Disorganized Crime Page 17

  Wouldn't he?

  And what about the guys who hauled him out of his house? That was an unnecessary bit of theater, if he was faking. If Reggie Tubbs was telling the truth.

  "Why would he do that?"

  He looked past me to Xander, who was still playing big, bad beefcake. "Maybe he knew the Baboulas was coming for him. Say, can I get a ride?"

  Cookie stared at Xander's car. "I don't know," he said. "It doesn't look safe."

  It did look bad. "It's fine, and Xander hardly speeds at all."

  "What happened to my car?"

  I wasn't all that familiar with the landscape, but I knew there wasn't a cliff or lake handy, so wherever his car was it was in one piece-ish. If it was around here.

  "Maybe there wasn't one."

  "My sister never forgets."

  "Maybe this time she did. Or she was busy. Where are we taking you?"

  His eyes went shifty, darting from side to side. "Why?"

  "How can we give you a ride if we don't know where to go?"

  "Oh." That seemed to placate him. "To the Volos harbor."

  We got in. I aimed for the front seat, but somehow wound up in the back again. Xander, that rat, let Cookie steal the shotgun position.

  "For the record, I hate you," I said, shooting him my dirtiest look. Unfortunately, the whole nighttime thing meant it was wasted. Still, I'm pretty sure I caught a glimpse of white teeth in the rearview mirror. Jerk.

  He revved the engine and the car peeled away from the curb. Cookie held onto the sides of his seat.

  Now that I was thinking about it, Xander did me a favor shoving me in the backseat. All that wind rushing in the window, he was stopping it with his face and big shoulders.

  The car slid through the night. Before long, we reached civilization, in the shape of streetlights and dead-eyed commercial buildings. The city had packed up most of its toys for the night, but there were still a few players playing. Drunks, partygoers, club-hoppers, drug dealers, hookers hooting on the corners. We stopped at an intersection and one of them ambled over. Her wardrobe embraced the less is less philosophy, her jewelry the more is more. Lots of gold, too many sequins, a ton of rhinestones, a minimal amount of spandex.

  "You looking for a date, baby?" She stuck her head in the window. All these broken windows and we were still treated to a cloud of Poison. Then she caught sight of Xander and Cookie in the front seats. "Never mind," she said, backpedaling so fast her clear heels almost left skid marks on the pavement.

  "Thanks for asking anyway," I called out, waving.

  The light turned green. Xander punched the gas.

  I unclipped my belt, scooted to the center, stuck my head between the front seats. "You guys know her?"

  Xander fiddled with the sound system. Suddenly his awful music was all in the back with me.

  "Not cool," I said, diving forward. He caught me with a shovel-sized hand, pushed me back into place. "Very not cool."

  "That corner … she is one of Baby Dimitri's," Cookie said, responding to my question.

  "Baby Dimitri's got sex workers?" I tilted my head. "Does Grandma have sex workers?"

  Xander shook his head. For him, that was a monumental leap in communication.

  "No," Cookie said. "She has always refused to exploit women."

  "Good for her." I flopped back in the seat. At least my family wasn't completely corrupt. I hunted around, found another question. "What was my father like when he was a boy?"

  "A monster. We both were. But he had a good heart, for a piece of shit."

  Nice to know. "Where do you go, you know, when you fake death?"

  "Mykonos," he said. "Tits and balls everywhere. If you can't find it in Mykonos it doesn't exist."

  That's what I'd heard.

  We stopped seaside, not far from where his boat was apparently moored. Xander wasn't content to dump Cookie at the side of the road, so we escorted him along the dark dock.

  "Huh." Cookie scratched his head. "It's not here."

  Sure enough, there was a big gaping boat hole where his boat was supposed to be.

  "Maybe a friend borrowed it?" I suggested.

  "Nobody knows I have this boat."

  "Maybe a stranger borrowed it. A tourist?" I fished around for ideas, but they sucked. I sounded lame even to myself. "Maybe it's like a car: you parked it somewhere else but forgot?"

  I trotted to the end of the concrete jetty, no a clue what I was looking for. One boat was pretty much like another to me.

