There’s a major drawback to drinking a full bottle of ouzo alone. It’s called the next morning. For me, this morning had come way too soon, an abrasive intruder as abrupt and as harsh as the knocking at the door that was evicting me from my sanctuary of sleep.
One eye fluttered open. My head hung slightly over the edge of the bed. The first thing I saw was the empty ouzo bottle sitting in the bedroom doorway. I tried, but I could not remember how it had ended up in that particular location—or, for that matter, how it had gotten empty. But there it was, greeting me with a cheery, Good morning, asshole. Looking at it made my stomach turn. I closed my eyes, and I would have kept them that way, but another series of rapid knocks, these accompanied by a familiar voice, forced them back open.
“Stuart? Stuart, are you awake? We have to be going soon. You do not want to miss your plane.” It was Niki, asking me a very difficult question. “Stuart, wake up.” More head-splitting door rapping. “We should be going soon.”
She rattled the doorknob. I didn’t remember doing it, but I must have locked the door. “I … I am awake,” I grumbled. Technically, it wasn’t a lie.
“Why do I hear nothing? Stuart, are you … are you even dressed?”
I looked down at my body and saw that I was still wearing last night’s dinner clothes. “I’m dressed. I’m just … I’m just getting a few more things together.”
“I do not hear you moving,” she said, her voice climbing to the pitch of doubt. Her tone had a similar effect to the sound of a dog sliding off a tin roof, trying to get a grip. “Stuart, are you up?” More doorknob rattling. “You tell me the truth.”
I threw a leg out of the bed and plopped a foot on the floor to make some convincing noise. “I’m up. Just hold your dang horses.” I sat up, squinted against the blare of sun, and swallowed hard at whatever was trying to swim up my esophagus. I staggered to my feet and shuffled like a sickly old man to my suitcase. Seizing the handful of undershorts—the sum total of my packing effort—I stepped to the door and threw it open. I held up the shorts as if I were showing off a first-place trophy I’d won in a lying match. “I’m packing,” I grumbled. “What’s the big hurry?”
Niki stood as still as a stone post. Crisp blouse, shorts, tennis shoes, visor—all white—evoked the image of a fresh field of sun-drenched daisies. I knew I was in trouble when her face morphed from concern to a condition better described as a horrified gape. Her wide eyes scanned me like a bar code and then shifted and locked radarlike on the empty bottle in the doorway. She pushed past me, marched straight for the bottle, snatched it up, and verified its emptiness.
“You … you drank this whole thing?”
My stomach rolled like a crab boat in a North Sea storm. My vision fuzzed when I said, “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss it.”
She gave me another scan. I felt like I was being charged double. “Your clothes. You … you slept in them?”
I looked down and saw half my front shirttail hanging out. Niki was already shaking her head when I started to stuff the shirttail back in.
“You are not going to wear that again.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“What is wrong with it?” Her voice seethed with disgust. She brushed me aside like a cobweb and started rummaging through dresser drawers, tossing things and muttering what I assumed were Greek profanities. I was about to launch a protest when she turned and thrust a pair of shorts into my hands. “Wear these.” She stepped to the closet, snatched out a short-sleeved blue striped shirt, and tossed it over the shorts. “Ten minutes.” She glanced sternly at her watch. “You will pack and meet me at the patio in ten minutes.” She started for the door and then stopped. “And see that you do something with that disgusting hair. You look like … like a road-killed peacock.” She stalked off.
“Well, yes, ma’am,” I said to the empty space that her hint of perfume still occupied. I glanced at my reflection in a mirror that hung next to the door. The hair was a little messed up—nothing a splash of water and a baseball hat couldn’t fix. But the peacock thing? I was willing to bet that even the great Dr. Niki Mikos had never seen a road-killed peacock standing on its own two feet.
“Welcome to the world of the living.” Niki stood next to the golf cart and trailer rig, arms crossed, regarding me coldly as I approached. Sunglasses did nothing to hide her disgust. I moved toward her with slow, deliberate steps, the inside of my head throbbing like a heavy metal rock concert. I desperately needed to throw up, but I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing I was getting what I deserved.
