A Touch of Danger [antikvár]

CHAPTER ONEThe taxi taking me from the Athens Hilton to the Piraeus ferry dock roared around the last cloverleaf of new road and slid in against the high kerb like a scared baserunner with his cleats bared. My neck was jerked. The already dented hubcaps grated and clashed against the badly poured Greek concrete. Before it was stopped, the paunchy moustachioed driver was out of it waving his arms and running for the ferry where a cluster of ship's officers stood together in white uniforms being important.I had made the mistake of telling him to step on it, that I was running a little late. Now-to buy himself a big tip-he was going to pretend he had personally held the ship's sailing in order to get me aboard.After a moment to straighten my neck, I gathered my old trenchcoat and hat and briefcase and got out and went over to what had to be the ticket booth. When I said, 'Tsatsos,' the old man in the hotbox made out a pink ticket form and counted on his fingers for me how much I owed him in drachmas.Around us heat shimmered on the Athens plain. Back from the cleared area for the new road, the buildings seemed to gasp in it. At my feet a square of feverish ill-looking lawn set in the concrete was dusted with it. Athens itself, the Athens of Socrates and Aristophanes and Jackie Kennedy, was not visible from here.The cab driver came back. 'All A-okay,' he grinned. 'All fine, boss. All fixed up now.''My suitcase is still in your trunk,' I said.His eyes widened. He had forgotten it. He came back with it striding importantly, and handed it grandiloquently to a tottery ancient in a long blue smock and cap who was supposed to fool people like me that he was a porter.I paid the driver. I gave him his big tip. I have never known how to deal with phonies who pretend they've done more for you than they actually have. You'd think a hard-nosed private detective with fire in his eye would learn how to handle that, but I never have. One of theSCALA