Trueish Crime: A Kat Makris Greek Mafia Novel (23 page)

I
wasn’t
a Grandma-level baker, and my thumb was more black than green, so I took Grandma’s meetings under the umbrella near one of the courtyard’s fountains. If I was lucky the running water would make the other parties want to pee, so hopefully they’d take their advice and shoo, without expecting me to hurt, kill, or con anyone.

I had armed myself with my new phone and a
frappe
, so I’d have an excuse to run away and pee, or take an imaginary call, if they expected me to kill someone.

My goat was chilling out nearby, crunching on a pool noodle.

“Jesus,” I said. “Don’t eat the pool noodle! I don’t know if it’s non-toxic!” He sort of rolled his eyes and shifted his attention—and teeth—to a deck chair.

Goats are the ultimate omnivores. If they can ‘vore it they will.

Aunt Rita appeared in the archway with a sweaty man, his threadbare pants hitched under his belly. He was old enough to have fought in Vietnam—if the Vietnam War had been on Greece’s radar—but young enough to never have been promoted past corporal. And he had a nose that could open cans. He stopped when he saw me, muttered something under his mustache I couldn’t hear. He and my aunt exchanged words, some of them bordering on volatile, judging from the arm waving on both sides. Any more flapping and one of them was bound to take flight. Finally they seemed to reach an uncomfortable consensus. The man slouched toward me, following my aunt’s clicking heels.

“This is George the Sheep Lover,” she said.

“On account of how he …?”

“I love sheep,” George said, glowering.

“As friends or …?”

The glare didn’t dim. “Family.”

Which answered none of my questions, and also brought to mind some of the worst places I’d been on the Internet.

“What can I do for you, Kyrios George?”

His scowl softened at my respectful addition of the Greek “Mr.” to his name. How bad could I be if I understood respect?

“It is about my sheep.”

I indicated for him to sit, but he chose to stand, his hat in hands. All this standing weirded me out, so I stood, too. Maybe Grandma wouldn’t, but I wasn’t Grandma.

“What’s wrong with your sheep?”

“It’s that
malakas
Yiannis the Sheep Fucker! He stole one of my sheep!”

My mind was officially boggled … and seriously grossed out. “Do you have proof?”

“He has my sheep.”

“Did you ask him to return your sheep?”

“No, I did not think of that.”

“Maybe you should try—“ I started.

“Of course I asked for my sheep! That was sarcasm!”

Old George the Sheep Lover didn’t strike me as the sharpest balloon, so I’d failed to catch his meaning. Mental note to self: old Greek men are snarky.

“Okay, so what other steps have you taken to recoup your lost sheep?”

“Not lost. Stolen.”

“Your stolen sheep, then.”

“I stole it back.”

“And?”

“He took it again.”

“Did he trespass on your property? Because I’m sure that’s a crime.” I looked at my aunt. “Is that a crime here?”

“Sure it’s a crime. Is a crime the police care about? No. Not unless it’s something old.” She nodded at George. “He doesn’t count.”

“Hey,” George said. “There was no trespassing. He lured my sheep with magic.”

“Magic?” I leaned closer. “I suppose you’re a muggle?”

“What is she talking about?” he implored my aunt. “I don’t know what she is talking about. Where is Kyria Katerina? I want to speak with someone who can get my sheep back.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll help you. But if this Yiannis is doing magic …”

“He gave my sheep a love potion and whispered sweet words to seduce her away from my flock.”

“What kind of weirdo seduces a sheep?”

“It happens,” my aunt said. “All kinds in this world.”

Aunt Rita was a kind of her own, so I figured she knew what she was talking about.

What would any self-respecting problem-solver do? Grandma probably had her own way of dealing with this—club the thief, take back the slutty sheep—but I wasn’t her. I was doing to do this old school.

“Where does he live? I want to talk to him.”

“Good idea!” George boomed. “Break his legs.”

“No, the leg-breaking isn’t a metaphor. I’m going to
talk
to him.”

“With a gun or a knife?”

“Uh, with my mouth?”

“And you think I am strange.”

“I’m going to speak to the man. Using my mouth. And words. Maybe a few hand gestures, if necessary.”

He looked at me. My meaning wasn’t soaking in. The Family did crime. If there were words, eventually there would be bullets or lead pipes mashing kneecaps.