I shuffled to the trailer with the enthusiasm of a dyslexic on his way to a spelling bee. After hoisting my hastily packed luggage into the trailer, I plopped into the passenger side of the cart. Niki slipped into the driver’s seat and stared straight ahead, massaging the wheel as if she couldn’t decide which end of me she’d start on. She was either going to jump down my throat or start chewing my ass. Like I needed a lecture. I already had enough self-loathing to swear off alcohol for the next four lifetimes. Anything she could heap on was going to slide right off the pile.
Surprisingly, there was no lecture. Instead, she pulled a folded check from the pocket of her blouse and tossed it in my lap.
“What’s this?”
“You have eyes, do you not? Or are they still too bleary to read?”
She floored the cart—a head-jerking, bile-sloshing lunge that nearly caused me to hurl into my own lap.
“Do you mind?” I protested, searching desperately for some part of the scenery that wasn’t undulating. I could have been a sack of oats for all she cared. God, I needed to puke, but I fought it with every last ounce of concentration. I unfolded the check. It didn’t make sense. It was the money I’d given back to Barnes. “What’s this?”
“What does it look like? If it were up to me, I would give you nothing. But the money, it belongs to Rufus, not me. For reasons beyond my understanding, he wishes for you to keep it.”
“What do you mean, he wishes for me to keep it? I didn’t do anything to earn it.”
“I agree 157 percent. But Rufus, he is no ordinary man. If he thinks there is a chance that he has misled you, he will not take back the money. But I tell you, he did not know that Christian and Sergio had quit. Neither of us knew, not until we got here. Nicholas, he tried to call Rufus, but the telephone was down. Giving you this money is his way of apologizing for a mistake he did not make. Giving it back, if you ask my opinion, is his only mistake.”
I didn’t recall asking, but I had a feeling that the fee for a trip to Santorini was going to be a boatload of unsolicited opinions. “Guess you saw Barnes?”
“While you slept away the morning, we were having breakfast.”
“Breakfast?” Even the sound of the word did something to my stomach. It must have done something to my face as well, and Niki didn’t miss it.
“Dora cooked up a big, fluffy ham-and-cheese omelet—three eggs, I think—smoked bacon, sausage links, toast, a side of pancakes and maple syrup. And butter, lots and lots of butter.”
“May you explode.”
“What? You do not eat breakfast, the most important meal of the day? Perhaps you prefer a big glass of ouzo? Better yet, the whole bottle.” An arm flew up, encompassing the entire universe. “Can you not just taste it now? Licorice. Yum, yum. So good for the stomach, no?”
A wave of sickness rolled over me.
“If you’re looking for a reaction, you may just get one—all over those pretty white shoes of yours.”
She blew a short, impatient breath. “Men. So stupid sometimes.”
“You know, I think something happens to you when you put on white. It brings out all your … your pent-up piety.”
“Piety? Me? Ha! I wonder that men are so much alike. You turn off your brains, and you get drunk all the time. And then you sleep all day. You are lazy. All of you. I do not do any of these things, so I am pious? Ha!”
“All right,” I conceded, anxious to put an end to the ricocheting sound of her voice inside my head. “We’re all stupid, we get drunk, and we sleep all day because we’re lazy. It’s the holy trinity of characteristics that define the entire male species. Everyone knows it’s a well-established, scientifically proven fact. So, now that we got that settled, maybe you can show some pity and cut me a little slack.”
Niki’s smoldering glare said that she wasn’t sure if she was done with me.
I refolded the check, knowing, as I slipped it back into my pocket, that I couldn’t keep the money. Maybe Barnes really had thought the cave was farther along than it was. He wasn’t trying to trick me; he just didn’t know his help had fled. Maybe leaving was a mistake after all.
The cart hissed through puddles left by the storm. I cursed my self-inflicted sickness, cursed the fact that I was more interested in finding a place to lie down than in grappling with the rights and wrongs of my decision to leave. I closed my eyes and tried to sort through the mishmash of a choice I might later regret.
