The Athenian run

The summer heat clung to Kaisariani like a sweaty shirt. Myrto Zervou sat on her balcony, fanning herself with an old newspaper, her sharp eyes scanning the neighborhood below. Her son, Aris, was hammering away in his small carpentry workshop across the street, the rhythmic thud-thud-thud mixing with the distant hum of motorbikes.

A sudden commotion broke the afternoon lethargy. A sleek black Mercedes screeched to a halt outside old man Karabatsos’s kiosk. Two men in dark suits stepped out, their polished shoes clicking ominously on the pavement. Karabatsos, a wiry man with a permanent cigarette dangling from his lips, paled as they leaned over the counter, voices low but sharp.

Myrto’s nostrils flared. "Trouble smells like burnt coffee," she muttered, an old proverb surfacing in her mind.

She shuffled downstairs, her black dress swishing, and crossed the street just as the men sped off. Karabatsos was trembling, counting a wad of drachmas with shaky fingers.

"Eh, Kostas!" Myrto barked. "Who were those jackals?"

Karabatsos jumped, nearly dropping the money. "Nothing, Myrto, just business."

"Business doesn’t make an honest man sweat like a pig at Easter," she shot back.

He hesitated, then leaned in. "They… they wanted me to hold money. Big money. Foreign transfers. But it’s..."

"Illegal," Myrto finished. The junta’s currency controls had turned Athens into a cage. Moving money out was a crime, unless you were rich, connected, or stupid.

That evening, Aris found her at the kitchen table, surrounded by newspapers, her reading glasses perched on her nose.

"Mama, what’s this?" He eyed the scribbled notes: names, numbers, bank acronyms.

"A puzzle," she said. "And I don’t like missing pieces."

*    *    * *    *    *

The next morning, Myrto marched into the local kafeneio, where the old men sipped muddy coffee and traded gossip. She zeroed in on Spiros, a retired bank clerk with a fondness for ouzo and loose lips.

"Spiro," she said, sliding into the chair opposite him. "Who in this neighborhood moves money like water?"

He choked on his coffee. "Myrto, some questions drown a man."

She leaned in. "And some silence buries him."

Spiros sighed. "There’s talk… a lawyer, Vlassis. Handles ‘special’ transactions for the wrong people."

Myrto’s blood hummed. Vlassis, a slick, silver-haired snake who dined at expensive tavernas while pensioners counted pennies.

*    *    * *    *    *

That night, she enlisted Aris and her nosy neighbor, Toula, for surveillance. They parked across from Vlassis’s office, watching as shadowy figures came and went.

"Mama, this is dangerous," Aris hissed.

"Life is dangerous," she retorted. "So is stupidity. Now hush."

A delivery van pulled up. Two men unloaded heavy suitcases. Myrto’s eyes narrowed. "No fish smells fresh at midnight."

She dialed her son-in-law, a mid-level cop with a grudge against corruption. "Yianni, bring friends. The big kind."

*    *    * *    *    *

Chaos erupted an hour later. Police swarmed the office, catching Vlassis mid-transfer, stacks of foreign cash spilling from the suitcases. The lawyer’s face twisted in fury as he was dragged out, spitting curses.

"You meddling crone!" he snarled at Myrto.

She smirked. "The fox screams loudest when the trap snaps."

The next morning, the neighborhood buzzed. Karabatsos poured her a free coffee, his hands steady for the first time in days.

"How’d you know?" he asked.

Myrto sipped, savoring the victory. "A grandmother knows two things: when a child lies… and when a thief sweats."

Aris shook his head, grinning. "You’re impossible."

She winked. "And you’re welcome."

As the sun rose over Athens, Myrto Zervou, the widow in black, returned to her balcony, ever watchful, ever ready.

The End

Shadows on two wheels

The summer heat clung to Kaisariani like a sweaty shirt. Myrto Zervou wiped her brow with a black handkerchief, eyeing the empty bike rack outside Mr. Kostas’s kiosk.

"Third one this week," muttered Kostas, shaking his head. "Thieves are eating this neighborhood alive."

Myrto clucked her tongue. "A thief’s hand is quick, but God’s eye is quicker."

Her son, Aris, lumbered over, toolbox in hand. "Maybe it’s kids, Mama."

"Kids don’t steal ten bikes in a week and vanish like smoke," she snapped. "This is work."

