where she lives."
I rubbed my hands together. "Who are we going to see next?"
"You will never find Michail knocking on doors," Grandma said. "Our enemies are smart. Maybe they will answer questions, but they will not tell the truth. They have no honor." Because the head of one of Greece's organized crime syndicates is a reliable moral barometer. "For now you must be patient. Whoever has him, they will make their demands soon."
"And if they don't?"
"The skordalia is ready." She poured the garlic goop into a bowl, sealed it with plastic wrap and stuck it in the fridge. "Tomorrow I will fry fish."
What else could I do? I wasn't exactly bad-guy material, despite the distinctive bend on one side of the family tree. Threats and torture weren't my way. At work my catchphrase was, "Can you pay this past-due bill at this time?" not, "Pony up the goods or die." Although I have heard stories about people in my line of work who stoop. Can't pay the three cents you owe? No problem. We'll come over and snatch your firstborn this afternoon .
As soon as she shuffled outside to crochet and gab with the wives, I grabbed the phone and called the only non-Family—capital F—member I knew in Greece.
Detective Melas picked up. "Are you calling on the home phone again?"
"Yes. Don't hang up—please!"
Big sigh. "What do you want?"
"Information." I told him about my visit to Dad's ex's house, told him what Grandma had said about her enemies and knocking on doors. Then I begged him to give me something—anything."
"No," he said. "Forget it. I'm the good guy. What kind of good guy would I be if I helped you get yourself killed? You want my help? Let me drive you to the airport."
"No. Staying. Even if I had a passport I'd stay."
"Lady, you've got a death wish."
" La la la . I can't hear you. Does that sound familiar?"
His voice dropped to an agitated whisper. "Your father isn't one of the good guys, Katerina. When he lived here he did bad things. I'm not telling you anything else. It isn't worth my life or my job. But the offer for a ride to the airport is always open. We can stop by the US Embassy in Athens and get you a passport."
I dumped the phone in its cradle, then went in search of my cell phone. Thirty minutes—and a minor skirmish with a customer service rep that I, by some miracle, won—later, I called him back.
"Melas," the detective said.
"It's Katerina."
"Ready to go to the airport?"
"Not going. I'm calling you on my cell phone. It's safe. Talk."
"Jesus," he said, "You're gonna get me killed. Okay. Jesus." He went silent for minute. "They say your father did wet work for your grandmother. You know what that is?"
"Who said?"
"Everyone. Old cops. Retired and dead."
I wondered how dead cops could say anything, but I didn't ask in case there was a blindingly obvious answer. "What's wet work?" It didn't sound good, whatever it was.
"What's wet?" he asked me.
"Water."
"Blood," he said. "Blood is wet. Wet work is murder. Assassination. Anything where blood is spilled. That's what your father did."
The room spun. My ears went all buzzy. "He's a truck driver."
Through the sudden static in my head Melas said, "Maybe he is, maybe he isn't. But he wasn't always a truck driver."
"Oh boy." Where the ceiling used to be there were now hundreds of black spots zinging into each other the way bumper cars do when they're being steered by drunks. "When you said he was Grandma's right fist I assumed you meant he did paperwork."
"That's Rita's job."
I chewed on my lip while I did some fast thinking. Whatever Dad used to do, he was still Dad. "Doesn't matter. I'm not going home until I find him."
"There's no record of his entry. He might not even be in Greece."
"If not Greece, then where?"
"He could still be in America. Why is your family so sure he's here?"
"Wait—how do you know there's no record?"
"Your grandmother had us check."
"Isn't that against some kind of good-guy code or something?"
"Just because we're on
I rubbed my hands together. "Who are we going to see next?"
"You will never find Michail knocking on doors," Grandma said. "Our enemies are smart. Maybe they will answer questions, but they will not tell the truth. They have no honor." Because the head of one of Greece's organized crime syndicates is a reliable moral barometer. "For now you must be patient. Whoever has him, they will make their demands soon."
"And if they don't?"
"The skordalia is ready." She poured the garlic goop into a bowl, sealed it with plastic wrap and stuck it in the fridge. "Tomorrow I will fry fish."
What else could I do? I wasn't exactly bad-guy material, despite the distinctive bend on one side of the family tree. Threats and torture weren't my way. At work my catchphrase was, "Can you pay this past-due bill at this time?" not, "Pony up the goods or die." Although I have heard stories about people in my line of work who stoop. Can't pay the three cents you owe? No problem. We'll come over and snatch your firstborn this afternoon .
As soon as she shuffled outside to crochet and gab with the wives, I grabbed the phone and called the only non-Family—capital F—member I knew in Greece.
Detective Melas picked up. "Are you calling on the home phone again?"
"Yes. Don't hang up—please!"
Big sigh. "What do you want?"
"Information." I told him about my visit to Dad's ex's house, told him what Grandma had said about her enemies and knocking on doors. Then I begged him to give me something—anything."
"No," he said. "Forget it. I'm the good guy. What kind of good guy would I be if I helped you get yourself killed? You want my help? Let me drive you to the airport."
"No. Staying. Even if I had a passport I'd stay."
"Lady, you've got a death wish."
" La la la . I can't hear you. Does that sound familiar?"
His voice dropped to an agitated whisper. "Your father isn't one of the good guys, Katerina. When he lived here he did bad things. I'm not telling you anything else. It isn't worth my life or my job. But the offer for a ride to the airport is always open. We can stop by the US Embassy in Athens and get you a passport."
I dumped the phone in its cradle, then went in search of my cell phone. Thirty minutes—and a minor skirmish with a customer service rep that I, by some miracle, won—later, I called him back.
"Melas," the detective said.
"It's Katerina."
"Ready to go to the airport?"
"Not going. I'm calling you on my cell phone. It's safe. Talk."
"Jesus," he said, "You're gonna get me killed. Okay. Jesus." He went silent for minute. "They say your father did wet work for your grandmother. You know what that is?"
"Who said?"
"Everyone. Old cops. Retired and dead."
I wondered how dead cops could say anything, but I didn't ask in case there was a blindingly obvious answer. "What's wet work?" It didn't sound good, whatever it was.
"What's wet?" he asked me.
"Water."
"Blood," he said. "Blood is wet. Wet work is murder. Assassination. Anything where blood is spilled. That's what your father did."
The room spun. My ears went all buzzy. "He's a truck driver."
Through the sudden static in my head Melas said, "Maybe he is, maybe he isn't. But he wasn't always a truck driver."
"Oh boy." Where the ceiling used to be there were now hundreds of black spots zinging into each other the way bumper cars do when they're being steered by drunks. "When you said he was Grandma's right fist I assumed you meant he did paperwork."
"That's Rita's job."
I chewed on my lip while I did some fast thinking. Whatever Dad used to do, he was still Dad. "Doesn't matter. I'm not going home until I find him."
"There's no record of his entry. He might not even be in Greece."
"If not Greece, then where?"
"He could still be in America. Why is your family so sure he's here?"
"Wait—how do you know there's no record?"
"Your grandmother had us check."
"Isn't that against some kind of good-guy code or something?"
"Just because we're on
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