We were just coming around the last bend before the dock when I heard a sound so out of context that I didn’t recognize it. Then, at the same instant I knew it was the ping of a driver smacking a golf ball, Niki gasped, “Oh my god!” My eyes flashed open; my brain scrambled to take in a scene that was just as unexpected as the ping. Two men in suits and dark glasses stood on the dock; one of the men was still in the upswing stance of a completed drive. I searched the sky, found his ball, and watched it arc slow and high before plunking a respectable distance into the sea. The mystery man, whoever the hell he was, could hit a golf ball.
At the dock, next to Barnes’s cruiser, I noticed a sleek black powerboat, a Cigarette boat to be exact. Named for their long, narrow design, Cigarettes were built to smoke on the water—or, more accurately, just above it. I’d watched them race on television. They were the “muscle cars” of the water; their V-hull, closed-bow design, coupled with high-horsepower engines, sent them planing over the water at speeds up to a hundred miles an hour. I remembered the announcer saying that there were two requirements for owning a Cigarette boat: a lust for speed and a hell of a lot of money.
“Do you know those guys?” I asked, glancing between Niki’s startled face and the two men.
“I am afraid we both know them.”
I did a double take. She was right. It was Gustavo Giacopetti who had just made the shot. Vito was the spectator. My heart started pumping even harder when I saw my stolen backpack slung over Vito’s broad shoulder.
At the dock, Niki brought the cart to a squeaking stop. We stepped out. I tried to appear casual, but I felt terrible, and my stomach was knotted tighter than a wet rope. Giacopetti, on the other hand, was all smiles, greeting us like old friends on the golf course. He knew we’d seen his shot, and he was gloating.
“You know,” Giacopetti said, “I once thought the three wood was the best driver. But now”—he stroked the club as though it were a naked woman—“I think I have found a new love. Big Bertha. Well named, would you not agree, Mr. Adams?”
If he was trying to draw something sexy from the name, we’d obviously hit upon a cultural difference. I had no fond memories of Bertha—the name or the driver. I had an aunt named Bertha. The only thing I remembered about her was that she was fat, drank straight whiskey, smoked like a chimney, and smelled like a locker room after football practice on a hot day. As for the driver, I’d tried Callaway’s titanium wonder once, but it was, like most number ones, too long and cumbersome for me.
“A lot of guys I know like ’em,” I said, careful to avoid offending Giacopetti’s taste in drivers and women, “but you can give me your three wood any day.”
“Then perhaps I can make a believer of you.” Giacopetti removed a ball from his suit pocket and handed it and the club to me. “Please, be my guest.”
I felt bad enough to guarantee a blown shot, which, under the circumstances, would be the most prudent thing to do. I placed the ball on the edge of the dock and flexed the shaft to at least make it look as though I had a good feel for the club.
I prepared for the swing: eye on the ball, head down, left shoulder up, tried to relax my grip. I drew back and intentionally came down with something less than my normal power. The club head glanced off the dock, catching the upper half of the ball. The thing scurried like a little white rat twenty-five yards out into the water. Perfect.
“Damn,” I said, handing the club back to Giacopetti. “Same thing happened to me last time.”
Giacopetti, obviously pleased at the screwup, shook his head sympathetically. “Perhaps you would like to try another?”
I was about to refuse when Niki stepped forward, surprising us both.
“May I?” she asked.
Giacopetti hesitated. “But of course,” he said, suddenly fumbling another ball from his pocket.
I tried to catch her eye and send some signal to mess up. She wouldn’t look at me. All I could do was pray like hell that she’d flub the drive. Niki took her stance and, for a painfully long moment, concentrated fully on the ball. I happened to glance at Vito. He wasn’t watching Niki. He was looking at me, dead-on, a menacing smile set in his face. No one had better outdo his boss.
I turned back to Niki. In a graceful motion befitting her beauty, she struck with power I’d never seen from a woman. She smacked that ball as if she were teeing off Giacopetti’s crotch. The thing climbed in slow motion through the air and sailed as though it’d caught the jet stream. Finally, it dropped, a real bad forty-five yards beyond Giacopetti’s.
