The Max

Five

When Angela and Sebastian got back to the villa, he was seriously spooked. This was a crazy woman and, lordy, if he ever got the hell away from her, he might well write her as a character in his book. The book he’d never written a line of but he would, he was literary, like Amis and Borroughs. He’d just sit down one day and voila, masterpiece. You either had it or you didn’t and he bloody well had it.

One literary effort that he actually did produce was a poem in the technical college entitled:

Lenin and Your Letter

He just flat out loved that title. It had politics, love and, to be totally honest, true resonance. And, okay, he’d been a little wiped when he wrote it, but excuse me, look at all the greats – Scott Fitz, Hem, Behan, Bukowski, Berryman, Jerry Rodriguez. Hadn’t they all been a little, well, spiffed when they wrote their finest work? You wanted pain, compassion, suffering, Sebastian knew you had to fucking live it.

He just wished he could remember the bloody poem. Only one line had remained with him:

Lenin, you Jewish hack

Ah, the thrill. Did he actually write that? He did. Oh, Booker Prize be praised. And God bless Salman Rushdie. Sebastian had his very brief moment of fame as the student union, all five of them, had accused him of anti-Zionism. Lordy, it was what every real literary lion endured.

Whoops, the deranged bitch was shaking him, not with the cleaver, least not yet, saying, “Hello, shite-face, time to like, you know, clean up?”

And he did, but her language! Was that really necessary? She should go to the U.K. where they mightn’t like you but, by golly, they always had manners.

They scrubbed the place down, every last drop of blood, etcetera, gone. Would they bring in forensics of the Greek variety? Hello, let’s be honest. The Greek variety of forensics was probably one greasy inspector with his hand out, dropping cigar ash all over the crime scene and trampling on bloodstains. They were clear, and if he could now just get clear of the mad cow he could get his show on the road.

She gave him the golden opportunity, snapped, “Where are my fookin cigs?”

And he jumped on it, said, “Hon, I’ll jump on the scooter, get you a fresh pack.”

Then, distracted, she said, “And buy some booze, too. Jesus wept.”

There was a ferry to Athens – he checked his fake Rolex – in two hours. He put the pedal to the metal and he was out of there. He had a tiny villa rented as close to the port as he could find. He’d learned the hard way, always have your getaway planned. All he needed was his passport, his Cambridge tie, borrowed (so to speak) from a chap – damn tie opened more doors than his wonderful polished BBC accent – his trusty Gladstone bag, one of the few genuine items he owned – and one of those Moleskine diaries, nicely weathered and one of these days, he might actually jot something down in it. He believed he looked suitably battered, had that climbed the Himalayas and crossed the damn Ganges look. Made him seem like a Bruce Chatwin traveler type. He hadn’t actually read Chatwin, but that hardly mattered. Most of all, he had his stash, the vital element, the get-out-of-town-and-fucking-fast-old-bean dosh.

He wouldn’t have time to get the deposit back on his little scooter, but as he’d paid with a bum credit card, it was kind of poetic justice; and if he did take the time the psycho bitch would be starting to wonder was he making the bloody cigarettes and come looking.

He shivered, seeing her with that cleaver. God he was sweaty, from fear and stress, the golly goshed heat. He liked to be always, in every sense, cool, but a cleaver can change a lot of habits. He’d had to forego taking a shower in his haste to get out, and he promised himself now that he’d book into the King Kronos in Athens, get the penthouse, use his Platinum Visa, only ever taken out for real occasions and Jolly Hockey Sticks, this was one of those times.

He threw his Jermyn Street bespoke shirts, his beloved linen suit and Panama hat (his nod to Somerset Maugham – and, truly, he must read the crusty old bugger someday), and splashed some cologne on. Not too much, a hint darlings, not like the mad Paddy he’d met who seemed to climb into the bottle, not only of Jameson but cologne. He sighed, thinking, The Irish. They had not one ounce of restraint.

