Myrto Zervou adjusted her black shawl and peered out of her third-floor balcony in Kaisariani, her sharp eyes scanning the narrow streets below. The morning was warm, the scent of fried dough and exhaust mingling in the air. Across the street, young Dimitris was pacing in front of his mechanic’s shop, his face twisted in distress.
“Aris!” Myrto called over her shoulder. “Something’s wrong with Dimitris. His scooter is missing.”
Her son, a broad-shouldered carpenter with sawdust perpetually clinging to his clothes, appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on a rag. “Maybe he loaned it to someone.”
“Bah!” Myrto scoffed. “You lend your tools?”
Aris grinned. “Never.”
“Exactly. A man’s scooter is like his right arm. Come.”
* * * * * *
Dimitris nearly collapsed in relief when he saw Myrto approaching. “Thee mou, Yiayia Myrto! They stole it! Right from under my nose!”
“Who?” Myrto demanded.
“I don’t know! I left it here last night, chained up, and this morning poof! Gone!”
Aris crouched, examining the broken chain. “Bolt cutters. Professional.”
Myrto hummed, scanning the street. A few doors down, old Manolis sat outside his kafenio, nursing a coffee. His eyes flicked away when she looked at him.
“Manoli,” Myrto called sweetly. “You see anything last night?”
The old man shrugged. “I was asleep.”
“At eight o’clock?”
He shifted. “Maybe I heard a van.”
“A van?” Aris pressed.
Manolis sighed. “A white one. Stopped near Dimitris’ shop. Two men. One had a tattoo, like a snake, here.” He tapped his forearm.
Myrto’s eyes gleamed. “A snake, eh? Aris, remember Spiros ‘the Viper’ Kontos?”
Aris frowned. “The guy who used to steal car parts in Neos Kosmos?”
“The very one.” She turned to Dimitris. “Don’t worry agori mou. We’ll find your scooter.”
* * * * * *
By afternoon, Myrto had bullied half the neighbourhood into giving information. The widow Toula swore she saw Spiros drinking at a shady bar near Vyronas. Myrto and Aris went, her clutching her handbag like a weapon, him cracking his knuckles.
The bar was dim, the air thick with smoke and ouzo. Spiros sat in the corner, his snake tattoo coiled menacingly on his arm.
“Spiro,” Myrto said, sliding into the seat across from him. “Long time.”
He smirked. “Yiayia Myrto. Here to scold me?”
“Here to ask nicely. Where’s Dimitris’ scooter?”
Spiros’ grin faded. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Aris leaned in. “We know it was you.”
Spiros glanced at the door. “Look, even if I did, it’s already sold. Gone to Albania by now.”
Myrto sighed. “O kleftis vriskei ton klefti.” (The thief finds the thief.) She reached into her bag and pulled out an old flip phone. “Should I call your parole officer?”
Spiros palmed. “Wait! There’s a warehouse in Eleonas. Some bikes are still there.”
* * * * * *
That night, under the flickering light of a streetlamp, Myrto and Aris watched as police raided the warehouse. Among the stolen scooters was Dimitris’, slightly scratched but intact.
Back in Kaisariani, Dimitris hugged Myrto fiercely. “Yiayia, you’re a miracle!”
She patted his cheek. “O theos voithos ton voithon.” (God helps those who help themselves.) Then, eyeing the celebrating neighbours spilling into the street, she added, “Now someone get me a coffee before I collapse.”
Aris laughed, draping an arm around her shoulders as they walked home, the hum of Athens alive around them.
The End
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