  "Whoa!" I said, noticing something bright in the distance. "Somebody's having a party out there. Pretty. The've got fireworks."

  The men jogged over to where I was standing, hand shielding my eyes. The harder I squinted, the more the lights came into focus. Those lights? Yeah, they weren't lights.

  "My mistake," I said. "It's a fire. A big boat bonfire."

  We all turned and looked at the empty spot where the boat was supposed to be.

  "I bet that's not your boat," I said, helpfully.

  "Gamo ti putana," Cookie swore. "That was my favorite boat."

  "You have other boats?"

  He nodded to a small skyscraper hulking in the harbor. It was red and white and stained with rust. A tugboat was slowly dragging it back out to sea.

  "Only ships. That is mine, but it's going to Italy."

  "It's not too late," I said. "You could pretend to be a sailor and they could drop you off in Mykonos."

  The tugboat turned back toward dry land. We stood there watching the rust bucket sail away.

  "Okay, now it's too late," I said.

  Cookie's arms flopped at his side. "Now what am I going to do?"

  "Go home?"

  "I can't go home. Aspasia will be furious if I cut into her official mourning period. She enjoys playing the grieving sister."

  So I'd noticed. "I guess you could come home with us."

  He looked hopeful. "Could I?"

  "I'm sure Grandma would be okay with it. The compound is huge."

  Behind him, Xander was wearing an expression that said the chances of Grandma being cool with a rival for a houseguest—even if he was her son's former best friend—were zero.

  "Well," Cookie said, glancing mournfully at the still-burning boat. "I guess I could—at least until I get another boat."

  Grandma's face was set firmly to sourpuss. "I cannot believe you would bring that man here without my permission."

  We'd rocked up to the compound with our guest, and Grandma was there waiting. She played the gracious host, directing Cookie to the room where he used to stay when he slept over in the old days. When he was safely ensconced in his room, she ordered two of the cousins to guard the room. If he coughed, if he farted, she wanted to know about it immediately.

  Then she had turned her attention to me.

  Now we were in her kitchen. I was at the table, one leg tucked under my butt, while she hunched over the single gas burner she used for making coffee. Tonight hot chocolate was on the menu. She poured the steaming chocolate and milk into a mug and sat it front of me.

  If she was trying to score brownie points she was kind of succeeding. It was almost like she was a real grandmother.

  "He had nowhere else to go," I said. "What were we supposed to do, leave him on the dock?"

  "Much better idea. You should have done that. Even better, push him into the sea and let the fishes have him. Oh well," she said. "I will kill him in the morning."

  "What? Xander and I went to a lot of trouble bringing him back here!" Okay, not really, but sometimes during an argument you have to exaggerate. A man's life was on the line.

  She groaned and lowered herself into the chair across from me.

  "He fucked me in the kolos on a business deal a few years ago. Because I was his best friend's mother, he mistook me for a pousti. I have been biding my time." She took in the horror on my face. "Do not worry, Katerina. That is business and he knows it. And the timing is very good. Everybody already thinks he is dead. Only Aspa
sia knows he is not, and I do not think she will mind too much if I kill him. She will get his business and be able play the grieving sister for the rest of her life."

  She made it seem almost reasonable.

  "But he's Dad's best friend."

  "There are no friends in this business. Only alliances; and they are made and broken all the time."

  "Sounds like politics."

  "It is politics—but more civilized."

  That was debatable, but I wasn't in a debating mood.

  "I'm going to bed," I said. "I'm beat. Don't kill him before I get up, okay?"

  She nudged the warm milk toward me. "Drink. I made it for you. The least you can do is drink it or I will be very offended."

  I doubted that, but with me being half Greek she'd managed to tug the strings that pulled on my conscience's guilt center. I picked up the mug and sipped.

  "Why did you send us to the cemetery?"

  "It was not my idea. Xander wanted to take you. He said you should have the opportunity to talk to Cookie about your father, in case maybe he knows something."

  "Xander said all that?" I downed the rest of the chocolate milk in one long, hot swallow. "Is it just me or does Greek milk taste weird?"