That evening, over bitter coffee, Myrto’s granddaughter, little Eleni, piped up: "Yiayia, I saw a van near the square. Men were loading bikes."

Myrto’s eyes sharpened. "What men?"

"One had a snake tattoo."

*    *    * *    *    *

The next morning, Myrto marched to the local mechanic, Babis, whose shop smelled of grease and lies.

"Babis," she said sweetly, "who in this city buys stolen bikes?"

Babis nearly dropped his wrench. "Myrto, don’t start..."

She leaned in. "A snake tattoo. Ring any bells?"

Babis swallowed. "Maybe… Nikos ‘the Serpent’ in Peristeri. Runs a chop shop."

*    *    * *    *    *

That night, Aris drove them to Peristeri in his dented pickup. The chop shop was a fenced yard under a flickering neon sign: Nikos Auto Repairs.

Myrto adjusted her black dress. "Stay close."

They slipped inside. Rows of stripped bikes gleamed under tarps. A muscular man—snake tattoo coiling up his neck, barked orders.

Then, a voice: "New shipment’s ready for Piraeus tomorrow."

Myrto’s pulse jumped. A syndicate.

Aris grabbed her arm. "Mama, we need the police..."

"Bah! By then, the bikes are fish in the sea." She spotted a phone on a crate. Quick as a cat, she dialed Mary’s husband, a port customs officer. "Petros! Stop any bike shipments at Piraeus at dawn. Now!"

Then... "Hey!" The Serpent loomed.

Myrto brandished her umbrella like a sword. "You steal from hardworking people? Shame!"

Aris tackled a thug. Myrto whacked another’s knee. Sirens wailed.

*    *    * *    *    *

At the police station, the officer sighed. "Madame Zervou, you can’t..."

"I can’t? Who found your stolen nephew’s scooter last year?" She crossed her arms. "The fox is clever, but the hen has friends."

The next day, the bikes were returned. Kostas gifted her a bottle of tsipouro.

Back home, Aris groaned. "Mama, no more adventures."

She winked. "Till the next one."

Outside, Athens hummed, a city of shadows, secrets, and one sharp-eyed widow in black.

The End

Black dress, red trouble

The August heat clung to Athens like a wet rag. Myrto Zervou fanned herself with yesterday’s newspaper, perched on her balcony, watching the Kaisariani streets simmer below. Her son, Aris, sanded a wooden chair leg in the living room, the rhythmic scrape-scrape-scrape grating on her nerves.

“Ari, for the love of Saint Basil, stop that noise,” she called. “You’ll scare off the cats.”

Aris grinned, wiping sawdust from his brow. “Better the cats than the neighbors, Mama.”

Before she could retort, a commotion erupted downstairs, shouting, scuffling. Myrto leaned over the railing. Outside the corner kiosk, two policemen had cornered a young woman in a short sundress, her dark curls bouncing as she twisted away.

“Indecent clothing!” one cop barked, grabbing her wrist. “You’re coming to the station.”

The girl, Myrto recognized her as Eleni, the new waitress at the café yanked back. “It’s forty degrees! What am I supposed to wear, a fur coat?”

Myrto’s lips pursed. Foreign nonsense. She’d seen this before, cops flexing their power over women, especially those who didn’t fit their idea of “proper.”

“Ari!” she barked. “Get my bag.”

Aris groaned. “Mama, no...”

“Now!”

*    *    * *    *    *

Minutes later, Myrto hobbled onto the pavement, her black dress swishing like a storm cloud. The cops stiffened at her approach.

“Officers,” she said sweetly, “you look thirsty. Why not let the girl go and have a coffee instead?”

The taller cop scowled. “This doesn’t concern you, yiayá.”

“Everything here concerns me.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Especially when certain officers forget their paychecks come from our taxes.”

Eleni gaped. The cops exchanged glances.

The shorter one coughed. “We’re upholding public decency.”

Myrto laughed a sharp, knowing sound. “Decency? Like when you took bribes from the butcher last week to ignore his expired meat?”

The taller cop paled. “That’s ...that’s slander!”

“Is it?” Myrto patted her handbag. “Or is it in my little notebook, ready for the captain?”

Silence. A bead of sweat rolled down the cop’s temple.

Finally, he released Eleni. “Fine. But next time, dress respectably.”

As they slunk off, Eleni exhaled. “Thank you, Kyria Myrto.”

Myrto waved a hand. “Bah. Men who police skirts have tiny brains and even tinier...”

