The Goodtime Girl by Tess Fragoulis Page A

honourable thing to do for the widow of a man you’d just killed. “He was a good guy, and a top player. It was nothing personal, you understand.” Kivelli nodded and stopped herself from smiling. “If there’s anything I can do for you, just send a message.” He winked as if they were in cahoots and signalled his men, including sweet-talking Sakis, towards the exit.
    â€œYou’ve done enough,” she called out after him, then brought the flower to her nostrils, ran its petals across her lips. She was tempted to touch Spiros one last time — his oily hair, his longnailed hand that had grabbed her with a desperation so intense it might have been erotic had it not been so selfish. Instead, she slid the gardenia behind his ear and left him on the platform by himself, slumped over his bouzouki, taking his final bow.
    Some regulars waved her over and offered her a drink, a drag on a narghile, which she gladly accepted. Nobody spoke. The place emptied out, and Barba Yannis was supervising a couple of men who were carrying Spiros’s body into the storeroom. He didn’t seem too flustered, considering he had just lost his long-time bandleader and friend. Whatever his true feelings, Barba Yannis was first and foremost a businessman who knew this settling of scores would only enhance the reputation of his taverna. Stories were already being told down at the docks, songs would soon be sung, but not by Kivelli. She’d had more than enough of Spiros while he was alive.
    Sakis came back after a little while and sat next to Kivelli as if he had a reservation. “What now?” he asked, and she understood this had more to do with the next few hours rather than whatever was left of her life. She took a long sip from the narghile and let the fragrant smoke expand in her lungs.
    â€œDo you want to walk me home?” she asked, slowly sliding her hand along his thigh. Whether he thought this was inappropriate, he never said. There was no time for such moralizing as she snuck him past Margarita’s room and up the dark steps, then pushed him into her bed.
    It was true that nothing whet the appetite for sex like death. Kivelli was not yet certain whether it worked in the other direction as well, though she suspected it might.

9

    You beat me and you take my dough
Earned with blood and sweat, you know
I’ve caught a new man, handsome, sweet
Who’s not a swindler or a cheat
    The taverna was packed every night after Spiros’s swan song. The Cucumber had given the place his three-knife seal of approval and made it his favourite nest where he came to roost every night. This brought in some real troublemakers and lowlifes who packed Colts and Lugers and all manner of switchblades, stilettos and pigstickers. They stopped in on their nightly rounds to pay their respects and to conspire within clouds of smoke dense as the fog over Castella Hill. It also attracted young guys from the neighbourhood who were trying to join the Cucumber’s flock and believed proximity gave them an edge. The usual pseudomanghes followed, posers who talked the talk but couldn’t walk without tripping. There were more women as well. Guys from all over Piraeus and even from Athens came down with their temporary dolls, buying out the place to make an impression. A new order reigned in that small room — volatile, dangerous, electric — which made Kivelli sing with a reckless fervour, abandoning herself to gamblers and smugglers and murderers who treated her like the Queen of Sheba.
    One night, while she was lost in her siren’s wail, a woman stepped into the taverna alone — somebody’s wife, perhaps, looking for her rival. A proper lady in a flowered frock stood nervously by the door, then moved quickly, instinctively, through the darkness and the smoke, through the bodies of men huddled in conspiratorial klatches or dancing alone, until she reached the platform. When her eyes met