  "Not all milk, just that one cup."

  I narrowed my eyes. "Why?"

  "I am going to miss you," she said, reaching across the table for my hand. "You are my only granddaughter, and I wish I could keep you here with your family forever. But you have to go."

  "Help."

  My heartbeat went wonky. The room was fuzzing up. There was a metallic taste in my mouth like I'd been sucking on a spoon. Behind Grandma, the Grim Reaper was looking grim. Probably that's how he got his name. Also, he had Xander's face.

  Oh my God, my own grandmother was killing me! Grandmas didn't do murder—not on their grandkids.

  Except murder was kind of what my grandmother did. Probably poison was a business expense, tax deductible.

  Chapter 12

  There was a light at the end of the tunnel, but Mom wasn't there. Takis was, though. And oddly enough, there was no handbasket in sight. If I was going to hell it was in my bed with my pillow—the American one.

  Death was all so confusing. Which was weird. I'd figured it was the great simplifier.

  "I don't want to go to hell," I mumbled. Someone had stuffed my dead mouth with cotton and aluminum nails. So far this hell gig tasted awful. And it could only get worse. I'd heard the jokes, seen the artistic depictions. There was going to be fire or ice or a river of crap. Probably all three.

  "Hey, Katerina, your milk is bad. Is it supposed to have chunks?"

  I opened one eye again. "Was that Stavros?"

  "He's making coffee," Takis said.

  "In hell?"

  "No, in your kitchen."

  "My kitchen?" I sat up. "I'm not dead?"

  His face contorted into a confused shape. "Why would you be dead?"

  "Because Grandma poisoned me?"

  Unless the rules had changed, poison and death generally went together, otherwise it wouldn't be poison.

  He laughed. "Hey, Stavros! Katerina thinks Baboulas poisoned her!"

  Laughter wafted into my bedroom all the way from the kitchen.

  "Relax, you're not dead," he assured me. "But we had to get you home somehow, so she drugged you."

  I flopped back down, let the familiar mattress and bedding hug me. "Drugged me. Great."

  "At least she didn't poison you."

  "Heh," I said into my pillow. "I might have overreacted."

  Reality swam in, threw a wet blanket over my face and chest. I was home but home wasn't where I needed to be right now.

  Stavros wandered into my room, steaming coffee mug in his hand. The coffee was, blissfully, for me. No milk but there was plenty of sugar.

  "Takis wanted to dump you here and leave, but you are family. You cannot dump family."

  Takis spluttered. "That's not what I said."

  "Yes, you—"

  "Okay, okay." He held up his hands. "Maybe I said it—who remembers?"

  "I remember—" Stavros started.

  "You want Baboulas to kill us? Keep talking." He smacked the bed, making the bedcovers jump. "We have to go."

  I kicked aside the covers, discovered I was fully dressed, boots and all. Ready for action. But first I had to pee and brush my teeth. The coffee I could take to-go.

  "Let's do it," I said.

  Takis wagged a finger. "No, no, no. Not you. Just me and the idiot."

  "The idiot and me," Stavros said.

  "Not a chance, Bozo." I couldn't believe he had the gall. "Dad's in Greece, so that's where I'm going."

  "Baboulas says no."

  I glanced around my room. It seemed smaller, shabbier, which struck me as odd because I'd spent several days living in a freaking dump, in close proximity to a goat and an outhouse.

  "Why?"

  Takis shrugged. "We don't know. She gives orders, we follow orders. That's how it works."

  "Does she ever let you see your balls?"

  Stavros guffawed. Takis, not so much.

  My core temperature was rising. Last time I checked I was a grown woman. I'd chewed through the umbilical cord years ago, although—okay—Dad was one of my best friends. But I was my own person. I had a life, a job, my own … Okay, I had a life and a job.

  Well, I didn't have the job anymore, but whose fault was that?

  Grandma's.

  Her petty dictatorship was really starting to piss me off. Who did the old bat think she was—family? So we were swimming in the same gene pool, so what? Where had she been my whole life? If she knew where Dad was all these years why not be a grandmother? There were times I could have used someone who cared.