“Mama!” Aris hissed.

She smirked. “Come, korítsi. Let’s get you a frappé. And maybe a longer dress for their sake, not yours.”

As they walked, Aris muttered, “One day, you’ll get us arrested.”

Myrto adjusted her black headscarf. “Then I’ll solve that mystery too.”

The End

Juror's fear

The summer heat clung to Kaisariani like a sweaty shirt. Myrto Zervou fanned herself with yesterday’s newspaper, perched on her balcony, watching the neighborhood’s slow pulse. Below, her son Aris sanded a wooden chair in his workshop, the rhythmic scrape blending with the cicadas’ drone.

Then she saw him, Nikos Vassilou, the butcher from Plateia, lurking near Mrs. Katerina’s door. Katerina, the quiet woman who had just been selected as a juror in the high-profile trial of a notorious loan shark.

Myrto’s eyes narrowed.

“Ari,” she called down, “bring me some water. And your ears.”

Aris wiped his hands and climbed up, sighing. “What now, Mana?”

“That butcher,” she said, nodding toward Nikos, “has no business at Katerina’s door. Unless he’s selling pork to a vegetarian.”

Aris chuckled. “Maybe he’s sweet on her.”

Myrto scoffed. “At his age? Ha! No, something stinks worse than his meat counter.”

*    *    * *    *    *

That evening, Myrto shuffled to Katerina’s apartment under the guise of borrowing sugar. The moment Katerina opened the door, Myrto saw the fear in her eyes.

“You look like you’ve seen the vrykolakas,” Myrto said, stepping inside without invitation.

Katerina wrung her hands. “It’s nothing, Kyria Myrto.”

“Nothing? Then why is your sugar bowl shaking?”

A long silence. Then, a whisper: “Nikos came. He said… if I don’t vote ‘not guilty’ for Sotiris, bad things will happen.”

Myrto’s jaw tightened. Sotiris Karas, the loan shark, had terrorized half of Athens. Now he was intimidating jurors?

“Aman,” Myrto muttered. “The wolf doesn’t change his fur.”

*    *    * *    *    *

Back home, Myrto plotted with Aris.

“We can’t go to the police,” Aris said. “They’re slow, and Nikos will deny it.”

“Then we make him confess,” Myrto said, eyes gleaming.

The next day, Aris “accidentally” broke Nikos’s delivery van’s tail light. When Nikos stormed into the workshop, shouting, Myrto was waiting.

“Ah, Nikos! Terrible luck,” she said, shaking her head. “First your van, then your other problems.”

Nikos froze. “What problems?”

“The ones you’ll have when Sotiris loses the trial anyway and blames you for failing to scare Katerina.”

Nikos paled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Myrto leaned in. “Oh? Then why did you tell Katerina to vote ‘not guilty’? Or should I ask Sotiris myself?”

Panic flashed in Nikos’s eyes. “He’ll kill me!”

“Or,” Myrto said sweetly, “you go to the police first. Tell them Sotiris threatened you too.”

*    *    * *    *    *

Nikos cracked like a stale paximadi. Within hours, the police had his statement—and a warrant for Sotiris.

That night, as Myrto and Aris sat on the balcony, sipping tsipouro, Katerina knocked on their door, holding a fresh galaktoboureko.

“For you,” she said, smiling. “The trial… I voted guilty.”

Myrto patted her hand. “Good. The snake’s head is crushed.”

As Katerina left, Aris smirked. “Another mystery solved by the Black Widow of Kaisariani.”

Myrto chuckled. “Quiet, pethi mou. Or next time, I’ll let you deal with the wolves.”

And with that, she took another sip, the night swallowing her satisfied grin.

THE END

Black widow, red hands

The summer heat clung to Kaisariani like a sweaty shirt. Myrto Zervou sat on her balcony, fanning herself with an old newspaper, watching the street below. The neighbourhood was quiet, too quiet. Even the stray cats had retreated to the shade.

Inside, her son Aris sanded down a wooden chair leg, the rasping sound filling the small apartment.

"Turn on the radio," Myrto called. "Maybe they’ll say something useful for once."

Aris wiped his forehead. "Like what, Ma? ‘Heatwave continues, more bad news’?"

Before she could retort, a sharp knock rattled the door. Myrto shuffled over and opened it to find her neighbour, Panagiota, red-faced and breathless.

"They took him!" Panagiota gasped. "They took Dimitris!"

