk and clear my head. That stuff you gave me earlier has me a little dizzy.”
“He better show up soon or I’m going to kick the shit out of him.”
“He’ll show.”
“I don’t even know what to say if the taxman stops by.”
“We won’t get audited today, relax.”
The only kiosk they could find that still had any beer was on the far end of Dionysiou Areopagitou, the pedestrian walkway that connected some of the older neighborhoods of the city. They carried the bag of cans (as well as an Amita energy bar and oregano potato chips, both of which Pallas had been fiending for) up the Areopagus to catch a buzz and talk everything out and watch the sunset.
Reaching the top of the hill, they found themselves surrounded by a non-threatening mix of tourists, teenagers, couples and a few lone people. A young person with a guitar was playing a Neil Young track on an acoustic guitar for his friends, sounding pretty good. Pallas packed and lit. Junesong refused the pass, nodded up.
Evening arrived in a haze, like a fine dust being blown over the sky.
Junesong cracked the tabs on two Alfas and handed one over.
“Listen, Mara . . . I’m glad you came.” Pallas reached at her hand.
Junesong pulled away.
“Oh . . .”
A stiff wind ruffled the bag and for a while they sat not talking. Pallas crunching chips.
Then, almost dully, Junesong resumed. “So who gets the zine?”
“I hadn’t actually thought of that.”
“We don’t even have a name for it yet.”
“Yeah.”
“How was work?”
Junesong shrugged. Pallas hmphed.
“Do you have a cigarette?”
“Sure.” Pallas took one from the pack and handed it over. Lit it.
“So.”
“So . . .”
“It’s not as simple as an apology.”
“I still want to.”
Junesong sipped. “I always forget how pretty it can get on the rocks.”
“You can almost hear the protest from here.”
“Lots of horns and sirens tonight.” Shadows across the agora began shifting below them, gradually dissolving beneath saturated twilight. Junesong watched a man trying to sell a collapsible chain of postcards. She imagined trying to sell postcards, saying shit like “this is a good price” and “look at these beautiful scenes” and “you really cannot beat scenes like this especially for this price”—the worst would be to keep doing it. Junesong knew right then she had it easy no matter how desperate things sometimes appeared. It was crowded on the rocks, but neither of them minded.
For Pallas, it felt okay to talk as equals, for once with both their defenses up.
Junesong fingered the knife in her purse and thought Maybe. She imagined the dog she’d seen in the courtyard at work. Imagined poking her (ex-?)girlfriend’s head with a stick just to see what happened. Thinking of a head as a piñata filled with blood and brains. “I could do that.”
“Do what?”
“Nothing.” Her brain spread across the asphalt. Someone slipping in it, falling. Junesong crushed the can in her hand then tossed it and opened another. “I was just remembering something that happened at work.”
“Can I at least stay over? You know, until I get sorted.”
“Yeah.” Junesong crushed an empty can in her hands and threw it over the side, listening to the clatter of its bounce. “I guess so. I guess you can.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You keep saying that.”
“I am.”
“Good.”
Pallas set her empty beside her, opened two more from the bag.
Junesong sighed. “I’m tired of beer.”
They drank.
An eerie silence had now overtaken the scene—there were small pockets of smoke or dust dissipating beneath the light, like an afternoon fog. A helicopter flew past, shining a spotlight over the street. No way of telling if this was a news crew or the police or an invasion. The man that was leaning against the wall had been shot. This was because of her, she was realizing. Manioti’s palms ached, scraped raw from falling. Everything in her felt displaced and she couldn’t think of what to do. His vomiting had quickly turned to empty heaving. The crowd again emerged onto the street, gathered around the dead bodies, now that the assault had shifted elsewhere, articulating theories on what they just saw or heard. None of the neighbors had seemed to recognize her yet. Manioti could hear the sirens but they didn’t seem to be getting any closer. Should she call an ambulance? She wasn’t even sure if the man could understand her, he kept muttering something, the same few words over and over. Maybe she wasn’t thinking clearly, or just didn’t care, but she ignored his bleeding and looked down the street, across the rows of cars, and saw what looked like her father’s Jaguar the next block over, parked hastily, half on the curb, and it seemed like a good idea to see if it was unlocked.
