Journalist's dread

The summer heat clung to the streets of Kaisariani like a sweaty shirt. Myrto Zervou sat on her balcony, fanning herself with an old newspaper, her sharp eyes scanning the neighbourhood below. Her son, Aris, was hammering away in his small carpentry workshop downstairs, the rhythmic tap-tap-tap blending with the cicadas' drone.

Then, the shouting started.

"You think you can write whatever you want? You’re playing with fire!"

Myrto leaned forward, squinting. Down the street, a broad-shouldered man in a tight suit loomed over Nikos Karas, the young journalist who wrote for The Athenian Voice. Nikos, slight and bespectacled, took a step back, but the man grabbed his collar.

"One more article, and you’ll regret it."

Before Myrto could shout, Nikos twisted free and bolted into his apartment building. The thug, because that’s what he was, no doubt, glanced around, then slipped into a black sedan.

Myrto huffed. "Like a cockroach in the flour," she muttered, recalling the old proverb. "Where there’s one, there’s a whole nest."

*    *    * *    *    *

"Mama, what’s wrong?" Aris wiped sawdust from his hands as he climbed the stairs.

"That journalist boy, Nikos. Some malákas just threatened him."

Aris frowned. "Probably over his articles on the junta’s old cronies. You think we should call the police?"

"Police?" Myrto scoffed. "They’ll come when the bread is already burnt." She stood, adjusting her black dress. "I’ll talk to him."

*    *    * *    *    *

Nikos’ hands trembled as he poured Myrto a coffee. "Mrs. Zervou, I appreciate the concern, but this isn’t your problem."

"When a wolf enters the village, it’s everyone’s problem," she countered. "Who was that man?"

Nikos hesitated. "Grigoris Voulgaris. Ex-military, now ‘security consultant’ for old regime loyalists. My last piece linked him to embezzlement funds from the ’70s."

"Ah," Myrto nodded. "A snake sheds its skin but stays a snake."

"He’s not alone," Nikos admitted. "There’s a meeting tonight, warehouse near Piraeus. I have a source who says they’re moving money. But if I go..."

"You’ll end up floating in the Saronic," Myrto finished. She sipped her coffee. "So we go instead."

*    *    * *    *    *

Aris drove his battered pickup, grumbling. "Mama, this is crazy."

"Life is crazy," she said, clutching her handbag like a weapon. "Park there."

The warehouse loomed under flickering streetlights. Two men guarded the entrance. Myrto marched forward, chin up.

"Hey! No entry!" one barked.

"I’m here to clean," she snapped. "Unless you want to explain to Mr. Voulgaris why his office is full of mouse droppings?"

The men exchanged glances, then waved her in.

Inside, crates were stacked high. Voulgaris stood near a table, counting cash with another man.

"What the...?"

"Good evening, kyrie," Myrto said sweetly. "You forgot to pay your electric bill. The power’s about to go out."

Aris, hidden in the shadows, yanked the main switch. Darkness swallowed the room.

Chaos erupted, shouting, stumbling. Myrto snatched a ledger from the table and slipped out.

*    *    * *    *    *

By morning, Nikos’ new article with photographic evidence, was front-page news. Voulgaris and his men were arrested mid-transfer.

"How did you do it?" Nikos asked in awe.

Myrto shrugged. "A thief fears the moon, a liar fears the truth." She patted his cheek. "Now go write. And next time, lock your door."

As she walked home, the sun warming the Athenian streets, Aris sighed. "You’re impossible, Mama."

"Good," she said, smiling. "Impossible means they’ll never see me coming."

THE END