Myrto grabbed her arm. "Who took him? Speak clearly, woman!"

"The police! They arrested him at the square, him and twenty others! They said it was an illegal assembly!"

Aris appeared behind Myrto, frowning. "Since when is talking politics a crime?"

"Since today, apparently," Myrto muttered. She grabbed her black handbag. "Come, Panagiota. We’re going to the station."

*    *    * *    *    *

The police station buzzed like a kicked beehive. Relatives crowded the front desk, demanding answers. Myrto elbowed her way to the front.

"Where is Dimitris Karamanos?" she demanded.

The officer barely glanced up. "Processing. Come back tomorrow."

Myrto leaned in. "Listen, young man. Either you tell me where he is, or I’ll start shouting so loud your chief will think the dictatorship’s back."

The officer blinked. "Who are you?"

"Someone you don’t want as an enemy."

Grudgingly, he checked his list. "Holding cell. No bail yet."

Outside, Myrto huddled with Panagiota and Aris. "This stinks worse than three-day-old fish. Since when does Athens arrest people for talking?"

Aris crossed his arms. "Since they’re scared."

Myrto’s eyes narrowed. "Then we’ll give them something real to be scared about."

*    *    * *    *    *

That night, Myrto and Aris sneaked into the square where the arrests had happened. The police had taped it off, but Myrto ducked under with a grunt.

"Ma, this is a bad idea," Aris whispered.

"Quiet. Look ...footprints." She pointed to scuffed marks leading to a café. Inside, they found leaflets stuffed behind a loose tile.

Aris unfolded one. "Protest the new assembly law tonight, 9 PM."

Myrto smirked. "So they knew people would gather. They wanted the arrests."

"But why?"

"To scare everyone. But someone tipped them off." She pocketed the leaflet. "Let’s visit the café owner."

*    *    * *    *    *

The owner, a sweaty man named Stavros, nearly fainted when Myrto slammed the leaflet on his counter.

"Who gave you these?" she demanded.

"I... I don’t know! A man, he paid me to hide them!"

"Describe him."

"Tall, sunglasses, a scar on his cheek..."

Myrto exchanged a glance with Aris. "A provocateur."

*    *    * *    *    *

By morning, Myrto had gathered her forces, Panagiota, Mary (her daughter), and even Father Nikolas from the local church. They marched to the station, a small but determined mob.

The chief, a bulldog of a man, blocked their path. "Enough! These people broke the law!"

Myrto stepped forward. "The real law says Greeks can speak freely. You arrested them because someone paid you to."

The chief’s face twitched.

Mary waved her phone. "And if you don’t release them, the press will hear how police take bribes to silence dissent."

Silence. Then, with a snarl, the chief turned. "Release them!"

*    *    * *    *    *

As the freed detainees spilled into the sunlight, Dimitris hugged Panagiota. Myrto watched, satisfied until she spotted a tall man with a scar slipping away.

She grabbed Aris. "Him!"

They chased the man down an alley, where he turned, knife flashing. Myrto didn’t flinch. "You’re not so tough without your police friends."

Aris tackled him. The man spat. "You’ll regret this."

Myrto leaned in. "As my grandmother used to say: ‘The liar’s punishment is not being believed, it’s being caught.’"

*    *    * *    *    *

That evening, back on her balcony, Myrto sipped her coffee. The neighbourhood buzzed with the day’s victory.

Aris sat beside her. "We did good, Ma."

She nodded. "For now. But men like that don’t stay gone."

"Then we’ll be ready."

Myrto smiled. "Damn right we will."

THE END

The permit problem

The summer heat clung to Kaisariani like a sweaty shirt. Myrto Zervou sat on her balcony, fanning herself with an old newspaper, watching the neighborhood hustle below. Her son, Aris, burst through the door, his carpenter’s apron dusty, his face flushed.

"Mama, it’s happened again!" he growled, slamming a crumpled paper onto the table.

Myrto peered over her glasses. "What now? Another fine for your truck?"

"Worse. The permit for Mrs. Katerina’s balcony repair, denied. Again." He paced, running a hand through his hair. "The inspector said the measurements were ‘irregular.’ But I measured twice! And you know what he hinted? That for a ‘small fee,’ it could be approved by tomorrow."

Myrto’s lips pressed into a thin line. "Ah. The old ‘fakelaki’ trick." She stood, smoothing her black dress. "This ends today."