“Do I have time to talk with this guy?” I asked my aunt.

“There is someone else waiting, then you can go.”

I pointed to George. “You’re coming with me. But first could you wait? Maybe over there.”

He wandered off to another shaded table, muttering.

The next person to ask for counsel was a familiar face. Kyria Koufo wore the same pinched mouth, the same stormy eyes. She didn’t warm up as she approached. I could sympathize. Her husband had fallen into another woman’s vagina. My ex fell facedown, repeatedly, on a dick. Although, as far as I knew, Todd hadn’t made any plans to have me killed, unlike Mr. Koufos.

“Katerina is not back yet?” she demanded.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m the backup plan: Katerina 2.0.”

She stared at me, blatantly unamused. “My husband is still fooling around with that she-dog. I want to know when he will be forced to stop. How long before he has me killed, eh?”

Oh boy, she was still fixated on my push-her-down-the-stairs plan, which hadn’t been a plan at all. It hadn’t even been a serving suggestion. It was me mouthing off, being a goof.

“Have you considered marriage counseling?”

“We are Greek. We do not do counseling.”

I thought hard. “You go to church, don’t you?”

“Of course. I am Greek.”

“How about church counseling? Priests back home often guide couples through …” I hunted and pecked for an apt metaphor that had nothing to do with tossing people through windows, down stairs, or under buses. “… rocky waters. There’s no shame in needing some help from time to time.”

“You want me to speak with my priest,” she said flatly.

“It’s an idea.” And a good one, I thought.

“About our private business.”

I might have winced. Greeks didn’t really seem to have much in the way of private business. The priest probably knew what was going on—or not going on—in the Koufo bedroom better than she did. And he probably knew about the affair.

For a moment I wondered if Father Harry was her priest. Grandma had never mentioned whether Kyria Koufo was a local woman or not.

“I’m not sending someone to push her down the stairs,” I said. “That’s crazy.”

She reached out, slapped the back of my head. “Respect your elders.”

I had respect for my elders, provided they weren’t crazy. This one was crazy-cakes.

“No one is pushing anyone down any stairs while I’m in charge.”

She stared at me until I fizzled like burning celluloid film.

“We will see.”

Then she took to the skies on her broomstick.

Figuratively.

G
eorge the Sheep Lover
and I piled into Aunt Rita’s Pepto-mobile. Between the pink paint and the drop-top, I felt as if I were Barbie, with the wind tossing my hair like linguini.

Yes, the Beetle was a convertible, too, but this was
pink
.

Aunt Rita squealed out of the driveway and out onto the dirt road, blowing up a dust storm in my deadly entourage’s faces. Guilt tweaked my nose. Elias didn’t seem like a bad guy, and Donk was a kid who aspired to be an asshole when he grew up. The other two and Cleopatra, they could eat our dirt, as far as I was concerned. Aunt Rita honked the horn and we were gone.

Yiannis the Sheep Fucker lived in a hut on the mountain, at the end of a thin track of dubious stability. George the Sheep Lover lived in an adjacent hut. Both abodes were gray stone, cobbled together any which way and topped with red slate roofs. Between the two houses, a fence hugged the slope, but it was less wire and more air. Plenty of space for an ovine Casanova to lure through a sheep of easy virtue.

Yiannis was home. He was sitting on his porch rolling cigarettes. He had wild grey hair and a faded black shirt unbuttoned to his waist, revealing the wife-beater underneath.

He didn’t look up as I picked my way across the chewed terrain. “What do you want, girl?”

“I’m here about a stolen sheep.”

“There is no stolen sheep.”

I stepped aside, pointed to George the Sheep Lover, who was hovering near Aunt Rita’s car. “Did you or did you not take this man’s sheep?”

“You cannot stop true love!” he yelled. He flung the cigarettes in my face, dived through his front door, and slammed it shut.

“That went well,” I said to the others. “I like how mature you are about this,” I told the man behind the door.

Silence.

I swung around, hand shielding my eyes. The sheep were in a fenced paddock chowing on sparse grass. Most of the time Greek shepherds and goatherds had to keep their animals on the move because the grass was so pathetic mid-summer and winter, but today both men had their flocks penned. George had told me more than I’d ever wanted to know about sheep on the drive over.

“Which one is yours?” I asked him. Because to me they were all the same sheep. Dirty, white-ish wool; sweet, docile, not-too-bright faces.