“Can you walk?” The vagrant didn’t say anything, looking through her like she was a ghost.
Manioti pulled the arm on his good side over her shoulders and raised up under him and helped him walk. Neither saying anything now. When they reached the car, it wasn’t only unlocked, the keys were still in the ignition; it was running. She helped him into the backseat and he was still bleeding bad and it didn’t dawn on her to get him to apply pressure to the wound or to apply any pressure herself. She put the car in drive and she wasn’t sure where she was going or if she would even get there. The vagrant’s smell didn’t hit her until then.
Already elsewhere, drawing distance on foot from where the fight started, they weaved through rows of slow moving vehicles in traffic, zigzagging, guns drawn, but neither screaming off a shot just yet. Mesrine saw over his shoulder how the Greek was actually gaining on him, real fast for the big motherfucker he was. Horns blaring. He finally sprayed behind him, still running, until the magazine emptied. He ditched the submachine gun and it skidded heavily across the blacktop, underneath one of the cars. Up ahead there was a crowd emerging from the other side of the flea market. His veins pumping something like acetone and fire. He ran harder, knowing he would break away cleanly if he could just—
Maniotis watched him cross the road and stopped. Found his shot and took it. There was a short silence from the crowd and the cars, reacting to the exchange. Mesrine fell, pain surging atomic through his leg. He willed himself up and looked back. Maniotis approaching, gun trained. He tried to keep going as best he could, weaving (limping) at random intervals, until he found the edge of the shifting, panicked crowd and entered it, a jagged line of blood trailing behind. People were shouting. Maniotis missed the next shot and wanted a third, but by then, the bastard was too close to people, disappearing into the streets of the market.
Varia could see police motorcycles, lights on, weaving past them on the other side of the road, back toward where they’d come. Traffic was stop and go. “I’ll take you to the hospital.”
“Please.” Varia coughed. “No . . . no hospital.”
“. . .”
Maniotis wandered through the flea market, pushing past tourists and merchants. He couldn’t see the professional anymore. He was exhausted. Lungs burning, every breath felt ineffectual. There were so many people it was hard to see in front of him, let alone up ahead. He ducked out from odos Adrianou onto a less populated side street.
He made fists, cracking his knuckles. Walking fast. “Goddamnit.” He’s gotten away.
Except, then Maniotis saw him back on the main road, circling back and headed toward the metro station. He raised the pistol again and took aim.
“I’ll be damned. That motherfucker.” Back in control.
Varia fading, barely conscious. “What are you—?”
Mesrine turned at the sight of headlights in his periphery.
Before he knew it, he was dreaming of Her Face.
Maniotis watched the Jaguar hit him, the professional rolling over the hood, landing left of the car. His sister got out and kicked the unconscious man in the face. Maniotis ran to her, told her to calm down and popped the trunk. He dragged the man over to the back of the car and loaded him in the trunk, held his hand over the professional’s mouth and nose until he didn’t have to, then shut the lid. He looked in the car, saw a vagrant bleeding all over the backseat and mouthed “What the fuck?” Elektra told him the man needed their help.
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
There would be time to mourn their mother later. Aris Maniotis was already trying to figure a cover story for his sister (he didn’t expect to emerge from this unscathed): maybe men out for revenge or posturing on their father, whose legacy wasn’t exactly a secret now—didn’t matter if it flew, just if it was plausible. The story could be as simple as saying that Elektra and her mother were at the wrong place, wrong time. They parked the car cautiously distant from Dive Bar, which, all things considered, might as well have been the only friendly place on the planet if Karras was there. There wasn’t time for anything else, if there was any time at all. They carried the vagrant the rest of the way, hating every moment. Elektra trying not to breathe. “He smells so bad. I can’t, I just can’t.”
“This is all you. I’d just as soon drop him here and go ho—” He trailed off.
“Let’s just get him inside somewhere.” Aris pried open the front door and they dragged the vagrant in and set him on a bench parallel to the bar. The bottom corner of the vagrant’s shirt now a different color.
“Do you know his name?”
“Why would I know his name?”
“I don’t know. He’s your new buddy.”
“Is this really the time? He could be dying.”
