Disorganized Crime Read online

  They looked at each other again, mystified. Not too bright these guys.

  "No. Why would we take him? He is already ours," the chubby one said.

  "Your what?"

  "Family," the short one—Takis—said.

  "That would make you …"

  He squinted at my parents' wedding photo on the living room wall. "Your family, yes."

  It was awful to admit, but I didn't know a thing about the Greek branches of my family tree. Dad always employed a certain amount of amnesia when it came his—and my—relatives. Greece he loved. His family … What family?

  "Like Zeus, I was raised by goats," he always said. "Goats are okay, but the conversation is terrible. All they say is maa-maa, like your mother."

  "Dad was kidnapped," I told them. "I think."

  They exchanged glances. Takis did the talking. He seemed to be the designated mouthpiece. "Kidnapped! Who took him?"

  "A couple of guys."

  "What did they look like?"

  "Like the mafia. That's what Reggie Tubbs said."

  "What is a Reggie Tubbs?"

  "He's our next-door neighbor."

  They glanced at each other again. These two clowns could have been a comedy act. I still wasn't sure they weren't.

  Takis said, "Baboulas will not be happy if we come back without him. Let's bring the girl. She can tell Baboulas."

  "Good idea," said the other one.

  "I'm not going to Greece." Because I had to stay here and wait for Dad to show up or his kidnappers to make their demands. "So you're my …?"

  "Cousins."

  "First cousins?"

  Takis jerked his head up and made a tst sound. "No. He is your second cousin, and I am your cousin's cousin's cousin. Look at Stavros, he single, can't you tell? But not me. I have a wife, Marika. She was very beautiful like you, but now she is fat and always nagging me. 'Takis, why do you leave your underwears on the floor? Takis, what are these stains? Didn't your mother teach you how to wipe?' "

  I held up one hand. "I don't want to know."

  Both men gasped and crossed themselves frantically.

  "Don't do that!" Takis barked. He knocked my hand out of the sky. "What is wrong with you? Did you father teach you nothing?"

  I looked at my hand, inspected it for cracks, leaks, stigmata, or anything else offensive. In the end, it was just a hand.

  "I don't get it," I said truthfully.

  "It is an insult!"

  "What, this?" I held up my hand again, palm out, facing them.

  "Yes, don't do that! It is a very big Greek insult. It means you are rubbing shit in our faces," Takis said.

  "It means we are malakas," Stavros added.

  "Eh." Takis shrugged. "It means both things. You are rubbing the shit in the faces of two men with—" He shook one loose fist in the air. "—habits that have made the clever places in their heads soft."

  "So I won't do this again, then?" I flashed them the palm just one more time for luck—not good luck, judging from the looks on their faces.

  Sometimes I couldn't help myself.

  Takis hooked a thumb at me. "Baboulas is going to have a problem with this one."

  "Baboulas?" They kept saying that name. "The boogeyman?"

  They looked at each other. Laughed. Takis pulled something out of his pocket. Something in a syringe, with a big pointy needle.

  "Hey," I yelped. "You can't do that!"

  But he stuck me with it anyway.

  If this was family, I hated them already.

  Chapter 2

  When I came to, it was in leather pieces. Good leather, in soft beige tones. My chin was wet, my eyelids heavy, and there were something thick blocking the "I hate you guys" in my mouth. Probably my tongue.

  "Hewltp," I said.

  A face filled my entire visual field. It had a stubble like a bear's butt, and garlic breath. It was my second cousin Stavros. He squinted at me, then vanished.

  "Hey, Takis. I think she's waking up."

  My cousin's cousin's cousin's voice wafted back. "Get her a drink."

  Stavros's face reappeared. "Hey, Katerina, you want a drink?"

  "I want to go home."

  "Heh." He stood up. "She wants to go home."

  "Tell her she is going home," Takis called out.

  "Where am I?"

  Stupid question. I was on a plane. A small plane. A very expensive small plane, judging from the leather seats, carpeted floors, and distinct lack of other passengers.

  "You are on a plane," Stavros said in a self-satisfied voice, like he'd just performed magic.

  "And we're going … where?"

