4 Phase Man

There was no place left to go. But the sun was going down, the weather turning, and the soldiers had lately begun to enforce the curfew. So Aegri Somnia (The Sick Man's Nightmares), the only place in the district that a stranger could go without questions being asked, it would have to be. The hostess just inside the taverna's door never looked up from her paper. "Ti alismonitos ehos." "Mu fanatay tsutayros." The man dropped some gold coins on her table. "That a good enough sound for you?" At the American-accented English words, the woman looked up. Tourists almost never came to this part of the island. "Who you?" she asked cautiously, her cigarette dangling from her upper lip. "Xenos Filotimo." The old woman laughed; using the moment to study the flat expression, the callused hands, the knife in the climbing boot. No emotion or feeling came off the big man. Just a blank, somehow foreboding wall. But with the curfew, rich Americans or English (and they all were rich, she thought) were few and far between. The soldiers and the mercenaries, well, they had their own places. And the local toughs were too busy running from the soldiers-when they weren't robbing unwary European and American college students-to bother with a place where they had to pay. So this man who spoke Greek like a Greek, but reeked of America and closeted disaster, was unusual. She made up her mind. "To look, ten thousand and more," she said as she assessed his nonreaction. "To rent, fifteen thousand and more. To stay night is...more." "Thay prape na mirasto to domatio mu me aluis skorpeues?" The man tossed thirty thousand drachmas (about $100 U.S.) on her table. "I hate scorpions." "No scorpions here, sir." The woman quickly counted the bills before sliding them off the desk into a drawer. Next to a loaded and cocked Tokarev. She left the drawer open as she smiled up at the man. "Filoxenia, Xenos Filotimo. Parea," she said in broad welcoming tones, then stood and unlocked the door behind her. She held up three arthritic fingers to the bartender inside. "Only scorpions are those you bring with." She relocked the door as soon as the man had gone through. She instantly picked up the phone to call the taverna's owner. A man like that, he would want to know about. It took a long moment for the man's eyes to adjust to the dinge of the place. Lanterns and lamps on the walls gave off a mixed red and green tone. A few candles flickered on fewer tables, occupied by maybe six or seven people in the near dark. The sound of a bouzouki strumming softly somewhere floated over the place, neatly mixing with the odors of Greek tobacco, burned lamb, and sex. "Milk." The bartender nodded, then poured a glass of the thick, barely chilled goat's milk. He hesitated as he handed the glass across the bar. He'd seen the type before: men who could go from docile to violent in moments. Men past caring, the aeiramene doupesen they were called in the islands. Walking corpses, devoid of human emotions, compassion, or clemency of any kind. Xenos slowly swirled a sip of the sweet liquid in his mouth before swallowing. He briefly closed his eyes as his scarred neck pulsed with the effort. A smile played across his lips, then was instantly exiled as he opened his eyes. "You want now, mister?" the bartender asked carefully. "Amesos." He took another sip of the milk. "Not a child, parakolutheo? A woman." His voice was hard, stone, inhuman. "Understand." The bartender swallowed hard, picturing what lay ahead for the woman he selected. What lay in store for him if he chose wrong. He waved to the backSteinberg, Richard is the author of '4 Phase Man' with ISBN 9780385492591 and ISBN 0385492596.