George squinted at the livestock. “That one.”

Helpful guy, that George. “Which one?”

“Eh … one of them.”

“You don’t know which one of them is your sheep?”

“Of course I know! It is my sheep!”

Cripes. This was going to take some time. I could feel eternity butting into my day. “So, go get your sheep and take it home.”

He stomped down to the paddock, jumped the fence, waded through the sea of sheep. When I had decided we’d be here forever, he crouched down and cupped a ewe’s face and shouted, “I found her!”

“That is my sheep,” came a voice from the hut behind us. “We are in love.”

“You’re a sick man,” I said.

“You do not understand our love!”

He was wrong, I knew all about loving sheep … in souvlaki. Chunks of lamb smothered in
tzatziki
, topped with feta crumbles, onions, and tomatoes, all wrapped in a warm pita …

My stomach launched a protest. It was empty and it wasn’t going to stand for that nonsense.

“You want to grab a souvlaki when we’re done here?” I asked Aunt Rita.

“Sounds good,” she said. “You buying?”

“I’m buying.”

George scooped up his sheep—identical to the others—and deposited her on his side of the fence.

“And you call me sick,” he said. “Who eats sheep?”

“Who is eating sheep?” the man in the house called out.

“These two,” George said. “Can you believe it?”

The hut’s door flew open. Yiannis poked his head into the sunshine. “You are a monster. Only monsters eat sheep. Sheep are not for eating.”

“What do you do with your sheep if you don’t eat them?” He opened his mouth. My hand shot up to stop him. “Forget it,” I said. “I really don’t want to know. You two should form a club or something.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” George said. “We could have T-shirts.”

W
e left
the sickos to their sheep and got the souvlaki to go. I bought one extra.

“Hungry?” my aunt asked, eyeing the foil-wrapped roll.

“It’s for a friend.”

I had Aunt Rita drive us to Penka’s stoop. The Bulgarian was counting change into a well-heeled woman’s hand. The woman jumped when she saw us walking their way.

“Shame on you,” my aunt said. “Why you buy your pills from Baby Dimitri?”

“Your guys are charging too much,” the woman said. “These are tough times.”

Aunt Rita rolled her eyes at me. “Don’t listen to her, she’s a millionaire.”

“Yes, and I intend to stay one!” She stalked away in a swirl of skirts and the familiar tapping of high heels on concrete.

“What did she buy?” Aunt Rita asked Penka.

“Is confidential.”

I couldn’t stuff the laugh back down. “You know you’re a drug dealer, not a doctor, right?”

“Bah! What do I care about who buys what? Fentanyl. She buy Fentanyl.”

My aunt turned to me. “Now we have a problem because I know we did not raise our prices.”

“Baboulas is away so the cats are playing?”

“I don’t know what that means, but
I
think
they
think they can take advantage of Mama being locked up. Come, we have to go.”

I handed Penka the souvlaki. “Lots of tomato and cheese.”

“What is this for?”

“It’s either a bribe or a payment.”

“At least you are honest. For what?”

“I’m curious if you’ve seen a guy around with an eagle on his shoulder.”

“Look at the beach. Every day I see men with eagles on shoulder, on back, on chest, on legs. Everybody has tattoo. Is tacky.”

“I don’t have one.” My gaze slid to Aunt Rita, who had an anchor on her forearm. A remnant of her time in the army, back when she was a full-time man. She told me she’d joined because she dug sailors.

“Tattoo is not tacky. Is tacky that everybody has one. So common. Want to see mine?”

Before I could say “No” she’d bent over, flashing a mile of Cyrillic lettering, entwined with painful-looking thorns.

Aunt Rita winced.

I squinted at the letters. “What does it say?”

“Is Bulgarian saying. ‘Big leek.’ “

The sixth grade part of my brain translated the words into English, substituting that second ‘e’ for an ‘a.’ A tiny laugh bubbled out. I tried covering it up with a question. “What does it mean?”

“So what. Big deal. Nobody care. I have another one on the front.” She jerked down the neck of her tank top, nearly knocking our eyes out. “This one says, ‘My lighthouse hurts.’ “

“You have a lighthouse back in Bulgaria?”

“No. It means I do not give fuck.”

“The eagle,” I said, remembering why I’d brought Penka souvlaki.