Jeffrey Siger: Target: Tinos

“I’ll put him to bed. Go away or he’ll never go to sleep.”

Andreas kissed Tassaki and went to their bedroom. He kicked off his shoes and plopped on the bed. He shut his eyes and his mind wandered back to that taverna. He wondered if Kouros was also thinking of how close they’d just come to being another random, street crime fatality statistic.

He’d almost fallen asleep when he heard, “Thanks for coming home early.”

He opened his eyes. Lila was standing at the edge of the bed holding a book. He wasn’t about to tell her how he almost didn’t make it home. Ever. “I figured I’m already in enough hot water with you.”

“Smart choice.”

“You trained me right.”

She smiled. “Just keep working on the ‘don’t worry I won’t miss the wedding’ part.”

“Remind me again, why do you love me?”

“Because of your wonderful mind, compassionate nature, big-”

“Finally, the truth comes out.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, stud. It’s your big understanding heart. As represented by the wonderful surprise you sent me.”

God bless Maggie. “You mean those photographs of church weddings?”

“You did pick it out!” She held up the book.

“Maggie had a hand in it.”

“Sometimes, Kaldis, you’re too honest a cop.” Lila smiled and lightly patted him on the belly with her book. “So, what has you so distracted?”

It always amazed him how Lila sensed his moods. Still, he wasn’t going to talk about the taverna. It would only upset her. Besides, he wanted to forget it. He’d take the easy way out. “I thought we agreed no more involvement in my cases.” Involvement in one had almost cost Lila her life.

“I’m not trying to get involved, just curious. I think Tassaki’s having one parent at risk everyday is more than enough of a gamble on his future.”

“No reason to get heavy on me.”

She stared at him. “I’m just letting you know why you have no reason to worry about me getting involved. Our child means more to me than solving your cases.”

He wondered if that was meant as a jab at him, but decided to let it drop. After all, it was their wedding week and he was a missing-in-action participant.

Andreas reached up, took her hand, and kissed it. “I’m such a lucky guy.”

Lila poked him with her finger. “Don’t you ever forget it.”

Andreas kissed her hand again. “And you’re smart, too.”

Lila smiled. “Then why am I marrying a cop?”

Andreas grinned. “My impressive credentials.”

“What credentials?”

Andreas pulled her down onto the bed and proceeded to present his credentials to Lila’s very vocal satisfaction.

Finding the specific tsigani you’re looking for wasn’t as difficult as it once was, provided you had his cell phone number. Not all were poor and itinerant; many were well off and some very rich. Stefan fell somewhere in the middle but had major connections among them all. When Tassos finally reached him it was nearly midnight and Stefan said to meet at one of the lowest end skiladika clubs in all of Athens. Skiladika derived from the Greek word for “female dog” but it was a matter of debate whether applying that name to that sort of club was because of its relationship to the English-language connotation for “bitch” or the notorious howl of some female performers.

Skiladika were dark, cavernous places, filled with hardcore Greek bouzoukia music sung by third-rate singers playing through a haze of cigarette smoke to crowds of heavily drinking men, and bosom thrusting women prone to breaking into belly-dancing. To some, the places seemed more eastern than Greek and to others the Greek equivalent of an American, redneck country western bar. Skiladika were out of touch with the times on almost every level, which was precisely what made them so very popular.

This one was just off the National Road in a rundown area where you’d expect to find a skiladika but not a tsigani. It wasn’t their sort of neighborhood, or for that matter, neither was a skiladika their kind of place. Tassos figured that’s why Stefan picked it: he wanted to be anonymous, a hard thing for man of Stefan’s girth to achieve. Tassos pulled into the parking lot and sat for a few minutes watching the people heading inside. He wanted to get an idea of the crowd before going in. It looked much as he expected. Mostly working class types dressed up for a night out, and a mix of twenty-somethings slumming it from some of Athens’ wealthier parts.

Tassos trailed a group of kids up to the front door. They walked right in and he started to follow in behind them when a bouncer held up his hand. “Twenty euros to get in.”

Tassos pointed in the direction of the group in front of him. “You didn’t ask them to pay.”

“They’re regulars. Twenty euros or find another place.”

Tassos was tempted to use his badge, a guaranteed get-in-anywhere-for-free card, but that meant a surefire loss of anonymity for Stefan. Cops drew attention in these places. He pulled a twenty out of his pocket and handed it over. He thought to ask for a receipt but knew that request would likely target him as a taxman, an even less welcome visitor.

Directly inside the front door was a large bar area separated from the rest of the room by a ledge lined with bar stools. A six-foot wide break in the ledge was the only visible access to a main floor lined with long tables aimed directly at the stage. The tables were filling up fast. A man and several young women stood by the opening directing people to their tables, or at least their share of a table. No one was singing at the moment, which probably was why Tassos heard his name being called from the far end of the bar by the tsigani equivalent of Sydney Greenstreet’s “Fat Man” character in The Maltese Falcon.

“Tassos, over here.”

It was Stefan and he looked as if he’d been saving a barstool for Tassos by sitting on two, but when Tassos reached him he found Stefan place-holding a third stool with his foot. “Here, I saved you a seat.”

It was rare that Tassos felt slim, but as he adjusted to fit on one barstool this was just such an occasion. “Thanks, Stefan.”

Stefan gestured for the bartender to come over. “What would you like?”

“My twenty euros back from the gorilla at the front door.”

Stefan smiled. “Done. What else?”

“What do you mean ‘done’?” Tassos looked at the bartender. “I’ll have a beer.”

“I have an interest in this place.”

“You do?”

“You seemed surprised that a rom would be in this business?” Rom was the name tsigani preferred to be called.

“I am,” said Tassos.

“If you think about it, this sort of place is a natural fit for a lot of what I do.”

“I’d rather not.”

Stefan laughed. “Well, just so that I don’t ruin all your notions, I own only a very small part. What you might call a ‘rooting interest’ in its success courtesy of the other, more traditional owners.”

In other words, a payoff for God knows what he contributed. “Frankly, Stefan, unless you’re about to start naming your partners in this undoubtedly squeaky-clean taxpaying enterprise, do you mind if we get on to another subject?”

Stefan laughed. “This is why I always enjoy doing business with you. No pretenses, no courtesy.” Stefan’s laid-back, professorial style was beguiling to many, but Tassos knew it for what it was: elaborate camouflage for hustles and scams as ruthless and cunning as any run by the stereotypical worst of his kind.

“And no bullshit please. I need your help finding someone for me.”

“Who?”

“Don’t know, but somebody who knows something about those murders on Tinos.”