Ken Bruen - The Max

In New York the heat and humidity was fierce and as Sebastian wiped his brow, Yanni scoffed, “This is tipota, in Santorini we see this as mild spring day.”

Sebastian, his lined suit creased beyond repair, felt a hatred for this bounder like he’d never felt in his whole shallow life and resolved, soon as this business was concluded, he was going to kill the fucker slowly and whisper as he died, “That’s not heat, brother, it’s just a mild slashing of your olive stinking throat.”

Ah, the things to look forward to.

Then they were in a cab and heading for Queens. Who’d said anything about staying in Queens? Didn’t the fellow have the decency to consult him about their travel arrangements? He was planning on getting a couple of rooms at the Mansfield, a small hotel he’d read about in a cheap mystery novel once; it sounded classy and was right across the road from The Algonquin. Couldn’t ask for a better pedigree than that. But Yanni, lighting up a Karelia in the cab, didn’t care about pedigree. So off to Queens they went.

Blowing smoke in Sebastian’s face, Yanni said, “We stay with my family in Astoria, they help us track the she-devil. She has Greek blood, they will track her down.”

Sebastian finally found his voice, said, “Actually, old chap, I’d rather stay in midtown and we can meet up later, let you reunite with your family in peace.”

Yanni, his eyes as black as hell, squeezed Sebastian’s thigh, hard – the animal had a grip like a vise – and said, “You don’t make decisions. I tell you how it is, you say epaharisto poli. You get to leave when this is done, you understand, mallakas? ”

He did.

The family were a nightmare and, lordy, how many of them were they, enough to storm Manhattan by themselves… and noisy, radios blaring, everybody roaring in Greek, tons of kissing and hugging, only not for Sebastian, whom they looked at with derision. No one said a word to him. It was like My Big Fat Greek Wedding without the one-liners.

At dinner, more talk in Greek. It sounded like six arguments were going on at once. Sebastian couldn’t understand a thing, just wandered around, trying not to get in the way.

One of the uncles, he noticed, had his wallet sticking out of his back pocket, just begging to be snatched. Sebastian often wondered why people were careless with their valuables. Were they trying to give their money away? Out of sheer boredom, Sebastian snatched it, not expecting to find much. The guy’s hair was a mess and he was wearing a horrendous shirt open to his belly button, proudly displaying a chunky wooden necklace – not exactly the look of a man of wealth.

When the fellow discovered his wallet was missing there was the usual fuss with everyone talking at once, helping him look around for it. During the commotion, Sebastian managed to slip out of the apartment without Yanni seeing. He sprinted around the corner and then two more blocks, hopped a turnstile. A subway was at the station, ready to depart, and Sebastian yelled, “Hold the doors!”

A homeless guy put his hand in front of one of the doors, delaying the close, and Sebastian managed to slip inside in the nick of time.

“Thank you, squire,” he said. If he’d had some American coins he would’ve tipped the kind fellow, but he didn’t. He settled for shaking the man’s hand, a gesture neither of them enjoyed very much.

He rode the subway into Manhattan, proud of his ingenuity. He was a cunning ol’ chappie, wasn’t he?

It had been ages since he’d been to the city and he was planning to check into his usual room at the Mansfield – those kind fellows always gave him the top floor suite – and then take in some of the sights. He could do with some good food as well. There was a Brazilian restaurant in midtown he quite liked where the maitre d’ was a good sport and always gave him the best table in the place and, oh yes, free drinks. He didn’t know what they put in those bloody drinks but the last time he’d gone there he’d left so drunk he’d fallen over a pile of garbage on the curb and not gotten up for the better part of an hour.

At the Fifty-ninth Street stop, Sebastian disembarked and was about to climb the stairs when he heard, “Where you think you going, Brit boy?”

He thought he must be hallucinating but he turned around and sure enough Yanni was there. The bloody hell?

Covering his anguish with a sarcastic grin, Sebastian said, “I was just going for a bit of a stroll, care to join me?”

Back in captivity, or Queens, Sebastian spent days watching reruns of The Odd Couple and drinking that thick treacle they called coffee. The only thing that made it at all palatable was if you put a nip of Metaxa in it. And Heavens to Betsy, the Greeks might be a pain in the arse, no slur on their homoerotic heritage, but they sure did keep an awful lot of booze in the house.

Another saving grace: One of the women of the house, Irini, had that dark sultry look, the doe-brown eyes and one of those lush Greek figures that so quickly ran to fat but until then was simmering hot. Her English was almost American, with only a slight Greek inflection. She was forever cleaning and each time he got a buzz building, giggling away at Oscar and Felix, there she’d be, telling – not asking, mind, telling – him to move his big English legs out of the way. The drinks, the reruns, and Irina helped him keep his mind off his situation.

Which was looking worse each day. The men were pulling out all the stops to find Angela, but so far had found nothing, zilch, tipota. Like she’d vanished off the island of Manhattan, assuming she’d actually made it there in the first place. And Yanni’s brood were seriously pissed. The Greek network was good and they prided themselves on tracking any Greek, anywhere, but it wasn’t happening. And Sebastian was worried all that anger would wind up being let out in his direction someday soon.

Irini, hands on her hips, her wedding band shining, asked Sebastian, “Why you no help the men, you sit here all day, doing nothing?”

But he spotted a slight sheen of moisture above her lip and realized, this filly wanted rogering, a tad of the old Billy Bunter. And by golly, he was the chap to do it.

He said, “I could find her in five minutes.”

Her eyes widened, and she asked, looking a bit like a mare in heat, “How?’

He gestured around the cramped living room, said, “They keep me a virtual prisoner, if I had access to a laptop, I’d have her tracked in no time.”

She said, “I have a laptop. For my studies.”

He wondered if there was a course in sweeping.

She lowered her eyes demurely, said, “It is in my bedroom.”

He rose languidly. Sebastian tried never to do anything in a hurry unless it was… flee.

He said, “Show me what you’ve got.”

Her room was filled with talismans – the evil eye, a mega statue of Makarios – and lo and fucking behold, in the middle of all this devotion, a poster of Guns N’ Roses.

That was all she wrote. He rode her on the flokati rug and get this, the bitch bit him, twice, till he asked in his best Brit tone, “Try not to bite the merchandise.”

Afterwards, still sweaty and naked, he opened the laptop and got Google to work its dark magic. His one idea was to find an address for Angela’s ex, that Max Fisher bloke she’d complained about so much. Instead, he read about Fisher’s bloody arrest. He was simply appalled to discover that Fisher had been a drug dealer. What sort of man had Angela been associating herself with? As if there had been any doubt, he was certain now he’d been the classiest lay she’d ever had.

But arrested, this wasn’t good at all. He’d been hoping Fisher could help them find Angela. How could he help them from a jail cell in Attica?