Stuart Kaminsky - Always Say Goodbye

Lew and Franco sat. So did Pappas after hitching up his pants, a low glass coffee table between them.

“We begin by being polite,” he said. “Though you have met, I don’t believe you know the names of my sons. This is Dimitri.”

He turned his head toward the driver.

“He prefers to be called Dimi. Why? I don’t know. That’s what they called the young priest in The Exorcist, right?”

“Right,” said Franco.

“And that,” Pappas said, looking over his shoulder at the one-eyed young man, “is Stavros. He has no diminutive.”

Pappas raised his right eyebrow, looking for a sign of recognition at his vocabulary. He got none from Lew and Franco.

“You’re Greeks,” said Franco.

“Your powers of observation are quite remarkable,” Pappas said. “So, you have questions, ask.”

“Who killed my wife?”

“Perhaps the person who would like to kill me and would not hesitate to… please make an effort to sit still.”

The last, delivered with a smile, had been aimed at the fidgeting Franco. Franco folded his arms, looked at Pappas and decided to make the effort.

“Thank you. Conversation is a medium,” said Pappas, sitting back. “Like film, video, a blank canvas or an empty screen, when used with respect, it deserves our full attention. Am I right?”

It was Stavros’s turn to say, “You’re right.”

“See,” said Pappas. “Stavros went to college. He’s the artist who keeps our home and business running and repaired. Dimi is our heart, our emotion. I am the creator. In many ways, I have been most magnificently blessed. In others…”

He shrugged and continued.

“So, the artist can engage the medium and create art. Let us strive for conversational art.”

“Let us,” Franco said.

Pappas raised his right hand and his sons left the room.

“They are going to get us coffee and something special. They will also check the video monitors to see if anyone is watching the house. One does not know when an enemy might approach and mark it well, for in truth there is an enemy out there and the enemy has a name. I am under siege in my own home. This is my Troy. And I must be sure I don’t let a gift horse enter. You understand?”

“Yes, you’re paranoid,” said Lew.

“And you are not,” he said with a sigh. “You should be.”

“I’m depressed,” Lew said. “That’s all I can handle.”

Pappas nodded and folded his hands against his chest.

“The one who has made me a prisoner in my own home and may have killed your wife is called Posno. His full name is Andrej Posnitki. I think he is Hungarian, but that doesn’t matter. When she was so foully murdered, your dear wife was gathering evidence against Posno, evidence that he committed murder, evidence of his life of crime which, I am sorry to admit, I participated in, though only at the edges.”

Pappas raised his right hand and let it float toward an unmarked periphery.

“The important documents supporting her evidence could not be found in her office desk or your apartment. Posno’s plan when your wife died was to find you and torture you, something he is very, very good at, and get you to tell him where those documents were, if you even knew. But you were not to be found. You fled, vanished, flew.”

Pappas let his right hand, fingers fluttering, move up. Then he brought his hand back to his lap.

“Posno is not a genius, but he is clever and determined. He has almost certainly found you the same way I found you. Stavros found your name on the Internet. Something about your being involved in the shooting of some professor. That was a week ago. I sent Stavros to Sarasota to keep an eye on you.”

“Funny,” said Franco.

“Oh, I see,” said Pappas with a smile. “Because my son has only one eye to keep on you. You want to know how he lost that eye? He was shot by the man who is looking for you. Now, I’ll tell you how to find him.”

“Why do you want to help me?” Lew asked.

Pappas rose from the chair and went to the window.

“Nine years ago your wife was the prosecutor in a murder case. I was arrested, charged. My record, I must tell you, is not without blemish but this crime I did not do.”

He put his right hand on his chest.

“She talked to the witnesses, got experts to look at the signature on a hotel register… That’s not important. She believed me, dropped the charges against me in exchange for my testifying against Andrej Posnitki, who had set me up. It was a sweet deal if you ignore that Posno is a maniac who, between the three of us, is responsible for the demise of more than forty-one people. Still I owe your wife and when my family has a debt, we pay it no matter how long it takes.”

“I appreciate that,” Lew said. “Posno wasn’t convicted.”

“Good lawyers, lots of money. He got off. Since then he has found my presence on this earth intolerable. Putting him in prison or, better yet, death row, would greatly ease my paranoia. Your wife would not give up, as you well know. She continued to build a new case against Posno. So finding your wife’s records might well keep us both alive. She didn’t tell you about all this?”

“We didn’t talk about cases except the ones I was working on for her,” Lew said.

“Smart,” said Pappas, pointing to his head and looking at Franco. “You don’t know. You can’t testify.”

There was a gentle double knock at the door and Pappas, with a smile, said, “You’re gonna like this.”

One-eyed Stavros backed in balancing a large, round golden tray. He walked over and placed the tray on the glass table. The other son, Dimitri, came in with a smaller tray, balancing three small cups of almost-black Greek coffee. There were also three small plates with a fork on each. Pappas, Franco and Lew each took a cup and a plate.

Stavros leaned next to his father and whispered in his ear. Pappas nodded and whispered something back to him. It was Stavros’s turn to nod.

The brothers left the room, closing the door softly behind them.

“ Glykismata, ” Pappas said after a sip of coffee. “Greek deserts. This one is amygdalopita, nut cake covered in clove syrup. These are loukoumathes.”

He pointed to six round balls, which he said were Greek donuts covered with honey and cinnamon.

“Good with coffee,” Pappas said with a knowing nod. “And these cookie twists are koulourakia, glaktobouriko, egg custard baked in phyllo, and baklava. Everything baked today by my mother. Did you know Aristophanes mentions baklava in one of his plays?”

“No,” said Lew.

“Ah,” said Pappas with a shrug. “Why should you? Take.”

They put down their coffees. Lew took one of the cookies. Franco piled his plate. Pappas smiled.

“These are great,” said Franco, his mouth full.

“You’ll meet my mother on the way out,” Pappas said, his eyes meeting Lew’s. “As long as you have the blessing of your mother, it does not matter even if you live in the the valley of the dead. That’s a Greek saying. I have her blessing and, pardon me for saying it, you are treading in the valley of the dead. It is not a good place to be.”

He looked around the room and added, “Though I am under siege, I still have resources, which is why Posno has not gotten to me. I live in this comfortable prison. I would like to walk beyond the glass-covered walls that define my exile. To the extent that I can, I will extend my protection to you, but you must be quite careful. Find that evidence.”

He held up a finger and added, “Put Posno away. You like those, huh?”

Lew was eating one of the phyllo deserts filled with custard.

“Yes,” Lew said.

“Good,” he said. “You have anything else you wish to ask me?”