Niki handed the club to Giacopetti. “Garbage.”
My insides cringed. Why couldn’t she have waited until after I was gone to destroy the ego of her father’s murderer? Suddenly Colorado looked like a real healthy option.
An indignant Giacopetti snatched the club and glowered at Niki for an annoyed moment. He turned to his bodyguard, and the big man handed him my backpack. Giacopetti passed it to me.
“As you can see, the police have recovered your belongings. I volunteered to return them to you—personally. You will be pleased to know that everything appears to be in order.”
I took it and thanked him.
“You are not going to check the contents?”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
Giacopetti hadn’t intended to let it go that easily. “I must confess, Mr. Adams, I found the beginnings of your story quite fascinating. American spy? A priceless scroll plastered into a cave wall?” He lit a cigarette and blew out a long stream of smoke. “I could not put it down. I read it over and over. I cannot wait to read this book of yours. Even Vito—not an avid reader, mind you—even he enjoyed it. Is this not right, Vito?” The big man cracked an evil grin. “And the journal entries? Quite intriguing. If one did not know that you were a novelist, he might easily suspect that there actually is a scroll.” He took another puff from the cigarette. “Then, there is the photograph. A hoax?” He frowned. “Of course I have the greatest respect for the opinion of Inspector De Santis. He has a well-trained eye for such things. But now I am not so certain that I share his opinion. You see, Mr. Adams, I took the liberty of having this photograph examined—by an expert. He reached a very different conclusion. Linear A? On parchment? An unlikely combination, indeed. Why would a talented forger waste his time creating such a completely unorthodox document? Who would buy it?”
His phony enthusiasm was starting to wear thin. “Look, Mr. Giacopetti, I don’t know anything about that kind of stuff. I appreciate your efforts in getting this back to me”—I hoisted the backpack—“but if you don’t mind, I’ve got a plane to catch. We need to be going.”
“You sound slightly perturbed, Mr. Adams. I hope you do not mind my taking this liberty with your photograph.”
“I told you before, it’s not my photograph.”
“Yes, of course. According to your journal, the photograph belongs to the very man that owns this estate, Mr. R. Wesley Barnes. He believes that the scroll is here on Sarnafi, in a collapsed cave. Perhaps Mr. Barnes would not mind if Vito and I had a look at this cave?”
“Mr. Barnes would not mind,” Niki said, “if you can provide a search warrant of the premises.”
“A search warrant?” Giacopetti stepped directly in front of Niki, his eyes crawling up her body like a snake on the hunt. “I see no need to involve the police. You should know that your lack of cooperation could have serious consequences on your ability to work in our country. Of course, it does not have to come to that. Now, I would love to discuss this matter in a more … private setting. Over dinner, perhaps?”
“Rot in hell,” Niki said, and she spat at his feet.
Giacopetti forced the indignation from his face. “A woman as feisty as she is beautiful. Qualities I truly admire. It troubles me that I have failed to win your trust. Perhaps if you knew me better—”
“I don’t think she wants to know you any better.” I heard myself blurt the words. “I sure as hell don’t.” My heart was hammering in my chest, my breath growing shallow. A flood of adrenaline threw a quiver into my voice. “Why don’t you and your friend get back in your boat and putter the hell out of here.”
From the corner of my eye I could see Vito stiffen, ready to lunge. Giacopetti looked at me as if I were a foul odor. He tapped me on the chest with the handle of the golf club and nodded toward his bodyguard. “Vito is a very sensitive man, Mr. Adams. Perhaps it would … soothe his concerns, if you were to apologize for your … vile remarks.” He took a long drag off his cigarette, and he blew the smoke into my face.
I grabbed the handle of the club and jerked it out of his hand. Vito, his barrel chest nearly popping buttons from his shirt, took a step toward me. I cocked the club, ready to start swinging. Vito’s hand slipped beneath his jacket, going, no doubt, for his gun. My heart raced. Giacopetti raised a hand, and the big man froze in readiness.
