All Greek To Me

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  “Δεν θα αφήσει να το πάρει. Αυτό είναι απαγωγή.” [“What these bastards won’t do. Give her the child.”

  The crowd began to chant. “Δώστε στο παιδί! Δώστε στο παιδί!” [“Give her the child! Give her the child!”]

  “Σώπα, σας πολλά. Οι περισσότεροι από εσάς ήδη χρωστάει περισσότερα από ό, τι μπορείτε να πληρώσετε. Σήμερα η κυβέρνηση πήρε κάθε δεκάρα στους λογαριασμούς μας, και έδωσε στις τράπεζες. Αυτό που πρέπει να κάνουμε; Πρέπει να χαράξουμε μια διαχωριστική γραμμή κάπου,” the doctor said testily. [“Be quiet, you lot. Most of you already owe more than you can pay. Today the government took every penny in our accounts and gave it to the banks. Without asking. What are we to do? We have to draw a line somewhere.”]

  “No, no, no,” Jane found herself demurring, in English, and in no uncertain terms, “Children. Belong. With their mothers.” Fluid as water despite the after-effects of concussion, Jane un-holstered one guard’s Smith & Wesson and motioned for his partner to freeze and put his hands in the air. A gasp flowed around the room as everybody’s hands went up. “Now,” Jane continued evenly, switching to flawless if parroted Greek, “Δώστε στο παιδί.” [“Give her the child.”]

  “Θα πρέπει να πάρετε το όπλο του, πάρα πολύ,” someone suggested shyly, pointing and giving the second guard a shove. [“You should take his gun, too.”]

  “Και κλειδώστε τους στην ντουλάπα,” another helpful soul suggested. [“And lock them in the closet.”]

  When the man in the white coat obstinately held his ground, the tired nurse cursed fluently and parted the crowd as easily as Moses parted a certain body of water. Ignoring Jane, she walked to her boss and stood before him, head to one side, hands outstretched to relieve him of the child. When he bridled and refused to surrender the baby, she rolled her eyes at Jane and helped herself to the other guard’s gun. The administrator visibly blanched.

  “Ω ναι ότι οι αλλαγές τα πράγματα λίγο. Επειδή μου που από το πρωί και σήμερα είναι η τελευταία μου μέρα. Τι με νοιάζει εμένα, ε? ρε?” The baby, who had not ceased crying the entire time, made a safe and speedy transit out the window. Mother and father beamed with joy and relief, as the Greek audience broke into applause. Including the guards. [“Oh yes that changes things a bit. Because you laid me off this morning and today’s my last day. What do I care, eh? Eh?”]

  Jane meanwhile ripped off the tape and needle holding her hostage to the IV pole, fumbled for her cell phone, and backed toward the window. Baby & co. were already beating a hasty retreat toward a battered Lada. The Peroxide Kid was fiddling with some handheld gizmo, apparently unconcerned about reprisals or pursuit.

  “Guess I’m coming with you after all,” Jane said, mounting the sill.

  “It is your destiny,” the Kid joshed. He was typing on a keypad and did not look up.

  “If I want to live?” Jane’s bare feet landed in near freezing mud, up to her beautiful ankles. Somewhere below a water pipe had broken.

  “If you want to live with yourself.” He glanced at the gun in her hand. “You know, you could have just offered to pay, right? Rich American?” They were walking backward together at a rapid clip. Jane took a quick 360 to make sure the coast was clear. Then they were at the car.

  “You know, I am escaping without my pants, right?” The door to the back seat of the Lada was open. Jane scooted across the ripped upholstery and alighted gingerly on a pile of blankets. My god, they probably sleep in here, she thought to herself. “No wallet, no passport,” she continued aloud.

  “No worries,” the Kid insisted, getting in. “We’ve got your back. And we can pick up your luggage on our way to the airport.” He tossed the envelope on her lap. “Ticket, ID, debit card. Who could ask for anything more?”

  “A real fairy godfather? To magic away all the pictures all those nice people are taking?” Jane grimaced toward the hospital, reflecting that the last thing they wanted was to headline the evening news. “Damn technology!”

  The kid flashed his gizmo. “Magic? We don’t need no stinking magic. Not when we have geo-fencing and application-blocking.” He waved to the amateur paparazzi hanging out the window behind them, phones busily trying to record the action. A few potentially less admiring individuals began to spill out through the hospital’s front entrance, shaking their phones - or maybe their fists. The man in white led the way toward a couple of ambulances, thinking to block their escape or mount a car chase. “It’s too late for baseball to save us, but technology just might.”

