Free Mykonos After Midnight by Jeffrey Siger

she could stare over them through the deeply tinted windows. She saw tired commercial buildings filled with FOR RENT signs lining cramped, working-class streets. Other signs proclaimed, GREECE IS FOR GREEKS, offering free food to those who could prove their Greek lineage. Such ethnic hatred she’d seen before. It had fueled much of her success, driving the threatened into her arms. A lot was at play in Greece at the moment.
    She smiled. Which is why a sociopath is perfect for what I have in mind.
    ***
    At the north end of Mykonos’ old harbor a concrete pier jutted two-hundred yards out to sea. Close to shore the pier offered stern-first, long-term docking for large private yachts with the appropriate connections, and its far end provided parallel docking facilities for commercial catamarans loading and unloading passengers. Locals referred to the pier as “the old port.” Between the pier and the old town was a parking lot used by Mykonians with special parking privileges and buses shuttling cruise boat passengers to and from ships anchored in the new port one mile away. To the north, on the other side of the pier, was the town’s brand new municipal parking lot, most often used only by those who could not find more convenient illegal parking elsewhere.
    Sergey was one of the first off the catamaran. He carried only a small backpack slung over one shoulder. Teacher told him there would be new clothes waiting for him on Mykonos and that he should bring nothing from his past. Even his conviction would be expunged. It would be a new beginning.
    He walked along the pier between the boat and a stone wall toward a crowd of people waiting just beyond the end of the pier. He had no idea who would be meeting him. As he entered the crowd, someone tapped him on the shoulder from behind.
    “Sergey?”
    He turned toward the voice and saw a pockmarked sallow face, narrow angular nose, misaligned teeth, and greasy, gray-brown mid-length hair. Rat immediately came to mind. “Yes?”
    The man flashed a toothy smile in a way undoubtedly thought by the man to be charming, but which only exaggerated his resemblance to a rodent. He was a head shorter than Sergey, gangly, and dressed in colors intended to draw attention.
    Like a pimp, thought Sergey.
    “Our mutual friend told me to take care of you. Follow me.” He turned and walked toward a silver Mercedes taxi parked on the pier next to a private yacht. The man had spoken in Russian but not introduced himself, not offered to take Sergey’s bag, nor said “please.”
    “ Boy , take my bag.”
    The man froze. He turned his head and glared at Sergey. “I’m not your boy.”
    Sergey walked over, wrapped an arm around the man’s shoulders, and smiled. “If you prefer being called my ‘bitch,’ that’s okay with me, too. But start showing some respect to your boss.” With that he swung the backpack off his shoulder and whipped it around into the man’s belly. “Your choice.”
    The man caught the backpack before it fell to the ground. “I take my orders from Teacher.”
    “On this island I’m your boss, and if you don’t like it, I suggest you leave it now. On that boat.” Sergey nodded toward the catamaran.
    The rodent’s eyelids twitched wildly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.” He held the backpack in his left hand and put out his right to shake Sergey’s hand. “The name is Wacki.”
    “Wacki?”
    “Yes, I know, sounds strange but it’s a nickname I’ve had all my life. I think it suits me.”
    “I’m sure,” said Sergey reaching out to shake Wacki’s hand. “Speak Greek. I need the practice.”
    “Fine. I understand you speak some English.”
    “I speak a lot of English, plus Russian and Polish.”
    “Good, the English will come in handy until your Greek improves. But, of course, I will always be there if you need me.”
    “Of course.”
    “Do you prefer that I call you Sergey or something else?” He gave another toothy smile.
    “‘Boss’