Chapter 4: The Kafeneio

The kafeneio on the docks has no sign and no women in it.

I went in on the old man's arm on Thursday morning, because I had asked to.

I told him a closer needs to know a room before the room knows her.

"The kafeneio is the room," I said. "Every man who matters on the Anclote sits there by ten."

"They will not like it," Aris Pallis said.

"I don't need them to like it."

He looked at me for a moment, then offered his arm, and I took it.

It was the first time I had touched him since the loft.

It was a plain arm in a wool sleeve, steady, and I kept my hand light on it.

The door opened on warm air, tobacco and burnt coffee.

Thirty men sat at small tables under a television showing a football match with the sound off.

They were playing tavli with a clatter of dice, and they stopped.

I read the room in a single glance, because that is the work.

Two Pallis men sat by the back window with their hands on the table, where I could see them.

Three men near the counter had the Mavrakis look, the good shoes and the tired eyes.

One of them was already reaching for his phone.

Costa sat alone at a corner table, back against the wall, a small cup in front of him.

He lifted two fingers to me.

Nobody was in the chair beside the television.

It had a cup on its saucer, upside down, with a paper napkin folded over the rim.

"Whose is that?" I said, low.

"Leave it," the old man said, just as low.

We stood in the doorway.

An old man in a cardigan at the nearest table looked up at me.