  "Home. Greece." Palms up. "Where else?"

  I pulled myself into the upright position, more or less. My teeth had a buzz cut and my tongue had acquired a toupee. I needed toothpaste, soap, and a parachute.

  "I can't go to Greece, I don't have a passport."

  Stavros laughed. He tossed a mouthful of words over one shoulder. "Hey Takis, she can't go to Greece because she doesn't have a passport!"

  Laughter shot back from the front of the plane. Awful, terrible, horrendous realization dawned. Takis was the one flying this thing. We were going to die if that idiot was at the wheel.

  "You do not need a passport," Stavros said. "Other people, yes. But not in the Makris family."

  "What makes us so special?"

  More laughter. Real chuckleheads, these guys. They were laughing at everything I said. If they were this hard up for comedy, Greece must be the unfunniest place ever.

  "You will find out."

  "When?"

  Stavros glanced at his watch. "Soon."

  Specificity wasn't one of his strengths. Dad used to joke about running on Greek time, and now I was seeing for myself that to Greeks, time could be a nebulous construct.

  "Fine," I said. My stomach grumbled, contradicting my mouth.

  He shot a surprised look at my midsection. "Was that you?"

  "You kidnapped me at dinnertime, before my pizza arrived."

  His eyes went wide. "You eat dinner at night?"

  "When else would I eat it?"

  "Ha-ha-ha. You Americans are very funny." He threw some more words to the front of the plane. "Hey, Takis? In America they eat dinner at night."

  "I know. I took Marika and the boys to the Walt Disney World last year. Very uncivilized, eating dinner at night."

  Stavros leaned forward, whispered to me. "Takis, always he knows everything. If he does not know, he pretends he knows."

  The plane lurched left.

  "I heard that," Takis hollered from the cockpit.

  Stavros raised his one eyebrow. "See?" He got up, disappeared into either the restroom or the galley. "Are you vegetarian?" he called out.

  That answered that question. "No."

  "Fish or chicken?"

  "Chicken."

  "Okay."

  While he was doing what he was doing, I stood. That went wrong immediately. Bam! I collapsed in a heap in the aisle. The good news was that from the floor I had a better view of the plane.

  The plane seated ten. It was lavish in a vaguely gaudy way—too much gold on things that shouldn't be gold. At the rear of the plane was a short pillar with a silver and blue box on top. A religious diorama. Jesus, the Virgin Mary, and some guys I didn't recognize from my vantage point on the floor.

  "Do not stand up," Takis called out from the cockpit. "You will fall down."

  Too late for that. "What did you give me?"

  "It is a secret."

  "Hey, you drugged me, bozo. At least be decent enough to tell me what you used."

  "It is a secret from me, also. Baboulas tells no one what goes into the potion. All we know is that it makes you sleep."

  Huh. I wasn't liking this Baboulas person too much.

  Stavros returned carrying a tray. Whatever was on the plate it was killing me—in a good way. It wasn't chicken or fish. Something like lasagna, but in a different configuration. Pastitsio.
r />   "Pastitsio," he confirmed. "Baboulas made it for you."

  I pushed it away, ignoring the siren call of hot meat and cheesy sauce. It smelled like heaven, but Baboulas had technically drugged me, which meant the food was suspect, no matter how much I wanted to shovel it into my mouth.

  "Where's my father? Do you have any idea who took him?"

  "We don't know. Baboulas will have some ideas, yes, but we do not know for sure."

  "What do you know?"

  "Eh," Stavros said. "I know Baboulas' pastitsio is the best."

  Through the oval window I saw Greece for the first time. Not love at first sight, but close. As we approached the ground, I couldn't help noticing Greece was like an aging drag queen. A thousand feet up in the air, she was magnificent, a swirl of blue and green skirts. But up close her wrinkles were road-shaped and her complexion was looking a little smoggy.

  To his credit, Takis didn't totally suck as a pilot. The plane landed without crashing or exploding in a huge fireball.

  "Where are we?" I asked as the plane taxied.

  Stavros looked at me like I'd lost my marbles. Greeks are very touchy about losing marbles, since Lord Elgin helped himself to the Acropolis's goodies back in the 1800s.