“Lots of people die. I . . .” Aris heard movement downstairs. Raised a finger to his mouth. Elektra affirmed. The cellar door came open very suddenly and Aris blindsided Aesop Damianos, breaking a bottle of sambuca down to its shoulder, and holding it to his neck. He delicately removed the pistol from the hem of Aesop’s pants.
Aesop recognizing him, not struggling. “You’re supposed—”
Aris shrugged. “Yeah. I’m not.”
He kicked the back of Aesop’s knee, dropping him to a prayer stance. Twisting his wrist. He asked Aesop “So, friend, where’s Ektoras?”
“Easy, easy . . . he ain’t been here all day.”
Aris applying pressure. “How long since you last saw him?”
Aesop howled. “. . . last, last . . . night.” He let go and Aesop slumped down, moaning and holding his arm. Elektra rooting through the bar for a first-aid kit. Maniotis tied Aesop to a chair with a roll of duct tape he found behind the bar. He told his sister to cut open the vagrant’s shirt. He was no stranger to this part. He examined it—“he’ll survive”—and cleaned and dressed it the best he could with what they found.
Varia was in a tub, soaking. His clothes in a pile on the floor. His body so filthy he had drained and refilled the water twice. He felt fresher, but still needed the soak. He set a damp towel over his face and found its heat pleasant, found himself giving in to its warmth. Murmuring: It’s okay, it’s okay, everything . . . He raised his hand and listened to the slow of water dripping, rippling across the surface of the bathwater, rippling through time itself. Varia doing his best to empty his head. It felt unusual to be a man again, a real person, if only this instant. When he stood and drained the tub a third time, it looked like someone had poured coffee grounds into the bath, all the filth. When would the dirt stop coming?
He couldn’t recall the last good bath he’d ever had. He rinsed again and filled the bath again. Why wasn’t he clean yet? Water already turning murky, filling with flakes. Varia stood again and inspected himself in the mirror. Saw the scars. Where he was shot when he served—such an old wound now—didn’t seem much more healed than the day it finally closed. A new wound he had in his side, just below it, still raw and open. No blood flowing from it. Varia inspected his hands; they had deeply pruned. He smelled them, soap and residual grease. Mm. He sprayed the tub with the showerhead and then hosed himself off again and stepped out. A long line of filth still at the bottom of the tub. He wished for amnesia, at least partial—he wanted to hold onto the sweet recoveries, the little moments Svetlana Popescu had encouraged him, held him up and pushed him to do more. Wanted that for as long as he could have it, forever, if it lasted. He just wished . . . it could hurt less somehow. He balled up his clothes and shoved them into a plastic bag. He put on a fresh version of the same outfit and instantly watched it soak through with his filth. He watched the mirror, looking for something in his reflection; didn’t find it. Varia left the washroom. The house looked like the one he’d had outside the city. He cautiously approached the kitchen, where his uncle sat. At the opposite end of the table sat his family. They were all still dead, had scars from the ways they’d died. But that was okay. Tiberiu Varia cleaning his rifle, the exposed wound at the top of his skull, marking the exit. He sat down in an empty seat with a plate in front of it. Looked down at the meat on the plate and started to eat it. He watched his uncle and hoped for any kind of recognition of the man he’d become. But Tiberiu didn’t look up. Vacant or pretending to be. Busy disassembling the bolt-action rifle. Varia started to eat and the rest of the family watched him. His wife’s mouth wasn’t moving, but she was telling him that they’d see each other again. Varia asked whether that meant he was dying. The children blinked “Not yet.” The meat tasted better than anything he had eaten in years, easily. Better than the few deli sandwiches or occasional pitas he’d managed to scavenge or beg from the street. The best since his wife’s own home-cooked dinners. He wanted to cry, but held it back and kept eating. It surprised him that he remembered how to hold a knife and fork, right-handed. The old habits still in him. What else was still in him? Varia did his best to chew with his mouth shut, even though he didn’t think his manners mattered here. He respected ghosts. The rifle clicking together, loud, like a thunderclap. His uncle’s hands trembling as he worked. Lips moving, maybe whispering to the rifle or to Varia or probably no one, inaudible, lost in a message or delivering himself from it. Varia chewing.
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