  “We go?” the tense young man asked from the driver’s seat, torn between rapture over his wee daughter and dread of what might next befall. So far the ambulance drivers were balking. Jane spun the chambers of her gun, checking for ammo, just in case. “You close door?”

  As he spoke, the riot dog flashed into view. Breaking from the human pack, he bolted for the Lada at a dead run and bounded into the back seat, ricocheting off the Kid’s groin to land with love and lavish kisses on Jane’s lap.

  “Uh, negative Houston,” Jane sputtered, her mouth full of dog hair. The Kid was bent double; whether in agony or laughter was not immediately apparent. “We have a problem.”

  “Is no problem,” the young father said more cheerfully, burning what little rubber remained on the Lada’s rear tires. The car door obligingly slammed itself shut. “Is Loukanikos. The Riot Dog. Everybody knows. Is good luck. And famous!”

  “Do tell,” Jane said, nose to nose with her newest ardent admirer, and trying to juggle gun, phone, envelope, and outsized muddy paws.

  “Like Brad Pitt,” Papa insisted. “Only moreso.”

  6 Roses for the Dead

  “So what is it with you and your mom?” Vinnie wondered, swatting at palm fronds with his eyes closed. He was lying on his back on the floor of the van, nursing the mother of all hangovers. “Moms are great.”

  “Your mom was great,” John affirmed.

  “Well, she was. But if it’s that bad, just stop at the nearest Post Office and send the stuff COD. Or, shit, stay in the car and I’ll go.”

  In the front of the van, dwarfed by a bowl of long-stemmed roses, John shook his head. Irritably. Watched the unvarying Oklahoma prairie unwind like an endless tan and grey diorama outside the cracked window. Oklahoma. He hadn’t been home in years. But it felt like one big dead zone, being here. OK, he couldn’t get a cell signal and he had lost his charger. But still. “Nah. Besides, there’s my dad. He’s getting up there.”

  Vinnie groaned. “Aren’t we all. So what’s her problem?” The van hit a hole in the road. Hard. The ‘Farewell Too Soon’ and ‘All-American Tribute’ bouquets fell sideways out of their boxes, sending a minor flood of water coursing toward the ‘Sacred Duty’ funeral spray - and Vinnie. Who yelped in sodden surprise and sat up indignantly. Caught Julio’s eye in the rearview mirror. “What the fuck?”

  Julio grinned. “Two more and I’m an ace.”

  Vinnie was not amused. “That was some of the best flying I've seen - right up to the part where you got killed.” But he got the point and changed the subject. “Long way for a flower delivery.”

  “Not in these parts,” Julio said. “Welcome to Nigeria, USA. Land of the resource curse. Oceans of oil and gas under your feet and a quarter of us living in poverty. Add a recession and bake until almost everyone is busted. I’m still standing because I got tribal council backing. And I’m in hock up to my tom-toms. Like your dad,” he said to John.

  “Not any more,” John said. “He got shut down a couple of weeks bac
k. The bank cancelled his credit and equity lines. Took all three of his long-haul rigs and auctioned the building out from under him. They’re going after the house next.”

  “What’s up with that?” Vinnie wondered.

  “Called his loans,” John shrugged. “Quicker than you can say ‘rehypothecation.’ ’Tis the season.”

  “Might have a leettle something to do with where the money went,” Julio observed over his shoulder, slowing the van as a house or two popped out of the brown landscape, squat cinderblock affairs, painted a dingy white.

  “You think?” John asked cynically. He turned to look at Vinnie. “If he’d lost it at poker or roulette, they would have left him alone as long as the payments came in. But he borrowed to the max and then he - they - turned around and gave it to the Tar Sands Blockade legal defense fund. All $200 K.”

  “Earth first, man,” Julio said. “Your folks rock, John-John.”

  Vinnie’s mouth made a silent O. “I get it. Yeah. Never, never do that. You never want to get between a banker and the object of his affections. I take it your dad’s bank is financing the pipeline?”

  “From Cushing to the Texas border. Deal of a lifetime for a small town S&L. Jippy Mo cut them in. Nothing like community support.”

  “The best that money can buy.”

  “Gentlemen,” Julio