  "Greece."

  I waved my hand. "I know that. Where in Greece?"

  "Volos. A private airstrip."

  "Who owns it?"

  Takis laughed in the cockpit. "We do!"

  The plane rolled to a stop. Not far away on the cracked and faded tarmac a black limo was waiting. It had dark windows and a mirror shine. Fancy.

  The driver's side window rolled down as the two goobers escorted me down the steps.

  Limousines came with certain expectations: mini bars, sunroofs to projectile vomit through on the way home from prom, and uniformed drivers with leather gloves. This one had a definite lack of uniformed driver. There was a driver behind the wheel, but she was ancient and built like an egg. Stooped shoulders. Iron and white hair beaten back into a face-stretching bun. She wore black like she'd heard they were casting for The Godfather: Part IV.

  Definitely a widow. Once an older Greek woman's husband dies, that's it. You like colors? Tough cookies, no colors for you. You want colors? Put them on your wall. But if you wear them you're saying, I whizz on my dead husband.

  The limo driver wasn't whizzing on her dead husband. Not now. Not ever.

  She looked me up and down, hand cupped over her eyes, even though it was—

  I looked back at Larry and Mo. "What time is it?"

  "Almost ten. At night." As if that wasn't obvious by the rapidly darkening sky.

  —hand cupped over her eyes, even though it was almost ten at night. Then she said, "I thought you would be fatter."

  "Fatter than what?" I asked.

  "Fatter than Greek girls. Americans are fat, unless they are on TV. Then they are too skinny. Those girls are like bobble-heads. So sad."

  "I …" Whatever I was going to say next, it died in my throat and slid back down to wherever unspoken words go.

  "You are Katerina, yes?" she continued.

  I nodded, because those dying words were blocking the way for new ones.

  Her attention slid to the stooges. "Where is Michail?"

  Takis prodded me with his finger. "Tell her."

  "Why do I have to tell her? You abducted me."

  "No, you tell her," he said. "That's why we brought you."

  I summoned up all my indignation, which wasn't all that impressive, frankly. Exhaustion, stress, fear, and a slug of sleeping juice had taken its toll. I wanted to cut a bozo, but not until after a long, hard nap.

  Hands on hips, I said, "You drugged and abducted me so I could do your dirty work?"

  He shrugged. "Yes."

  Ugh. I turned back to the little old granny. "My father was maybe kidnapped by two guys who looked like Italian mobsters."

  "Like us," Takis said proudly.

  I glared at him. "I need to be at home. Now. If there's a ransom call I need to be there."

  "Heh," Stavros said. "She thinks this is Star Trek. 'Beam me up, Scotty!' "

  "Wait." I looked from Takis to Stavros and back again. I pointed to Takis. "I thought you were the asshole—not him."

  That old woman rocked back and forth in her seat, howling with laughter. "They are both assholes. But in this business you need good assholes. Get in the car, Katerina. These are dangerous times for the family if your father has truly been kidnapped, and I want to get home fast."

  It was a natural reaction, the way I reached for the back door. It was equally natural the way I leaped back when the old woman made a tst noise.

  "In the front," she barked.

  "But …" Takis started.

  "You two malakas get in the back. I want to look at the girl, okay? You do not like it? Walk."

  My abrupt departure from American soil meant I was traveling light. My alleged relatives had packed a small bag I remembered from the back of my closet, and now Takis was stuffing my handbag into my arms. I peeked inside. Tampons. Tampons everywhere.

  "In case you are bleeding," he said. "You were in a very bad mood."

  My head wanted to explode. "You pushed into my place uninvited. Then you drugged me. Then you abducted me." I ticked off each item on my fingers. "Of course I'm in a bad mood!"

  "My Virgin Mary!" the old woman cursed. "You went into her house uninvited? What, are we animals now? Are we the Kefalas family? When do we go into a home uninvited, unless they are an enemy? Never! We are better than that. Apologize."

  Two not-that-sorry faces shone back at me from the back seat.

  She repeated the order. "Apologize!"

  "We are sorry," Takis said.

