Sons of Sparta: A Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis Mystery (5 page)

Chapter Five

Athens’ Gazi district sat not far to the northwest of the Acropolis and encircled the city’s old natural gasworks, from which the area took its name. Today, the gasworks had transformed into a modern museum and cultural center surrounded by vibrant restaurants and cafes. Greece’s free-spending boom years had helped turn the once-blighted area into a primary destination for partiers in a city then ranked number one for the best nightlife in Europe. But things were different now. With less money to spend and Gazi’s somewhat dangerous bordering neighborhoods becoming more so, business was off. But you could still find places where no one acted as if they’d heard of the financial crisis and all paid handsomely for the privilege of maintaining the pretension that they’d not been affected by it. At the top of that list was the spot Orestes had picked for their meeting, El Malaga.

Andreas stood on the sidewalk staring at two massive black doors, one with a florid gold “E,” the other with an equally ostentatious “M.”

Three six-foot six-inch bodybuilders in matching black suits and white shirts stood behind a red velvet rope administered by a buxom blonde wearing a black, what-you-see-is-what-you-get Hervé Léger minidress. Andreas assumed she was the gatekeeper, the three men her attack dogs. He smiled at the woman and stepped up to the rope.

She smiled back. “May I help you, sir?”

“Yes, I’d like to go inside.”

“Do you have a reservation?”

“No, I’m meeting someone already inside.”

“May I ask the name of the person you’re meeting?”

“Orestes.”

“You mean—”

“Yes, that Orestes.”

“And your name.”

“Just ‘guest’ will do fine. He’s expecting me.”

The woman’s smile faded. “I need to know your name, sir.”

“No, you don’t. He asked to see me. If you won’t let me in, no problem. I’ll just tell him the reason I missed our meeting was that the lovely lady at the door stopped me.”

She looked at her three men. One stepped forward. He had four inches on Andreas, forty pounds of muscle, and a scowl. “Petro, please show Mister ‘Guest’ to Orestes’ table.”

“Thank you,” Andreas smiled.

“And if there is some mistake,” she put on a smile, “please show him immediately back outside.”

Andreas gave her the thumbs-up. “It’s a deal.”

Petro opened one door and waved for Andreas to enter a dimly lit vestibule leading to another set of doors. They were alone in the vestibule and Andreas started to reach for the other set of doors when Petro put his hand on Andreas’ arm.

“Just a minute, Chief.”

Andreas looked at Petro. “Do I know you?”

The scowl turned to a smile. “I’m a cop assigned to headquarters security at GADA.”

“Are you working undercover here?”

“No, just trying to make a living. It’s a night job.”

Andreas smacked him on the shoulder. “Thanks for not giving me away.”

“I figured you wanted it that way. Come on, I’ll take you to Orestes’ table.”

Whether Petro was an honest cop earning extra money as a bouncer or something else, Andreas had no way of knowing. But he liked the guy’s style. “Stop by my office for a coffee sometime.”

“Thanks, I’d like that.”

Petro opened the door and a whoosh of sounds filled the vestibule, followed by the acrid smell of cigarette smoke. Smoking had been outlawed in places like these years ago, but those charged with enforcing the law rarely did. Inside, El Malaga had its share of
de rigueur
low lighting, red and gold flocked wallpaper, faux gilt embellished woodwork, and cigarette burns in its almost-leather upholstered banquettes. But what made this place unique were the owner’s two primary passions: painting and women. El Malaga earned him the money to sustain and display them both. Stark, Picasso-like images of exaggerated nudes in exotic poses filled the walls, and one of El Malaga’s grand parlor games involved trying to guess the women who’d been the models. In some cases it was obvious, because the woman had proudly claimed the portrait as her own by writing her name beneath it. Others simply smiled to themselves as they listened to patrons guess at their identities. But the owner wouldn’t name names, for it was his inviolate discretion that kept him in models.

Petro led Andreas through a bar area filled with courting young men and women into a larger room filled with linen-covered tables and an older crowd. A small stage at the far end of the room accommodated everything from intimate cabaret to hardcore urban
rebetiko
performances, depending upon the mood the owner decided to set for the room. Tonight the stage was empty.

