Jeffrey Siger - Sons of Sparta

“All I can ask is that you try. You’re the only one I know who might be able to pull it off.”

Andreas fixed on Spiros’ eyes. “Spare me the Vaseline. Just don’t forget two things. One, if I start, there’s no going back, no matter who’s involved.”

Spiros nodded. “Understood.”

Andreas leaned forward. “And, two, if I find out you’re trying to set me up to take a fall for you…” Andreas let his voice trail off.

Spiros did not look away. “No need to say it. I understand that, too.”

Andreas leaned back in the chair. “Fine. I need a copy of your files on this mess.”

“There are no files.” Spiros picked up a pencil, wrote something on a piece of paper, and handed it to Andreas. “But here’s whom you should speak to.”

Andreas read the name, looked up, and stared at Spiros. “You weren’t kidding about who’s involved.”

Spiros nodded. “As you said, ‘Big money attracts big players.’”

***

Kouros was in his office when the call came through. “Detective Kouros here.”

“It’s me.” The voice sounded strained. It was Uncle’s oldest son, Mangas, successor to his father’s criminal enterprises.

“You sound gloomy,” said Kouros. “What’s the matter, did I leave my toothbrush at your father’s house?”

“I’ve bad news.”

Kouros’ heart skipped a beat.

“My father’s dead.”

Kouros held the phone, frozen, and didn’t speak.

“Did you hear me?”

Kouros nodded at the phone. “Yes.” He drew in a deep breath. “What happened?”

“He was driving back alone from morning coffee with his friends at the taverna in Marmari on the road to Cape Tenaro…”

Kouros listened to his cousin struggle against tears. Cape Tenaro sits at the southernmost point of mainland Greece where the Ionian and Aegean seas meet and Greek mythology placed as the entrance to Hades, home to the god of the dead. Some moderns called it by its Italian name, Cape Matapan; the ancients had called it Tainaron.

“His car went off the road at a cliff and…”

Kouros waited.

“The ambulance driver said he didn’t suffer. But they always say that. I can’t stop wondering what was going through his mind in those last seconds.”

Kouros had an idea of what it might have been, but this was not the time to bring up the death threats. Not with his cousin’s temper. “I’m sure he was thinking about your family. When is the funeral?”

“Tomorrow at eleven.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Thanks. He used to say you and I were ‘two sides of a gold coin, each facing in different directions, but both made of the same stuff.’”

Now Kouros struggled with tears. “Your father was a very special man.”

“He drove that road every day. I don’t understand how it could have happened.”

“Maybe he had a heart attack?”

“There was nothing wrong with his heart. But there’s an autopsy going on right now.”

“Anything wrong with the car?”

“I have people checking on that as we speak.”

Kouros heard anger growing in his cousin’s voice.

“Have the police looked at the car?”

“The cops in this part of the Mani wouldn’t know where to start. I called the same guy they use, a friend who has a repair garage. He’ll tell me all I need to know.”

“All you ‘need to know’ to do what?” said Kouros.

Silence.

“Mangas, you’re angry and looking for someone to blame. I understand, it’s only natural. But that doesn’t mean you’ll make the right decision if you find something wrong with the car.”

More silence.

“Now it’s my turn to ask, ‘Did you hear me?’”

“Yeah, I heard you.”

“Just promise me you won’t run with your temper until the funeral is over and we’ve had the chance to talk.”

Again silence.

“You know your father would have wanted it that way.”

“Okay. You have my word. Nothing until after the funeral.”

“And we get to talk?” said Kouros.

“Yeah. Bye.”

The line went dead but Kouros kept staring at the handset. He’d often wondered how his cousin picked up the nickname “Mangas.” It came out of Greece’s Roaring Twenties as a term used to describe young, urban, working class men attracted to the rebetiko Greek folk music of their times, Greece’s equivalent of America’s blues. Hatched in prisons, hashish dens, and ouzo parlors, it attracted long-mustached men partial to an idiosyncratic style of dress-woolen hat, arm through only one sleeve of a jacket, striped trousers, knife snugly tucked into a belt around the waist, pointy shoes-and a distinctive John Wayne style of limp-walking. Old time mangas tough guys were long gone and today the word held many potential meanings, ranging from “strong or brave or crafty,” through “swaggerer,” and on down to “bully, henchman, or hooligan.” Some even said it was Greece’s equivalent for “dude,” as in the iconic Jeff Bridges character in the American film, The Big Lebowski .

No matter what prompted his cousin’s nickname, if Uncle had been murdered there’d be no holding Mangas and his brothers back from taking revenge. And if Kouros didn’t tell them what he knew, they might end up going after the wrong people. But who were the right people?

Kouros hung up the phone. A new bloody clan war was about to break out in the Mani.

Time to speak to the chief.

When Andreas returned to his office he found Kouros sitting on his couch. “Why do I doubt you’re sitting here anxiously awaiting to talk about soccer?”

“I need time off, Chief. Family business.”

Andreas walked behind his desk and sat down. “I thought you said everything was terrific.”

“It was. Until I got a call from my cousin. My uncle died this morning in an automobile accident in the Mani.”

Andreas shook his head. “I’m sorry to hear that. When’s the funeral?”

“Tomorrow. But that’s not the reason I need the time.”

“Are we talking about the uncle who, shall we say, walked a different path than you?”

Kouros nodded. “He hasn’t been involved in that for years.”

“Didn’t his son take over for him?”

“That’s who called me.”

Andreas leaned across the desk. “Yianni, we’ve been together a long time-”

“Since I was a rookie on Mykonos, I know. But it’s not what you think.”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?”

“You’re about to warn me to be careful about someone in that part of my family trying to draw me into their business.”

Andreas leaned back. “Okay, consider yourself warned.”

“I think my uncle was murdered. And if my cousins start thinking the same way, all hell will break loose down there.”

“What makes you think murder?”

Kouros told him about the death threats his uncle had received. “He died on his way home from the same taverna where he received the first threat.”

Andreas rubbed his forehead. “Why does crap always come in piles? Wait until you hear what Spiros just dropped on me.”

Kouros listened, and when Andreas finished he shook his head. “How does he expect you to help with that ?”

“Beats me. Maybe I’ll have a better idea after I talk with this guy.” He waved the piece of paper containing the phone number given him by Spiros.

“Chief, we’ve been together a long time….” Kouros let the words trail off.

Andreas smiled. “Since Mykonos, and I know what you’re thinking. All fat cat bad guys are looking for a friendly cop willing to look the other way, and I’m sure this one’s no different.”

“At least my cousin came by his ways honestly. He was born to that life. Corrupt political types make a conscious decision not to play by the rules.”