He went to get his stash, carefully hidden under the loose tile in the shower. Tipota, Greek for all gone. Not a bean. The bloody hell was this? And a note. A note? Darling, Lest you ever think of running out on me, I’m, shall we say, holding this in trust for you. Xxxxxxx Love you loads

Only one time he’d been a little the worse for wear on the old retsina and allowed her to come back to his place and the cunt, she’d cleaned him out.

He checked his wallet. He had his vital credit cards, his return ticket to Athens, and about 200 Euro.

Move, the voice in his head urged.

He did, and fast.

Angela, waiting for Sebastian to return with the cigs and booze, was on her hands and knees, scrubbing Georgios’ blood, getting a bad case of deja vu. Yes, somehow it felt like she’d been through this before, but the worst part was this time she’d seen it coming. She was driving along the tunnel, the headlights coming right for her, and the idea that maybe she should, like, slow down or, even better, turn around, hadn’t occurred to her. Falling for a British accent of all things. Couldn’t it at least have been an athletic Brit, a David Beckham type? She knew she was posh enough to get any British guy she wanted, but she wound up with fookin’ Sebastian. Honestly, she’d never met a bigger wuss, as you’d call it in America. He was so fooking polite, she was just dying to take him to a few bars she knew in Ireland, introduce him to a few guys she knew, they’d make a man out of him all right.

And what about the way he said “lordy” all the time and wore that God-forsaken safari jacket? He looked like an early victim in an Agatha Christie film, the first annoying bastard who gets bumped off. In bed the other night, he’d started reciting some god awful poem, something about a fookin Zionist. Pluck any drunk off the street in Dublin, he could write a better poem than that shite.

Another thing: Would he open his jaw when he talked? Sometimes she’d have sworn his mouth must be wired shut.

Sebastian was useless, no doubt about it, but right now she needed him, to get out of this mess. After they’d dumped the Greek’s body off the cliff she’d decided they had to clean up every drop of blood from the villa, then take off pronto. One thing Angela knew how to do was run like hell. They both agreed there was no way they could stick around and explain what had happened. The “he raped me and I killed him in self defense” story wouldn’t go over well with Greek cops – after all, nearly chopping off a guy’s head wasn’t exactly like spraying him with mace. She’d taken it a little too far, yeah, so, what else was new?

And where was Sebastian already? She needed ouzo, a whole bottle of it, and how long had he been gone, a half hour already?

The doorbell rang. Finally! What would his excuse be, that he’d soiled his knickers along the way and what a bloody inconvenience it was?

This was the last time she was dating a Brit.

But when she opened the door she saw a woman – dark with almost a full mustache and a unibrow.

“Where is my Georgios?” the woman demanded.

Angela was tempted to say, Atlantis, but went with, “Haven’t seen him in a few days.” She was very calm, but no surprise there. She was used to this, her experiences in New York and Dublin, lying to the cops, were coming in handy.

The woman’s eyes were trying to look past Angela, into the house. Jesus, why had she gone and opened the door without checking first? It was that fecking Sebastian, screwing with her brain.

But one slip-up – shit, she was still holding the rag, the rag with Georgios’ blood. She managed to hide it behind her back and didn’t think the woman had noticed.

The woman said, “If you’re fucking my husband, I kill you.”

Husband? It surprised Angela, but only for a second. These Greeks, they always had wives.

Angela checked to make sure the woman wasn’t holding a meat cleaver, then said, “I beg your pardon. I mean, I never…”

Sounding seriously miffed.

“Yesterday, he tell me he go here to fix sink,” the woman said, “then he don’t come home. I know he like you, blondie. Every day he talk about the sexy girl from Ireland.”

Squeezing the rag tightly behind her back, Angela said, “First of all, I have a boyfriend, Sebastian, he looks exactly like Lee Child.”

The woman was lost.

Angela added, “Secondly, I have no idea where your husband is, but if you want some advice, you should seriously think about divorcing that guy. I’ve heard stories about him.”

She let it hang there.

The woman glared, said, “Stories? What stories?”

