Those looking for a welcoming, good time experience in paradise should stay tourists. For those hoping to make money, the gloves came off the locals.
To most, Wacki would be an unlikely choice for doing knightly battle of the Camelot sort, but he was perfect for the rough and tumble world of Mykonos club-scene politics. He knew its dark side well, having spent half his life catering to the illegal and illicit wants and desires of visitors and islanders alike.
Wacki also knew the times were changing. Mykonos had been through more than a decade of extraordinary good fortune, with everyone profiting off high spending Athenian, American, and European tourists willing to pay whatever it took for a fun time. Those days were over, at least for this generation. But unlike virtually anywhere else in Greece, Mykonos’ international reputation meant that some could still make a lot of money on the island. And Wacki had a pretty good idea where the new cash was coming from.
Russians were buying up the best seafront properties on the mainland. Prime homes near Athens in elegant areas on the way to ancient Sounion, some of the most desirable places along the Peloponnese coastline, and parts of the Halkidiki Aegean shore in northeastern Greece, close by the holy peninsula of Mount Athos sacred to Russian and Greek Orthodox alike, had experienced a land rush of Russian investors.
Unlike British and Germans waiting for a “better price,” Russians didn’t care to wait. And Greeks welcomed them with open arms. Many Greeks had soured on the euro zone, and saw financial salvation in the arms of economic alliances with Russia. History had often shown the error of such thinking, but memories were short, especially for those in financial crisis.
With the introduction of direct flights between Moscow and Athens, it was only a matter of time until Russians fixed their eyes on Mykonos. Arabs were coming too, but Wacki’s money was on Russians for the long term play, if only for their common Eastern Orthodox roots. Two hundred fifty thousand of the wealthiest Russians had already discovered and made Cyprus home.
Wacki didn’t give a damn about the implications for Mykonos, his only interest was in getting a shot at Russians flush with cash. For that he needed a backer. Someone with money to lure more money. But bad times had eliminated the usual Mykonian suspects for such a venture. Wacki had even turned to lighting candles in church, hoping that would change his luck.
The answer to Wacki’s prayers came in the form of a phone call on the day of Christos’ funeral.
He’d heard rumors from Eastern European sex traffickers supplying girls to a dance club he once managed of a woman called “Teacher.” As tough as those motherfuckers were, they spoke in reverential tones of a mysterious bankroller of some of the biggest criminal enterprises in Eastern Europe; ones that didn’t have the good fortune of ex-KGB connections. Some said Teacher was ex-KGB, but that sort of thing was said about virtually everyone who made it big coming out of the former USSR. Besides, Wacki didn’t care. He’d worked with that sort before.
The caller said Teacher needed a contact on Mykonos to help establish a “business presence” there, and he’d been recommended by “mutual acquaintances.” Wacki jumped at the chance almost before it was offered.
In the Silicon Valley world of United States business,Teacher would be called an “angel investor” by the companies she helped. But in Teacher’s world no one would couple that word with her name. Doing business with Teacher involved a lifetime commitment. There was no way out unless she ended it.
The story indelibly linked to the loyalty Teacher demanded involved an Albanian mafia chieftain who built a hugely successful digital pirating network using Teacher’s money and contacts. One day he decided he’d shared enough of his profits and, relying on the protection of his small army of muscle, told her to go fuck herself. Less than a month later he watched as his wife and three children were doused with gasoline and burned to death. One by one. But he wasn’t killed. Instead, his every other toe and finger were snipped off with pruning shears and his penis and tongue burned with a blowtorch.
The man now paid on time. And no one had crossed Teacher since.
Wacki wasn’t worried about Sergey. He’d seen his kind before. Pretty boy tough guys who came to Mykonos thinking they’d show the island hicks how business was done in the big city. The lucky ones might get to open a small place, one that largely supported the landlord and a host of politicos with fingers up to their elbows in pretty boys’ pockets. But the big clubs, the ones capable of pulling in 100,000 euros a night just to get in the door during peak season, were an off limits business to all but select locals and their political protectors.
How Teacher expected to get a foothold in that closed market was a mystery to Wacki. He’d just have to take care that whatever blame there was for failure-and he had no doubt there would be failure-fell on Sergey. He’d enjoy watching the arrogant prick get his balls fried.
The thought gave Wacki pause. He decided he better call Teacher and put some distance between himself and Sergey in her mind. Just to be sure she knew whom to blame when nut-frying time came to Mykonos.
Chapter Nine
Teacher stared at the computer screen as she listened to Wacki complain about the “asshole” she’d sent to replace him as “her man” on Mykonos.
They’d spoken only twice before. Once to satisfy herself that Wacki was the right person for what she had in mind and, later, to confirm the terms of their arrangement. Her conversations always used a secure teleconferencing hookup that allowed her to see the caller, but not the other way around.
It was obvious to Teacher that Wacki did more than dress the part of a pimp, he was one in every sense of the word. Pimps were quite useful in a world filled with johns, and for what she had in mind on Mykonos, an absolute necessity. But Wacki was no leader. For that role she had her Sergey. Wacki’s part was as a humbled number two itching to report on number one’s failings.
“So sorry to hear of your stumble on first meeting Sergey. I’m sure the two of you will soon be on fine terms.”
“But why do you need him when you have me? He doesn’t even speak Greek and knows nothing of how things are done on the island.”
“If I recall, you are not native to Mykonos and had to learn its ways. I hired you to help Sergey learn what you know. Not to question my judgments.”
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t dare question your judgment. I was just curious.” There was a decided quaver to Wacki’s voice.
“Good. Because I’m relying on both of you for the success of the project.”
“Thank you for your confidence in me.”
“Just understand that Sergey is your boss.”
There was a momentary pause before Teacher heard, “Yes, absolutely, I understand.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I certainly wouldn’t want there to be any misunderstandings that might jeopardize my plans. And if you ever feel the need to contact me again, you know how to reach me.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Good day.”
The screen went blank. Teacher stared at it for a moment before looking at a photograph on her desk of a young girl in a first communion dress wearing spring flowers in her hair. Everyone who saw it on her desk thought it was of Teacher. But she knew better. She had no idea who the little girl was. Nor did she care. It served only as the symbol of a life she never lived.
Whenever she thought her life was good and she could relax, she’d look at that photograph and remembered the truth.
Teacher picked up the photograph.
***
She hadn’t chosen her life. Even now, when she was free to do as she wished, it was not hers. She was on a course set long before she had any say. No matter how she looked, no matter what or whom she knew, indeed no matter how eloquent her words, she would always be that Eastern European child stolen away from parents of whom she retained not a single memory. She’d been very young and whoever that child was or might have become died that day.