They stopped at a table of six men near the stage. Andreas recognized Orestes. He sat huddled in conversation with the men on either side of him while the others laughed in animated conversation with a group of women at the next table. Andreas assumed the women’s table was next to the men’s for a reason. In these days of ubiquitous smartphone cameras, girlfriends of prudent, married big shots didn’t sit at the same table with their patrons.

“Thanks, Petro, I’ll take it from here.”

Petro nodded and left.

Andreas stood by the table and looked across at Orestes. Orestes ignored him. Andreas cleared his throat. Orestes still ignored him. “Excuse me, sir, my name is Andreas Kaldis.”

Orestes acted as if he didn’t hear him. Andreas walked up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me, sir, but I’m Andreas Kaldis—”

Without turning, Orestes said, “I know who you are. I’ll speak to you when I’m finished speaking to my friends.”

The two men with Orestes smirked.

“But there’s no place for me to sit at your table, sir.”

“Then you’ll have to stand.”

The men laughed.

“No problem, sir.”

Andreas walked over to an empty chair at the women’s table. “Mind if I sit here, ladies?” Without waiting for an answer he sat down and flashed his most charming Cary Grant smile at the blonde to his right and brunette to his left.

“My name is Andreas, what’s yours?”

The women looked nervously at the men’s table.

“Oh, don’t worry about them, I’m here to see Orestes. We’re all old friends.”

The blonde smiled. “I’m Sasha.”

“Hilda,” said the brunette.

Both spoke Greek with distinctly Eastern European accents and looked to be less than half, if not a third, the age of Orestes’ guests.

“So, how long have you known Orestes?” said Andreas.

“We just met him tonight,” said the blonde.

“We’re with his friends,” said the brunette.

“
Hey you
, get away from that table.” It was one of the two men talking with Orestes. He spoke Greek without an accent.

Andreas turned to the man, lifted his hand, and motioned with his forefinger for the man to come to him.

“Fuck you, asshole, I said get away from that table.”

Andreas turned away from him, leaned in, and said to the girls, “I hope that one’s not yours.”

The brunette gestured no.

Andreas smiled. “Lucky you.” He turned to the blonde, pressed his lips close to her ear, and said, “I assume that means he’s all yours.” He kept his lips next to her ear, but out of the corner of his eye watched the man bolt up from his chair and storm toward him. He looked like a small, sixty-year-old bull. In heat.

Without moving from the woman’s ear Andreas put up his hand in a sign for the man to stop. Instead the man grabbed Andreas’ arm and yanked him out of the chair.

With his free hand Andreas grabbed the man around the waist and laughed as he began quickly spinning them around together. “My, my what would your wife say if she knew about us carrying on like this in public?”

The man let go of Andreas’ hand and Andreas abruptly stopped spinning, letting go of the man’s waist as he did and sending him stumbling into the women’s table. Before the man could regain his balance, Andreas steered him by his shoulders down onto the seat between the blonde and brunette. He tried to stand, but Andreas gripped his shoulders and held him down. “I suggest you stay here. It will be far less a scandal than what will happen if you try to stand up.”

Andreas smiled at the people staring at them from the other tables. “Don’t be alarmed, folks, just a little lovers’ quarrel.” He leaned down, kissed the top of the man’s head, and whispered. “Like I said,
stay
.”

Andreas stepped over to Orestes’ table and sat in the now empty chair next to him. “So, what is it you want to tell me? Or would you prefer that I ask you to dance, too?”

Orestes glared but didn’t respond. He waved for a waiter. “Please find us a private table for two.”

The waiter bowed. “Certainly, please follow me.”

He led them to an isolated table in the corner farthest from the front door.

Andreas sat with his back to the wall and stared at Orestes’ eyes.

“Do you know who that man you just embarrassed is?” said Orestes, staring back.

“You mean my dance partner?”

“He’s the most successful contractor in Greece. His companies build harbors, airports, dams, bridges, power plants.”

“I assume you mean the most successful
unindicted
contractor in Greece.”

“I don’t like you, Kaldis.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“I can have you replaced.”

“Try.”

Orestes turned his head and motioned to a waiter serving a nearby table. “Bring me my drink.” He looked back at Andreas. “You should know better than to turn on your own kind.”

“My ‘own kind?’ What kind is that?”

