Free Disorganized Crime: A Kat Makris Greek Mafia Novel by Alex A. King Page B

the sea nymph, and goddess of water, was pouring a bottomless jar of the wet stuff into a marble pool.
    Grandma hoisted herself into the passenger side, then reached across and flung open the driver's side door. "You drive," she said. "I do not have a license."
    Hadn't stopped her the other night.
    I climbed in. The SUV came equipped with running boards but it was still a struggle to heave myself into the driver's seat without flopping around like a walrus. How Grandma was so limber and spry was a mystery. The vehicle's seats were leather, the dash fully loaded, and when I turned the key there was a grating, peppy voice asking me where I wanted to go. I'm not a violent person, but I wanted to karate chop her throat. For the record, everything I knew about karate I learned from The Karate Kid . The original, of course. Not that remake I tell myself never happened.
    Anyway, Grandma seemed to be okay with the inquisitive computer woman. "GPS," she said, beaming. "Her voice is always so cheerful, it makes me happy." She leaned forward like she was about to kiss its shiny black buttons. "Makria."
    The screen set into the dash came to life. The tiny woman stowed in the computer began to nag. I knew it. She wanted me to turn left and she wanted me to do it now—in a sweet, electronic voice.
    Grandma jumped in on the act. "What are you waiting for? For the Turks to come back? Turn left!"
    The SUV crawled across the paved ground to the iron gates. The man in the guardhouse—a different one today—pushed a button and I nudged the SUV forward until we were clear.
    Grandma rolled down her window and stuck her head out. "Give my love to your mother," she said to the guard.
    "I will. Thank you, Nouna ." Godmother.
    "Are you actually his godmother?" I asked, once we were on the move again.
    "Yes."
    The GPS woman told me to stick to the dirt road, so I did that until she passive-aggressively told me to turn left where the dirt met the blacktop that threaded itself around the mountain like dull tinsel.
    "Why is the town named Makria?" In the Greek-English lexicon makria meant away . As in, far, far away. "Is it named after our family?"
    "Yes," she said, not volunteering further details.
    "Why? Did our family do something amazing?"
    "Our family has accomplished many things."
    The SUV bounced slightly as I coaxed it onto the main road. Its suspension seemed to sigh with relief that we were past the point of dirt and stones.
    "Turn left in half a kilometer," the electronic woman said.
    How far was a kilometer? How far was a half of that?
    "Help," I said, "What's a kilometer?"
    Grandma shook her head. "Americans. Turn left here."
    The name was a lie. Makria wasn't far, far away at all. It was—apparently—half a kilometer up the street from the family compound. The village was compact. It contained all the essentials along one short cobbled street: bakery, meat market, produce store, grocery store, and a couple of souvenir shops that sold collectables, mostly made in China, no doubt. It was a postcard-worthy place, something I confirmed when I saw the village's portrait twirling on a postcard rack near a shelf of Makria mugs, wind chimes, and calendars.
    The stunted street split in four at a crude crossroad. One arm lead to a village square, which contained a half dozen souvenir carts, cafes, and enough tourists to fill a plane. They all had cellphones, which they were using to snap pictures of the view. From here I couldn't tell if the view was Instagram-worthy or not. Their heads were clumped together, blocking the way.
    One of the other three arms climbed the mountain. It was flanked by houses and frequented by livestock that dropped hillocks of dung on their way from field to field.
    The final arm dead-ended at a church that was bigger than it needed to be in a village this size. The outside was stone, the dome white, and—in the absence of a lightning rod—the cross was big enough wipe out everyone in town if the antichrist needed them