Aris groaned. "Mama, don’t start..."

"Quiet. When the fox guards the henhouse, the feathers disappear. We’re paying a visit."

*    *    * *    *    *

The municipal office was a stuffy, slow-moving beast. Myrto marched in like a storm cloud, Aris trailing behind. Behind the counter, Inspector Leonidas Papadopoulos, a man with a greasy smile and shinier hair looked up.

"Ah, Mr. Zervou! Back so soon?"

"He brought reinforcements," Myrto said sweetly, leaning on the counter. "Tell me, Mr. Inspector, why does my son’s honest work need a bribe to pass?"

Leonidas’s smile faltered. "Madam, that’s a serious accusation..."

"And yet your hand is out like a beggar’s," she snapped. "I have two grandsons who understand fairness better than you."

A clerk nearby stifled a laugh. Leonidas’s face darkened. "You’re mistaken. The regulations are strict—"

"Then show me the rulebook," Myrto demanded. "Page and line."

Silence. Murmurs spread. A senior official, overhearing, stepped in. "Is there a problem?"

Myrto turned, eyes sharp. "Only that your inspector thinks honesty has a price."

Two hours later, Aris’s permit was stamped, no bribe. Leonidas was suspended pending investigation.

Walking home, Aris shook his head. "Mama, you’re terrifying."

She smirked. "Good. Fear keeps the wolves away."

As the sun set over Athens, Myrto sipped her coffee, satisfied. Another small justice served.

The End

Black Widow, White Lies

The summer heat clung to Kaisariani like a sweaty shirt. Myrto Zervou fanned herself with yesterday’s newspaper, perched on her balcony, watching the neighborhood’s slow pulse. Below, her son Aris sanded a wooden chair in their tiny workshop, his shirt damp with sweat.

A sudden commotion broke the stillness.

"Thief! Liar!" A woman’s shrill voice echoed from the square. Myrto’s ears pricked up. She shuffled inside, grabbed her cane, and marched downstairs with the determination of a general.

By the time she reached the square, a small crowd had gathered around Eleni, the baker’s wife, who was red-faced and shaking her fist at a pale, trembling man, Dimitris, the tailor.

"Poutana! You swore on the Bible!" Eleni spat.

Myrto stepped between them, her black dress cutting through the crowd like a shadow. "Pou pas, re? What’s this shouting?"

Eleni turned, eyes blazing. "This malákas lied in court! My nephew is in prison because of him!"

Dimitris wiped his brow. "I... I told the truth!"

Myrto’s sharp eyes narrowed. She knew Dimitris. A quiet man, bad at cards, worse at lying.

"Come," she said, gripping his arm. "We talk."

*    *    * *    *    *

Back in her apartment, Myrto poured two glasses of tsipouro. Dimitris gulped his down.

"Start talking," she ordered.

Dimitris hesitated, then cracked. "They paid me. Said if I testified that Nikos was at my shop that night, they’d clear my debts."

"Who?"

"The pallikari with the scar. Works for Sotiris."

Aris, who had been listening from the doorway, whistled. "The loan shark?"

Myrto’s lips pressed into a thin line. "O pseftis kai o kleftis, ena krevati tous kani. The liar and the thief share the same bed." She stood. "We fix this."

*    *    * *    *    *

That evening, Myrto and Aris went to the dimly lit kafenio where Sotiris held court. The burly loan shark sat surrounded by his men, including the scarred enforcer.

Myrto marched right up to him.

"Yia sou, Sotiri," she said sweetly. "You remember my late husband, yes? The one who owed you nothing when he died?"

Sotiris smirked. "What do you want, yiayá?"

"The truth. Or I tell the police where you buried Yiannis the Fisherman."

The room went silent. Sotiris’s smile vanished.

Aris tensed, ready for a fight. But Myrto just tapped her cane. "Ela, make your choice."

*    *    * *    *    *

The next morning, Dimitris recanted his testimony in court. Nikos was released.

As they left the courthouse, Eleni hugged Myrto, weeping. "Efharistó, kyria Zervou!"

Myrto patted her back. "I alitheia vgainei panta sto fos," she said. "The truth always comes to light."

Aris chuckled as they walked away. "You’re terrifying, Mamá."

She smirked. "Kai ego eimai i mana sou. And I’m your mother."

The sun blazed over Athens, and Myrto adjusted her black scarf, ready for the next storm.

THE END