a miracle was nearly at hand. A miracle that would lead Max on a journey to, yes, enlightenment.
But right there and then, Max resorted to what he did when he was most terrified. He went Brit, muttered, “I’m buggered.”
Two
“She knew ways to make a man fuck her, even if he hated her. When the time came, she would decide.”
Angela Petrakos was one seriously pissed off lady. One more country, one more clusterfuck.
She’d been a New York babe, had hooked up with Max Fisher and a mick-slash-psycho-slash-poet, emphasis on slash. No need to dwell on the freaking disaster that had been. She was of Irish-Greek descent, some dynamite blend, and she had the temper of both mixed with what Joyce had called “all the sly cunning of her race,” only in her case it was races, plural. Went to Ireland and hello, like, why the hell did nobody tell her those micks had gotten rich and just a tiny bit cute? Not cute in the American sense – no, cute as in manipulative greedy bastards. And she – Jesus on a wobbly bike, would she never learn? – had hooked up with a guy who looked, okay, hot. Dark long hair, cool, though rip-off shades, the dangerous leather jacket, black naturally, and a way with him. He rocked back and forth on his feet, made her feel like she was, yeah, gorgeous.
Cut to the chase and chase it was. They’d had to flee to America and would you believe it, back into a scheme where yet again she tried to make Max Fisher pay for the shite she’d endured.
She sighed at the memory, muttered, “Let it slide.”
So she’d grabbed some bucks and gone to Greece. Visited some relatives in Xios, but that got old fast, so she ferried to Santorini, supposed site of Atlantis. Got to be good karma there, right?
Um, for a start, what was with the fucking donkeys having to carry you up the cliff to the town? She must’ve missed that in the guidebooks. But being American carried some weight still, especially if you were a hot, stacked blonde.
She rented a small villa and was surprised at how cheap it was. Georgios, who owned the place, also claimed he was mayor of the village and drove a cab at night and was the chef at the local taverna. These Greeks, they knew how to multi-task. He was ogling her openly, staring at her bust to the point where she had to hit him with the old “My eyes, they’re, like, up here.” At the door, he held her arm and reminded her how reasonable that rent was and how, if she was a little cooperative, the rent might disappear completely.
She knew some Greek, about four words but all the vital ones, and said, “Mallakas,” i.e. wanker, and he fucked off.
First it was heaven, the balcony overlooking the sea, sipping on some ouzo, her tan coming along nicely, showing off her serious cleavage. The nude beaches were great, but the constant Greeks hitting on her became a drag. She was so desperate she would’ve settled for a mick.
She was offered a job as a hostess in a club named “Acribos.” Her second Greek word: “Exactly.”
When she wasn’t tanning, she was hiking in the dunes, or just hanging out at the local taverna spinning worry beads, drinking ouzo, and playing backgammon. It was relaxing but, let’s face it, boring as hell. She was Angela Petrakos. She needed a buzz, she needed action.
She made a friend at the taverna – Alexandra, an American from Berkeley. They decided to hit the clubs one night and a hit they were. It might’ve helped that they were the only two women in the place without facial hair, but guys were all over them all night. Near closing time they hooked up with a couple of young Italians who claimed they were eighteen but Angela figured that hers, Luca, was sixteen tops. Alexandra and her guy disappeared, and Angela and Luca wandered down to the beach. She had a full moon, crashing waves, and a horny young Italian. What else did a girl need?
And the guy might’ve been a teenager but, boy, he knew how to screw. They went at it all night till they collapsed in exhaustion. In the morning, Luca was gone and so was Angela’s money. The little bastard had gone through her purse and cleaned her out. Good thing Angela wasn’t carrying much. The kid got sixteen euro, Angela got six orgasms. Who got the better deal?
Alexandra left town the next day and Angela was back on her own again. People had been getting to know her and generally treated her fine, but this one old woman, must’ve been a hundred, gave her the heebie-jeebies from day one. When Angela walked along the streets most people would say yassou, hello, to her. But this woman would just glare at Angela, giving her the Evil Eye, as if she knew, but knew what?
Then one evening at the taverna, she was beginning to get that bored, pissed off feeling again – never a good sign – when she heard, “My word, what a vision of true beauty.”
Turned to see this tall guy, looked like that writer Lee Child, whom she hadn’t actually read but from the photos on the back of his books she nearly believed there might be a reason to read those mystery novels. She had a Barry Eisler book cause of his jacket photo and one by C.J. Box – hey, she’d always been a sucker for guys in cowboy hats. Who cared if these guys could write, they looked hot. No wonder the Micks had to actually write books, mangy-looking bastards they were.
The Lee Child guy was wearing, oh saints above, a safari jacket, and he had that young Roger Moore look. The best part: A British accent.
She muttered, “Thank you, God.”
Finally, her luck had changed, a Brit, was there an American gal on the planet didn’t want to hear that Brideshead Revisited tone?
He asked, oh those fucking make-you-moist manners, “May I join you?”
She would’ve let him do a lot more than that. But she figured, British guy, he was probably reserved and well-mannered. She didn’t want to turn him off and be, like, too forward.
“Oh, yes, please do,” she said, trying to sound British, but the American was coming through loud and clear.
He held her hand, kissed it, said, “I’m Sebastian.”
God, that accent! She was tempted to shout “I’m available!” but went with, “I’m Angela.”
He told her all about himself. Said he was living off a trust fund, traveling the world, and he was, naturally, writing a novel. The writing part she could’ve guessed. For some reason, she was a magnet for those literary types – maybe it was a misery-loves-company kind of thing.
When it was her turn she knew honesty was the worst policy. She said she’d lived in New York for a while but things hadn’t worked out with her fiance, then she’d moved to Ireland for a while, tried New York again, and now she was giving Greece a shot. She, er, forgot to mention all the violence.
He looked her in the eyes, held her gaze, and said, “I must say, in all my travels, I’ve never encountered anyone quite as stunning as you.”
An all-too-familiar voice in Angela’s head was screaming, Run! Get the fook out while you still can! How many times had she been down this road, meeting a guy who seemed like “the one,” only to wind up screwed, and not in the good way? She didn’t have baggage, she had freakin’ cargo. Or, as they say in the south, she’d been ridden hard and hung up wet.
Translation: She didn’t trust nobody.
Later, when Sebastian asked if he could give her a lift home, Angela said politely, “No, thank you.”
She hardly believed it herself. Had she really turned down an easy lay with James Bond’s twin?
“I must see you again,” he said.
His eyes looked so vulnerable, like Colin Firth’s. She was tempted to say, screw it, and drag him back to her place and fuck him stupid. But she remained strong, said, “Well my schedule’s pretty full.”
“Surely you can squeeze me in somewhere,” he said, punning like ol’ Roger Moore himself.
But she remained strong – when had she ever had the discipline to do that? – and told him, “Maybe we’ll run into each other again sometime.”
