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