The Green Lama: Unbound (The Green Lama Legacy Book 3) by Adam Lance Garcia Page B

could you tell?”
    “The slouch. Americans always slouch when they drink, like they are lifting heavy weights.”
    Caraway ran his eye up and down her arched back. “And I take it you’re not American?”
    “Is my accent that bad?”
    “It’s pretty noticeable,” he said with a crooked smile.
    “Pity. You would think with all the Limeys and Yankees passing through here I would have at least picked up the accent.” She eyed Caraway as she took another drag of her cigarette. “So, are you going to offer me a drink or am I going to have to ask myself?”
    “You’re on your own, sweetheart. I don’t speak a lick of Greek and the bartender over there doesn’t seem to understand a drop of English.”
    “Iapetos, µ ορεί εσείς να δ σει σε ένα κορίτσι ένα οτό?” the woman called. The bartender rolled his eyes as he poured her a glass of whiskey and slid it over. Deftly catching the glass, she gulped down the amber liquid in a single swig. Caraway had to admit he was impressed. “So, you are with the Limey?” she asked indicating Ken with wave of her cigarette.
    “Billy Shakespeare over there?” Caraway said with a frustrated smile. “Yeah, I’m with him. Not that I have much choice.”
    She frowned, considering Ken as he chatted endlessly with Petros. “He likes to talk.”
    Caraway laughed. “You noticed that too, eh? Loves the sound of his own voice.”
    Her lips subtly curled at the corners. “What is your name, American?” she asked with a cloud of smoke.
    “John,” Caraway said, raising his glass.
    “Pleasure to meet you, John. Sotiria,” she said with a nod. “What brings you to the beautiful rock of Samothrace?”
    “Work, as in lack of and searching for.”
    Sotiria tilted her head. “Bad time to be looking for work, no?”
    Caraway shrugged. “Not like we have much choice.”
    Sotiria breathed in smoke. “No, I suppose we do not,” she said quietly.
    “Pretty crowded for this time of day, isn’t it?”
    Sotiria looked over the mass of people crowding the bar. “Yes, it should be slower, but then again, we all have something in common.”
    “And what’s that?”
    “Work, as in lack of and searching for.”
    “Don’t tell me you worked the docks like these creeps,” he said indicating the riffraff behind him.
    Sotiria raised an eyebrow at him. “I think I should take some offense at that, John.”
    “I didn’t mean to imply—”
    “None of these men are creeps. Except for those over there,” she said, indicating a particularly rancid group of men. “They are disgusting.”
    Caraway allowed himself a smile. He liked this bird, maybe because she reminded him so much of Francesca. Or probably because she didn’t.
    “But yes,” she continued, “I work the docks. Not in the way you think. I saw the way your eye moved, John. My father was a fisherman, and when my mother died, he brought me aboard. When he passed, the boat became mine and I survived on our—on my own, at least until the storms… I still have my boat, but the fish are gone…”
    A man appeared at Sotiria’s side. He was short but built, a man who had dedicated his life to the sea. With a drink sloshing around in his right hand, the man wrapped his left arm around Sotiria’s shoulder and smiled a broad, yellowed grin. Caraway crinkled his nose at the man’s overwhelming odor.
    “Sotiria, χορός µε µε,” the drunk said.
    “Αύριο, Nikolaos,” she calmly replied, carefully peeling off Nicholaos’s arm.
    The drunk stumbled, closing his eyes as he tried to think of a response. “Ah…” he slowly began,” υτός είναι αυτό ου εί ατε εµένα-ει ωµένος µε χθες. Αυτός είναι αυτό ου εί ατε.”
    Sotiria gave the man a thin, unwelcoming smile. “Και θα ω το ίδιο ράγµα αύριο,” she said. “αρακαλ, Nicholaos, κουβεντιάζω µε το φίλο µου.” Nicholaos’s tan and