Disorganized Crime: A Kat Makris Greek Mafia Novel by Alex A. King Page A
Authors: Alex A. King
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opposite teams, doesn't mean we don't sometimes borrow a cup of sugar."
"What about the ex girlfriend?"
"Dina? Forget her," he said. "She's a fruit."
I considered the angles—all two of them. "Maybe he went into protective custody. A witness protection thing."
"You believe that you'll believe anything." There was a pause. I pictured him scratching his head. "You're taking this well."
"Window dressing. On the inside I'm totally crazy."
"You give good window." He sounded dubious.
"So what do you think? Give me something, Detective Melas. Anything."
He sighed again. I'd pushed the guy into using up his yearly allotment of exasperation. "I think someone wants something and they're going to use him to get it. And I think he's in Greece, but he came in via a backdoor, same as you."
"Who can do that?"
"Money can cut a gordian knot faster than a sword."
"So whoever did this has a lot money?"
"Maybe even more than your family. If we can't find him and your grandmother can't either, then we're talking a lot of power. Wherever he is, they're hiding him well, and they'll keep doing that until they can use him. But from the stories I've heard about your father, I bet he's doing everything he can to escape. He's a resourceful man. Now do yourself a favor and go home."
"Never give up, never surrender," I said, and after thanking him, I punched END.
Now what?
With my phone at my disposal, I had a link to the outside world that didn't take a detour through my family.
Where to start? Where it all began, of course: With my Family—capital F—and whoever was their numero uno enemy.
I flopped back on my borrowed bed and got busy scouring the internet.
----
T he internet turned out to be a real know-it-all when it came to organized crime. I typed in what I wanted to know, and it coughed up the name of Grandma's biggest local nemesis. His name was George Kefalas, and he—among other things—was one of the country's biggest producers of table olives and olive oil. Kefalas Olives's main factory was nearby, in one of the city's beachside suburbs. An image search showed him to be a well-preserved mid-seventies man who enjoyed shaking hands with important-looking people.
His grudge against Grandma originated with a political dispute. About what, the internet didn't say. But the two families were enemies—sworn enemies, as far as Kefalas was concerned. Grandma didn't strike me as someone who divided enemies into sworn and not-sworn piles.
My first stop was going to be Kefalas Olives, but not until tomorrow. Jet lag was gunning for me, and it was coming on fast.
----
F or a moment the world was cotton candy-filled, chocolate-scented, and I had my own pony I'd named Delilah. Then the sun snuck into the bedroom and punched me in the eyes. I'd fallen asleep with the shutters open, and now I was paying the price. Something had crawled into my mouth to die during the night. It was currently decomposing on my tongue. Ugh.
The house was deserted again, so I made coffee, ate a piece of the hairy baklava on the counter, then cleaned up after myself. Fed and freshly caffeinated, I hit the shower and planned Operation Kefalas.
Grandma wasn't going to just let me have a car—not to go schmoozing with her enemies— so I rented one of my own online, with GPS and enough insurance to cover another Baby Dimitri molotov cocktail.
Walking through the gate was bound to come with a serving of uncomfortable questions, and maybe orders to sit and stay. So erring on the side of caution, I snuck out of the house and scaled the compound wall. They made it easy for me: lots of finger and footholds.
After a short hike through the orchards surrounding the property, I caught the bus to Volos, riding alongside an old woman with a bag of live chickens. Every so often they'd jostle about in the bag, their clucking bewildered. Probably they'd heard horror stories about soup and pie back in the yard, and now they were thinking this soup thing didn't seem
"What about the ex girlfriend?"
"Dina? Forget her," he said. "She's a fruit."
I considered the angles—all two of them. "Maybe he went into protective custody. A witness protection thing."
"You believe that you'll believe anything." There was a pause. I pictured him scratching his head. "You're taking this well."
"Window dressing. On the inside I'm totally crazy."
"You give good window." He sounded dubious.
"So what do you think? Give me something, Detective Melas. Anything."
He sighed again. I'd pushed the guy into using up his yearly allotment of exasperation. "I think someone wants something and they're going to use him to get it. And I think he's in Greece, but he came in via a backdoor, same as you."
"Who can do that?"
"Money can cut a gordian knot faster than a sword."
"So whoever did this has a lot money?"
"Maybe even more than your family. If we can't find him and your grandmother can't either, then we're talking a lot of power. Wherever he is, they're hiding him well, and they'll keep doing that until they can use him. But from the stories I've heard about your father, I bet he's doing everything he can to escape. He's a resourceful man. Now do yourself a favor and go home."
"Never give up, never surrender," I said, and after thanking him, I punched END.
Now what?
With my phone at my disposal, I had a link to the outside world that didn't take a detour through my family.
Where to start? Where it all began, of course: With my Family—capital F—and whoever was their numero uno enemy.
I flopped back on my borrowed bed and got busy scouring the internet.
----
T he internet turned out to be a real know-it-all when it came to organized crime. I typed in what I wanted to know, and it coughed up the name of Grandma's biggest local nemesis. His name was George Kefalas, and he—among other things—was one of the country's biggest producers of table olives and olive oil. Kefalas Olives's main factory was nearby, in one of the city's beachside suburbs. An image search showed him to be a well-preserved mid-seventies man who enjoyed shaking hands with important-looking people.
His grudge against Grandma originated with a political dispute. About what, the internet didn't say. But the two families were enemies—sworn enemies, as far as Kefalas was concerned. Grandma didn't strike me as someone who divided enemies into sworn and not-sworn piles.
My first stop was going to be Kefalas Olives, but not until tomorrow. Jet lag was gunning for me, and it was coming on fast.
----
F or a moment the world was cotton candy-filled, chocolate-scented, and I had my own pony I'd named Delilah. Then the sun snuck into the bedroom and punched me in the eyes. I'd fallen asleep with the shutters open, and now I was paying the price. Something had crawled into my mouth to die during the night. It was currently decomposing on my tongue. Ugh.
The house was deserted again, so I made coffee, ate a piece of the hairy baklava on the counter, then cleaned up after myself. Fed and freshly caffeinated, I hit the shower and planned Operation Kefalas.
Grandma wasn't going to just let me have a car—not to go schmoozing with her enemies— so I rented one of my own online, with GPS and enough insurance to cover another Baby Dimitri molotov cocktail.
Walking through the gate was bound to come with a serving of uncomfortable questions, and maybe orders to sit and stay. So erring on the side of caution, I snuck out of the house and scaled the compound wall. They made it easy for me: lots of finger and footholds.
After a short hike through the orchards surrounding the property, I caught the bus to Volos, riding alongside an old woman with a bag of live chickens. Every so often they'd jostle about in the bag, their clucking bewildered. Probably they'd heard horror stories about soup and pie back in the yard, and now they were thinking this soup thing didn't seem
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