Jeffrey Siger - Sons of Sparta

Andreas acted startled. “Marietta, you should wear a bell so I know when you’re sneaking up on me.”

“Missus Kaldis would shoot me if I let you eat your dinner cold. And out of the pot! Give it to me.”

“You’ll have to kill me first. I like my oyvetsi cold. And don’t worry about Missus Kaldis. If she shoots you, I promise to conduct a thorough investigation.”

She reached for the pot but Andreas shielded it from her with his body.

“Just give me the pot, please.”

“Let’s make a deal. If I let you get me a glass of wine, could we call it a draw?”

The maid shook her head, turned, and walked into the pantry. She returned with an opened bottle of white wine and a wineglass.

“At least I can tell Missus Kaldis I gave you a good wine.”

Andreas looked at the label: KIR YIANNIS. He smiled. That wine company was owned by the current mayor of Greece’s second-largest city, Thessaloniki, who, unlike his predecessor sentenced to serve a life term for corruption, had a reputation for honesty. A quite different sort from the man he was about to call.

“Can I get you anything else?”

“No, thank you, Marietta.”

She left him sitting on a barstool by the counter, sipping his wine and picking at his dinner. Andreas liked the kitchen. Most of the other rooms had spectacular, unobstructed views of the Acropolis or its majestic sister hill, Lykavitos, but this one offered only walls, with just a glimpse of the sky through windows in the room beyond its doorway. It reminded him of his old fourth floor, maybe the elevator was operating, slight view, one-bedroom apartment. This room kept him in touch with his roots, or so he liked to think. Roots were important. He hoped Kouros’ own roots wouldn’t create a problem for him, but the kid was tough enough to figure out the right thing to do.

Andreas looked at his watch. It was coming up on eleven, the perfect time to call Spiros’ man with all the answers. He ran with a crowd that partied until the early morning hours, entertaining many of the same folks they’d be compromising later.

Andreas stood up and carried his wineglass into the library. He closed the door and sat down behind the desk. He mumbled to himself as he picked up the phone. “I guess it’s my time to figure out the right thing to do.”

He dialed the number on the piece of paper. The phone rang five times.

“Orestes here.” There was the sound of loud music and the clatter of plates in the background.

Andreas took a sip of wine. “Sorry to bother you, sir, my name is Andreas Kaldis and-”

“Your minister said you’d be calling. Does it always take you so long to do what you’re told?”

Andreas put down the wineglass. “Only when I have more important things to do.”

“Perhaps you don’t know who you’re talking to.” There was a noticeable slur to Orestes’ words.

“Of course I do.”

“Then you should know you could not possibly have had anything more important to do.”

“Well, sir, you have my attention now. So, what do you want to tell me?”

“I’m not about to have this discussion over the phone.”

“Fine, what if we meet at police headquarters first thing tomorrow morning?”

“ No . I want to see you now . And HERE.”

“Sure, anything you say. What’s the address?” Andreas marked it down as the phone went dead. He shook his head and smiled. The guy had taken the bait and lost his temper. Orestes sounded drunk and by the time Andreas got there he’d be more so, plus anxious to show Andreas just how big his dick was. No telling what he might say to prove it.

The evening was beginning to look interesting. But it wouldn’t begin to compare to tomorrow morning, when he’d have to explain to Lila why he’d ended up in Athens’ hottest, sexiest nightclub instead of at his mother’s.

Athens’ Gazi district sat not far to the northwest of the Acropolis and encircled the city’s old natural gasworks, from which the area took its name. Today, the gasworks had transformed into a modern museum and cultural center surrounded by vibrant restaurants and cafes. Greece’s free-spending boom years had helped turn the once-blighted area into a primary destination for partiers in a city then ranked number one for the best nightlife in Europe. But things were different now. With less money to spend and Gazi’s somewhat dangerous bordering neighborhoods becoming more so, business was off. But you could still find places where no one acted as if they’d heard of the financial crisis and all paid handsomely for the privilege of maintaining the pretension that they’d not been affected by it. At the top of that list was the spot Orestes had picked for their meeting, El Malaga.

Andreas stood on the sidewalk staring at two massive black doors, one with a florid gold “E,” the other with an equally ostentatious “M.”

Three six-foot six-inch bodybuilders in matching black suits and white shirts stood behind a red velvet rope administered by a buxom blonde wearing a black, what-you-see-is-what-you-get Hervé Léger minidress. Andreas assumed she was the gatekeeper, the three men her attack dogs. He smiled at the woman and stepped up to the rope.

She smiled back. “May I help you, sir?”

“Yes, I’d like to go inside.”

“Do you have a reservation?”

“No, I’m meeting someone already inside.”

“May I ask the name of the person you’re meeting?”

“Orestes.”

“You mean-”

“Yes, that Orestes.”

“And your name.”

“Just ‘guest’ will do fine. He’s expecting me.”

The woman’s smile faded. “I need to know your name, sir.”

“No, you don’t. He asked to see me. If you won’t let me in, no problem. I’ll just tell him the reason I missed our meeting was that the lovely lady at the door stopped me.”

She looked at her three men. One stepped forward. He had four inches on Andreas, forty pounds of muscle, and a scowl. “Petro, please show Mister ‘Guest’ to Orestes’ table.”

“Thank you,” Andreas smiled.

“And if there is some mistake,” she put on a smile, “please show him immediately back outside.”

Andreas gave her the thumbs-up. “It’s a deal.”

Petro opened one door and waved for Andreas to enter a dimly lit vestibule leading to another set of doors. They were alone in the vestibule and Andreas started to reach for the other set of doors when Petro put his hand on Andreas’ arm.

“Just a minute, Chief.”

Andreas looked at Petro. “Do I know you?”

The scowl turned to a smile. “I’m a cop assigned to headquarters security at GADA.”

“Are you working undercover here?”

“No, just trying to make a living. It’s a night job.”

Andreas smacked him on the shoulder. “Thanks for not giving me away.”

“I figured you wanted it that way. Come on, I’ll take you to Orestes’ table.”

Whether Petro was an honest cop earning extra money as a bouncer or something else, Andreas had no way of knowing. But he liked the guy’s style. “Stop by my office for a coffee sometime.”

“Thanks, I’d like that.”

Petro opened the door and a whoosh of sounds filled the vestibule, followed by the acrid smell of cigarette smoke. Smoking had been outlawed in places like these years ago, but those charged with enforcing the law rarely did. Inside, El Malaga had its share of de rigueur low lighting, red and gold flocked wallpaper, faux gilt embellished woodwork, and cigarette burns in its almost-leather upholstered banquettes. But what made this place unique were the owner’s two primary passions: painting and women. El Malaga earned him the money to sustain and display them both. Stark, Picasso-like images of exaggerated nudes in exotic poses filled the walls, and one of El Malaga’s grand parlor games involved trying to guess the women who’d been the models. In some cases it was obvious, because the woman had proudly claimed the portrait as her own by writing her name beneath it. Others simply smiled to themselves as they listened to patrons guess at their identities. But the owner wouldn’t name names, for it was his inviolate discretion that kept him in models.