Angela exhaled, as if it were killing her to have to say this, then said, “At the taverna. They’re saying your husband’s with a new woman every night. He cruises the clubs for American girls or some shite. I was appalled, if you want to know the truth. I don’t want to put any ideas in your head, but maybe your husband only told you he was coming to fix my sink. Maybe he was really out picking up a girl at a club. You ever think about that?”

The woman was thinking about it now.

Angela continued, “I don’t know if you Greeks do divorce, but you should seriously think about ditching that guy. You’re a beautiful woman, you can do so much better.”

Actually the woman was as fugly as they come, but the compliment seemed to have an effect, at least momentarily. She stood a little straighter, her chin up, said proudly, “Do you really think so?”

“I know so,” Angela said, suddenly sounding like a life coach. “Get your hair done, sweetie, buy some new clothes, get a makeover, and start doing things for you. You’ve been doing things for him for way too long.”

Good thing Angela had watched so much Oprah over the years. Finally that shite was coming in handy.

But either the woman wasn’t an Oprah fan or she suddenly remembered what she’d come here for, because her dark eyes narrowed again and she said, “If you see Georgios, tell him when he comes home his wife is going to kill him.”

Tempted to say, Mission accomplished, Angela went with, “I’ll do that.”

The woman left and the door slammed shut.

Whew, that was close. Angela watched through the window, making sure the woman was gone, then got back to work, scrubbing the floor. Where the hell was Sebastian, that fuck-up? The useless fool been gone at least an hour. The stores were less than five minutes away by moped, was it possible he had gotten lost?

When another hour went by and there was still no sign of him it set in that the stuffy Brit had ditched her. It wasn’t exactly unexpected; she knew the wimp wouldn’t be able to stand up to the heat, which was why she’d cleaned him out. The spineless bastard! She hoped he drove off a cliff, was feeding the fish like Georgios.

She got the room as clean as it was going to get. She didn’t see any blood and even if she’d left some she figured they probably didn’t know their DNA from their drachmas on this backward fucking island. She packed her suitcase and hit the road.

Walking to the village, she passed the old woman, and of course got the evil eye. Jeez, the woman was creepy, like some kind of witch. It occurred to Angela that she should have waited until night and left when she couldn’t be seen. So, okay, she’d panicked, made one slip-up, what did you expect? She hadn’t had a drink in, what, twelve hours? How was a girl supposed to think straight without a little ouzo flowing through her system?

She took a cab to the port on the other, flatter side of the island. She didn’t want to have to ride the fecking donkeys down to the docks, but she also wanted to get as far away from the villa and Giorgios’ wife as possible. See, her thinking wasn’t entirely clouded.

During the ride, the cab driver – he was bald, overweight, with a thick mustache; reminded her of the uncle who’d once molested her – was staring at her in the rearview, literally licking his lips. What was it with these men? At a deserted area where there were lots of dunes and nothing else he pulled over, leaned back, and seemed to be unbuckling his belt.

Angela went Irish, said, “Drive this car right now, or you’ll get what yeh deserve, yah fookin’ bastard.”

The guy had probably never met a woman like Angela before. He recognized that this was the voice of a woman who did not fuck around and with a look of sheer terror he buckled his belt and put the car back in drive.

Then he got a call on his cell, and started looking at Angela in the rearview again. Later, she’d realize that this was another mistake, that she should’ve gotten out of that car and run like hell.

At the port, Angela found out there was a ferry to Lesbos leaving in a few minutes. She chuckled, thinking, after her recent experiences with men, maybe Lesbos wasn’t such a bad idea.

At dusk, the ferry arrived at the Lesbos port and she beelined for the closest taverna, right across from the docks. Finally, ouzo. Jaysus wept, she downed two shots, asked for a third. When the bartender gave her the drink she noticed the two cops. They were standing near the door, looking right at her. She was going to make a run for it, but knew it was pointless. She chugged the last shot, figuring, Might as well go out with a bang.