  "Very sorry," Stavros said.

  The old woman fixed her dark eyes on my face. "Do they look sorry to you?"

  "Not really."

  A laugh split her face in two. "Too bad you are my granddaughter, what I need is my son."

  My brain sputtered. It wasn't a fan of surprises, and tonight it had been slammed with cream pies, clown-style. My grandmother? How could she be my grandmother? Until this moment I didn't even know I had a grandmother; although biology suggested it was a probability, unless Dad had been spawned in a secret underground laboratory. In the absence of contrary evidence, I was inclined to believe the old woman. She did have a miniature version of Dad's nose glued to the center of her face.

  I needed time to process. But first, I needed to hear what this Baboulas person had to say about Dad's possible kidnapping. Then the plan was to throw myself at the mercy of the US Embassy in Athens.

  Mind completely boggled, I buckled into the limo's passenger seat, cradling my precious bag o' tampons.

  "You are tall," the woman who claimed to be my grandmother said. "I used to be tall. Now look at me."

  The chuckleheads in the back seat laughed right on cue.

  I'm not that tall. Five-four on a good day, and only in the morning. It's all downhill once gravity kicks in. My alleged grandmother had to be five-foot—at a stretch—judging from how far forward she'd had to scoot the seat. At five-nine my father wasn't a big man, either.

  The limo jerked to life. Granny had a heavy foot. The way the black car lurched forward, I was guessing her bones were lead. I shot a glance behind me. Both Stooges had lost all their color. They were gripping the handholds one-handed, frantically crossing themselves with the other.

  "God help us," Stavros muttered. "She is not supposed to be driving."

  At that, the old woman cackled.

  My attention turned to her profile. I'd seen it before on my father's head. Funny, I always assumed he resembled my grandfather. But no, here was the same long, serious nose, same full lips and slightly pointed chin, like some kid mistook her and Dad for Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head, and swapped their bits and pieces. I sagged slightly in the seat.

  "So you're really my grandmother?"

  "Look at your nose." She leaned over, wheels swerving, and fl
ipped down the sun visor. Predictably, it had a mirror. And sure enough, there was our nose.

  "Do you bake cookies?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you knit?"

  "I knit. Also, I crochet and do needlepoint."

  It was true, she could be someone's grandma—maybe even mine.

  "Do you know anything about my father's potential kidnapping?"

  Her gaze flicked to the rearview mirror and the reflection of the penitent men in the seat behind us. "What did you tell her?"

  "Nothing," Takis said.

  "Almost nothing," Stavros added.

  "Which was it? Nothing, or almost nothing? Because those are two very different things."

  Smart woman, my grandmother.

  "Nothing," Takis affirmed.

  "Almost," I said.

  Granny glided to a stop. She turned around, shot eye-daggers into the limo's backseat.

  Takis held up both hands. "We said maybe the family had some ideas where he was, and this is all, I swear."

  My grandmother looked at me. I nodded. Her deadly stink-eye went back into hiding. With a head-snapping jerk, the limo was on the move again. A sharp, acrid odor wafted over to my quarter of the limo. Smelled like the backside of one of those sad bars where all the customers are live-ins.

  "Virgin Mary, help me," Stavros said, eyes closed. "I pissed my pants."

  Takis scooted towards the door.

  The old woman patted my leg. "He does that all the time."

  "It's true," Takis said, head bobbing like a parrot. "All the time. Once we were fighting with drug dealers and he shit his pants."

  Stavros threw a punch at his arm. "Kolotripa!"

  The universal translator in my head—okay, it only worked with Greek and a few words of Spanish, including, but not limited to, food products—ground the insult into palatable English for me. Kolos was a butt, tripa was a hole.

  "Boys." She shook her head. "That is a true story. We tell that one every time the family gets together. Even the drug dealers laugh now when they see Stavros. They call him Kaka Vrakas."

  Poopy Pants.

  Fights with drug dealers? Crapping pants? What I wanted was a saw so I could cut myself out of the family tree. No wonder Dad bolted from these crazies. And I had a horrible, gnawing sort of feeling that this was one of those 'you ain't seen nothing yet' situations.