“Greeks, of course. But not just any Greeks. I’m talking about those of us with the power and ability to achieve great things.”

“Not sure I follow you.”

The waiter arrived carrying a bottle of scotch and a snifter. He placed the glass in front of Orestes and poured in a ten count of Johnny Walker Blue Label.

“A glass for my friend.”

“No thank you, I’ll have a Mythos.”

“Ahh, despite your champagne bride, you retain your beer roots.”

Andreas pointed at the glass in Orestes’ hand. “Don’t let the courage in that go to your head. You keep talking like that and you’ll learn a few more practices I’ve carried over from my roots.”

Orestes raised his free hand. “No offense intended. I simply meant to compliment you on how well you’ve retained the charm of your origins. But I do wonder how you would have turned out had you not found your way to Lila.”

“And I wonder how you would have turned out had it not been your father’s sperm that found its way to your mother.”

Orestes’ hand shook as he squeezed his glass. Andreas had clearly struck a nerve. This man was the scion of a political family, with a prime minister or two in his ancestry. But on his own, Orestes had achieved no more than what easily came through profiting off the influence of his father’s name.

“Easy there, you wouldn’t want to break the glass and bloody your own hands.”

The waiter returned with a beer and placed a glass in front of Andreas.

“In deference to your social standing, I’ll drink this beer out of a glass,” said Andreas.

The waiter poured the beer.

Andreas lifted his glass up toward Orestes. “
Yia sas.
”

Orestes jerked his snifter forward, clinked Andreas’ glass, and mumbled, “
Yia sas
.”

Andreas took a sip and put down the beer. “As I see it, you need me a lot more than I need you. Your buddies over there don’t know it yet, but you’re all on the verge of becoming extinct. It’s the curse of getting what you wished for. For generations your family and others like it have been turning every government opportunity into personal jackpots. It didn’t matter what was involved. Defense, hospitals, public construction, agriculture—anything our government had a hand in, you found a way to squeeze something out of for yourselves. But that was never enough. You wanted to be ‘as rich as the Arabs’ and along came these Cretan gas fields and you thought they’d be your payday. But
surprise
! Something’s happened you never anticipated. You’re used to playing in a rigged, small-time game against amateurs. But now the stakes are much larger and mega-rich big boys who play by rules far tougher and dirtier than any you ever imagined are taking over the game. You’re scared shitless of losing your money spigot.”

Orestes waved his hand. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really? Let’s see. Greece’s finances are under microscopic scrutiny by a host of world financial powers to whom we owe umpteen zillion euros. It has a reputation as one of the most corrupt countries in the world, a disenchanted population heading more into poverty than out, political extremists in Parliament ready, willing, and, God forbid, able to plunge the country into civil war, and you think you can continue to do your little back room ‘a bit for me a bit for you’ bullshit dance to get anything you want out of our government? Wake up and smell the coffee, man. But you’d better hurry, for soon it, too, may not be Greek.”

“That’s just my point.”

“What is?”

“Greece should profit Greeks, not foreigners.”

“I assume you mean
some
Greeks.”

“Does it matter as long as the money stays in our country? If foreigners control our gas, the profits will leave our country. Greece will be nothing more than a colony, exploited to serve other countries.”

“Spare me the political rhetoric. Money squirreled away in Swiss bank accounts isn’t helping Greece.”

“But foreigners won’t care what happens to our beloved Greece. They’ll destroy our seas, our beaches, our very way of life to profit themselves.”

“You’re really trying to push every button, aren’t you? Trouble is, your facts are wrong. Foreigners have shown more concern than our government at protecting our environment. Greece has been penalized so often by the EU for environmental violations that fines are considered part of the cost of doing business here.”

Orestes impatiently waved off Andreas’ words. “I’m talking about massive, irreversible ecological disasters on the scale of what happened to America’s Gulf Coast in 2010 at the hands of disinterested foreigners. And look what the Russian geologists did to Turkmenistan in 1971. They tapped into a cavern filled with natural gas and started a fire that still burns today. The locals call it their ‘gate to hell.’ Then there’s Chernobyl. No one likes to talk about it anymore, but it still haunts and poisons us every day. If that’s the kind of foreign expertise the world has to offer us, I say no thank you.”