Kaisariani knife

The summer heat clung to Athens like a wet rag. Myrto Zervou fanned herself with yesterday’s newspaper, perched on her balcony, watching the neighborhood simmer. Below, her son Aris hauled planks of wood into his workshop, shirt soaked through.

A sudden scream cut the air.

Myrto’s head snapped toward the sound old Mrs. Kalliope’s grocery. A man in a black hood bolted out, clutching a bloody knife and a cash box. Kalliope staggered after him, clutching her arm, wailing.

"Thé mou!" Myrto crossed herself, then hollered, "Ariiiis!"

Her son looked up just as the robber shoved past him. Aris lunged, but the man twisted free, vanishing into the alley maze.

By the time Myrto thundered downstairs, a crowd had gathered. Kalliope sat on the curb, her sleeve dark with blood.

"Bandits! Animals!" the old woman spat. "He cut me for fifty euros!"

Myrto clucked her tongue, pressing a handkerchief to the wound. "A knife for chicken feed. ‘Poverty makes thieves, but stupidity makes corpses.’"

Policemen arrived, young, tired, uninterested. Myrto eyed them. Amateurs.

That night, over fasolada, Aris groaned. "Mama, stay out of it. Let the police handle it."

She snorted. "The police couldn’t find their koloi with both hands."

Her daughter Mary called, panicked. "Mama, be careful!"

"Po po po, worry makes you old," Myrto chided before hanging up.

The next morning, she marched to Kalliope’s shop. The old woman hissed, "It was Nikos, the butcher’s nephew. A vlakas, always drunk, always trouble."

Myrto nodded. She knew Nikos, a lanky, twitchy boy with bad teeth. But something gnawed at her.

She visited the butcher. The man sweated like a sinner in church. "Nikos? No, no, he’s in Thessaloniki!"

"Liar," Myrto muttered.

At the kafeneio, old Manolis coughed into his ouzo. "Nikos? Saw him last night. With Spiros that mangas from Exarchia."

Spiros. A known thug.

Myrto’s bones hummed. She called Aris. "Bring your hammer."

They found Nikos in a derelict building, shaking, bruised. "Spiros made me do it! He said he’d kill me!"

Before Aris could react, Spiros lunged from the shadows, knife flashing. Myrto swung her handbag, loaded with a brick ...crack! The thug crumpled.

Aris gaped. "Mama!"

She shrugged. "‘An old woman’s anger is colder, but sharper.’"

The police hauled Spiros away. Nikos wept, confessing everything.

Back home, Mary scolded her. "You could’ve been killed!"

Myrto sipped her tea. "‘Better a brave widow than a fearful bride.’"

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

She winked. "And you’re welcome."

Outside, Athens buzzed on, none the wiser.

But in Kaisariani, the Black Widow had spun her web.

THE END

Blood on the balcony

The summer heat clung to Kaisariani like a sweaty shirt. Myrto Zervou fanned herself with an old newspaper, perched on her balcony, watching the neighborhood simmer. Below, kids played football, their shouts bouncing off the concrete. Next door, old man Dimitris watered his geraniums, muttering about the youth.

Then, the scream.

Aris, her carpenter son, dropped his hammer in the living room. "Mama, what was that?"

Myrto was already on her feet, her black dress swishing as she hurried to the railing. Across the street, a crowd gathered outside Andreas’s kiosk. A man lay sprawled on the pavement, blood trickling from his temple.

"Po-po-po," Myrto clucked. "That’s Spiros. The one who always bets on Olympiakos."

Aris grabbed his keys. "Let’s go."

*    *    * *    *    *

The crowd parted as Myrto elbowed through. Spiros groaned, clutching his head. His attacker was long gone.

"Who did this?" Myrto demanded.

Maria from the bakery wrung her hands. "I saw Nikos from the third floor running away! He was shouting about traitors!"

"Nikos the electrician?" Aris frowned. "Since when does he beat people?"

Myrto’s eyes narrowed. "Since someone whispered in his ear."

*    *    * *    *    *

Back home, Myrto stirred a pot of lentil soup while Aris paced.

"Nikos thinks Spiros is a mouchos," she said. "A police informant."

Aris scoffed. "Spiros? The man can’t even remember his wife’s name half the time."

"Exactly." Myrto tapped her temple. "But someone wants Nikos to believe it. And that someone doesn’t like Spiros."

Aris sat. "Who?"

Myrto smiled. "Who stands to gain if Spiros is too hurt to run his kiosk?"

*    *    * *    *    *

The next morning, Myrto marched to the kiosk, now being "temporarily managed" by Spiros’s cousin, Takis. A slick man with gold rings and a too-wide smile.

"Taki, mou," Myrto said sweetly. "How lucky for you, eh? Spiros gets hit, and suddenly you’re in charge?"

Takis’s smile faltered. "Family helps family."

"Like you helped Nikos believe Spiros was a snitch?"

His face darkened. "You’re an old woman. Stick to your knitting."

Myrto leaned in. "The snake that doesn’t hisse still bites."

*    *    * *    *    *

That evening, Myrto and Aris cornered Nikos at his workshop.

"Niko," Myrto said, "Takis played you. Spiros is no informant. But Takis? He’s got debts. And a kiosk is good money."

Nikos’s fists clenched. "That malákas lied to me?"

Aris crossed his arms. "Go ask him."

*    *    * *    *    *

They found Takis counting cash in the back of the kiosk. Nikos kicked the door open.

"You set me up!"

Takis lunged but Aris grabbed him. Myrto snatched the ledger.

"Ah! Loans to the wrong people. Shame."

The police arrived, led by Inspector Leonidas, an old friend of Myrto’s.

"Again, Kyria Zervou?" he sighed.

She patted his cheek. "The thief’s hand burns first."

*    *    * *    *    *

Epilogue: Spiros returned to his kiosk, head bandaged but grinning. Nikos brought him coffee every morning. Takis? Gone for now.

Back on her balcony, Myrto sipped her coffee.

Aris shook his head. "Mama, one day you’ll get hurt."

She winked. "Only the mouse fears the cat."

The neighborhood hummed on.

And Myrto watched.

The End

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