Giacopetti remained cool. “I see you are fond of this club. Please, consider it my farewell gift.” He smiled arrogantly. “I assume you are returning to America?”
I just stared at him, clinching the club handle to keep my hands from shaking.
“A good choice,” he said. He turned back to Niki. “And you, Dr. Mikos, you can be certain that I will be keeping an eye on you.” He scanned her body again. “Indeed. If you wish to keep working in Greece, you will learn to be more cooperative. I assure you, we are not finished with this matter.”
Giacopetti delivered a slight bow, and the men sauntered to the boat. Giacopetti stepped to the helm and brought the engine grumbling to life. He offered a loose farewell salute, pulled away from the dock, and then gunned the Cigarette. In an incredible burst of speed, the boat lifted in the water and disappeared like a tormented demon screaming all the way back to hell. Vito’s eyes never left me.
“Bastard!” Niki said, a spasm of repugnance distorting her face. “You should have clubbed that … that swine. I would do it myself.” She turned and started for the trailer. “He has made us late. Now we must hurry, or you will miss your flight.” She started pulling my luggage out of the trailer.
I was still holding Giacopetti’s golf club. Suddenly it felt dirty in my hands. I flung it as far as I could into the sea. When it hit the water, Niki’s eyes shot up.
“Why did you do that?”
A strange thing had happened. The rush of adrenaline had eradicated my hangover. I felt as good as ever. But there was something more—a flash of clarity. Suddenly I knew what I had to do.
I took a calming breath. “I want you to take me back to the villa. There’s something I need to tell Barnes.”
The puzzlement in Niki’s face deepened. “What? But there is no time. You are going to miss your—”
“I’m staying.”
It was gratifying payback to watch her jaw drop and her brow furrow, to see my suitcase slip from her fingers and roll over on its side. I couldn’t wait to see how she’d manage to take back all the derogatory remarks toward American manhood in general, and mine in particular.
“You … you are … what?”
“I said I’m staying.”
Niki blinked, studying me as if I were some unknown primate species. “But … but why? Giacopetti … he will be back. He will make sure that we do not dig out the cave.”
“No. Don’t you get it? This isn’t going to be a case for the Department of Antiquities, and he sure as hell doesn’t want the police in on it. He wants the scroll, and he plans on letting you dig it up for him.”
I could see in her darting eyes that she’d been so distracted by her contempt for Giacopetti that she hadn’t even considered his scheme until that moment.
“I would rather leave it to rot,” she said finally.
“Right. You think he’d believe that for a second? I don’t, and neither do you. You’re going to find that scroll, and you’re going to need my help.”
“Your help? How are you going to help? You will not lift rocks.”
“Maybe I changed my mind.”
Niki blinked and stared at me for a long, disbelieving moment. She took the couple of steps that brought her directly in front of me, her face brimming with skepticism.
“You … you will help with the dig?”
After all the barbs she’d thrown at me, it felt good to see her off balance.
“Somebody told me that rocks in Greece don’t move by themselves.”
“But … but Marion. You told her that you would—”
“I’ll worry about Marion,” I said, empowered by my own anger for allowing her to manipulate me. I lifted the check from my shirt pocket and held it up as if it were her set of instructions mandating my return home. “I promised Barnes a year. If that’s what it takes to find the scroll, then a year it is. I’m not breaking my word.”
I tore the check into a hundred pieces and threw it in the water. Tiny fish darted in and nibbled at the fragments.
Niki stared at me for a long, dumbfounded moment. Then, in a very quiet voice, she said, “Stuart, I … I do not know what to say.”
“Really? I never thought I’d hear that coming from you.”
Her reaction was an open mouth that moved slightly with nothing coming out. With the distinct feeling that neither of us would ever know what words those pretty lips of hers were trying to form, I started for the cart. She grabbed my arm and plunged her eyes deep into mine. Then, with no warning, she took my face in both hands and planted a brain-fogging kiss on my mouth.
Now I was the one who didn’t know what to say.
J Douglas Bottorff 