  "Why?" I asked. "Why did she send me home?"

  "To keep you safe."

  "Ha! I don't need protecting. She needs to spend less time and energy worrying about me and more time looking for her son. So, let's go."

  Then that little twerp Takis pulled out a gun, had the audacity to point it in my direction.

  "Sit," he said. "Stay."

  "I hate you."

  "Okay. Good. No problem. As long as you stay."

  "As soon as I get back to Greece, I'm going to kick your non-existent ass."

  "Ha-ha. That is a good story. But no. Where is your passport?" He glanced around the room. "That's right, you have no passport. You will have to stay here in America."

  "I can get a passport."

  His glee dimmed. "Just like that?"

  I snapped my fingers. "Just like that." Could be I was telling the truth—I wasn't sure. A passport had been low on my wishlist, due to lack of funds and inclination to travel. What if I buzzed off overseas on a pleasure trip and Dad befell some kind of disaster? My fear of losing Parent Number Two had held me back. And look what happened.

  Disaster, that's what.

  Now I was standing in my childhood—and adulthood—room making claims that may or may not be true, to get that parent back. I'd say anything, at this point, to catch a ride on Grandma's plane.

  "Baboulas will make some calls," Takis told me. "Then you will discover America will not give you a passport."

  My hope swirled the drain, poured into the garbage disposal. The switch flicked on and crushed that hope into paste. Then Takis blasted what was left of it away, because he was a big, fat, skinny jerk.

  "There is no way for you to go back to Greece. If Baboulas doesn't want you there, no one can help you."

  For an indeterminate amount of time I stood in the kitchen, doing nothing, staring at the wall. A peeping Tom could be forgiven for thinking I was auditioning for the next Paranormal Activity. I felt hollow, as though my insides had been scooped out and replaced with refrigerated air. Dad was lost, and I couldn't do a thing about it from here. Portland was my home, but it was also the deadest of ends, and here I was wearing cement boots.

  Okay, they were leather. But they felt like great, honking con
crete blocks.

  Calling the police again was out of the question. Ditto the feds. I'd been in and out of the country illegally; Dad was a former mobster; and Grandma operated a crime syndicate. They'd show their sympathy with handcuffs and one-on-one time with Muffy, my new prison wife.

  My eyes stung. My face was dripping. I was crying and didn't know it until now. Coffee. I needed coffee. A Portlander couldn't do anything without coffee first—and I was still more Portlander than Greek. My sorrows were begging to be drowned in the bitter bean and a mountain of sugar.

  I looked in the fridge, pulled out the milk. Sniffed. Gagged. Stavros was right, a person could go bobbing for chunks in the milk, so I jumped into my Jeep and zipped to the supermarket.

  The Oregon sun was making a valiant effort, but it couldn't poke me in the eye the way the sun in Greece had. It was more even-tempered here, less furious. Get a latte and chillax, it said. Enjoy me before the rain swings back around. I wasn't in the mood for sun. What I wanted was rain—all the rain, but the sun was busy hanging loose in the sky.

  My clothes were last night's. There was graveyard dirt on my knees and butt. The world I was walking in felt unreal, as though I were a misplaced object. A shower had been out of the question. If I took off these clothes, shot my skin clean with hot water, Greece would be gone, and Dad along with it.

  I grabbed milk, bread, a frozen pizza, and paid for them robotically at the self-checkout, then slouched back to my Jeep, zero pep in my step. Then I stopped and blinked. It felt like someone was watching me. Not casually, but with purpose, as if I was something that needed to be observed.

  So sue me, I was feeling twitchy.

  The drive home was slow. My foot was reluctant, my nerves shot. Five minutes after the Jeep conked out in the driveway I was still sitting inside, chewing my lip, wondering what to do next. I scooted out in the same lifeless daze.

  "Hey, Kat!"

  Ugh. Reggie Tubbs. He was on the porch, as usual. In his robe, also as usual, airing out his dusty, old family jewels. His old Mercedes was gone. In its place on the driveway was a spanking new Lexus.

  "Blow me," I muttered.