Disorganized Crime: A Kat Makris Greek Mafia Novel by Alex A. King Page B
Authors: Alex A. King
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so bad. Poor, stupid chickens.
A half hour—and a stack of paperwork later—the tiny Toyota Yaris was mine-ish, and I was wending my way along the Pagasetic Gulf's beachside road, bound for Agria, a small village that had been recently gulped down by the city.
Pretty place. Very touristy. Lots of semi-naked people strolling around, collecting rays. Just a wild guess, but the tanned bodies were locals, while the white and red had to be out-of-towners, here to cultivate their very own melanomas.
The talking map—which I'd silenced with the stab of a button—told me to hike left at the next corner. So, seeing no reason to get all creative and disobey it, I took the next left and found myself on a street without all the spit polish of the promenade. This one was a mixture of warehouses and smallish factories, most of them with sad, graffitied faces. The place stunk like Brooklyn in early August. Garbage, or something like it. The Kefalas Olive factory was hogging the corner, giant wood door raised halfway, like it couldn't figure out if it was closed or open for business.
I parked at the curb, under the pathetic shade of a wannabe tree, jogged across the street, stuck my head under the door.
"Hello?"
This was the source of the stink. The factory was pouring an olive brine river into the street, where the hot road and sun were rotting it fast. The place looked empty, what I could see of it.
Something bit my ass. I yelped and jumped in the same moment, bashing my head on the sliding door.
My survival instincts told me to hit first, ask questions when it was too late and I was already in handcuffs, but my customer service training kicked in, limiting my reaction to a primal yell. Two young guys swaggered to a stop as I roared. They blew me kisses, wolf whistled. Barely out of middle school, the two of them.
"Jesus Christ," I muttered.
Both kids had music video hair, gelled into fauxhawks. The one closest to me smirked as he dragged his gaze up and down my body like he was painting a fence. "You don't have to call me Jesus Christ in public. Save it for when you're on my dick."
"Where are your mothers?" I shouted.
The other kid looked at his buddy. "My sister's a bitch when she's bleeding, too."
I launched into them, describing in great detail what I'd do if I was truly my grandmother's granddaughter. By the time they started moving again, their grins were dead and they'd lost some of that swagger.
Did I feel guilty?
Yep.
Must have been the good Greek girl buried inside me. The one buried inside the gangster's kid. Concealed under the all-American slick of makeup. A regular Russian nesting doll. Just two days ago, I'd been the average slightly lower than middle class American woman. Today I was one of the Corleone grandkids. Which made my father one of the Corleone kids. Hopefully not Sonny or Fredo. Spoiler alert: Nothing good happened to those poor saps.
On the other side of the door, inside the olive factory, something moved. More of a feeling than a sound. Someone—or something—knew I'd come calling. Which wasn't exactly a surprise. It's why I'd called out. I wasn't exactly shooting for stealth. Still, now I was wishing I'd brought a flamethrower, because I couldn't help thinking about—of all places—Japan.
When people's minds turn to horrifying, deadly creatures, usually the first place that pops into their heads is Australia. Okay, Australia is filled with snakes, spiders, and jellyfish that want to murder you, but they're working slowly. New Zealand is shipping over fresh meat faster than the wildlife can whack 'em.
But me, my first thought is always Japan. Because they have the hornet to end all hornets (and other living creatures): the Japanese giant hornet, or as they call it in their home country, the giant sparrow bee. It can be the length of a finger and as thick as two. It will puncture you with its stinger. It will holler for all its hornet buddies. And together they will kill you. Why?
A half hour—and a stack of paperwork later—the tiny Toyota Yaris was mine-ish, and I was wending my way along the Pagasetic Gulf's beachside road, bound for Agria, a small village that had been recently gulped down by the city.
Pretty place. Very touristy. Lots of semi-naked people strolling around, collecting rays. Just a wild guess, but the tanned bodies were locals, while the white and red had to be out-of-towners, here to cultivate their very own melanomas.
The talking map—which I'd silenced with the stab of a button—told me to hike left at the next corner. So, seeing no reason to get all creative and disobey it, I took the next left and found myself on a street without all the spit polish of the promenade. This one was a mixture of warehouses and smallish factories, most of them with sad, graffitied faces. The place stunk like Brooklyn in early August. Garbage, or something like it. The Kefalas Olive factory was hogging the corner, giant wood door raised halfway, like it couldn't figure out if it was closed or open for business.
I parked at the curb, under the pathetic shade of a wannabe tree, jogged across the street, stuck my head under the door.
"Hello?"
This was the source of the stink. The factory was pouring an olive brine river into the street, where the hot road and sun were rotting it fast. The place looked empty, what I could see of it.
Something bit my ass. I yelped and jumped in the same moment, bashing my head on the sliding door.
My survival instincts told me to hit first, ask questions when it was too late and I was already in handcuffs, but my customer service training kicked in, limiting my reaction to a primal yell. Two young guys swaggered to a stop as I roared. They blew me kisses, wolf whistled. Barely out of middle school, the two of them.
"Jesus Christ," I muttered.
Both kids had music video hair, gelled into fauxhawks. The one closest to me smirked as he dragged his gaze up and down my body like he was painting a fence. "You don't have to call me Jesus Christ in public. Save it for when you're on my dick."
"Where are your mothers?" I shouted.
The other kid looked at his buddy. "My sister's a bitch when she's bleeding, too."
I launched into them, describing in great detail what I'd do if I was truly my grandmother's granddaughter. By the time they started moving again, their grins were dead and they'd lost some of that swagger.
Did I feel guilty?
Yep.
Must have been the good Greek girl buried inside me. The one buried inside the gangster's kid. Concealed under the all-American slick of makeup. A regular Russian nesting doll. Just two days ago, I'd been the average slightly lower than middle class American woman. Today I was one of the Corleone grandkids. Which made my father one of the Corleone kids. Hopefully not Sonny or Fredo. Spoiler alert: Nothing good happened to those poor saps.
On the other side of the door, inside the olive factory, something moved. More of a feeling than a sound. Someone—or something—knew I'd come calling. Which wasn't exactly a surprise. It's why I'd called out. I wasn't exactly shooting for stealth. Still, now I was wishing I'd brought a flamethrower, because I couldn't help thinking about—of all places—Japan.
When people's minds turn to horrifying, deadly creatures, usually the first place that pops into their heads is Australia. Okay, Australia is filled with snakes, spiders, and jellyfish that want to murder you, but they're working slowly. New Zealand is shipping over fresh meat faster than the wildlife can whack 'em.
But me, my first thought is always Japan. Because they have the hornet to end all hornets (and other living creatures): the Japanese giant hornet, or as they call it in their home country, the giant sparrow bee. It can be the length of a finger and as thick as two. It will puncture you with its stinger. It will holler for all its hornet buddies. And together they will kill you. Why?
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