"That's correct."
"What would you say if I told you that I can guarantee to carry your oil for three cents a gallon?"
Curtiss smiled patronizingly. "And just how would you perform that miracle?"
Demiris said quietly, "With a fleet of tankers that will have twice the carrying capacity of the present ones. I can transport your oil as fast as you can pump it out of the ground."
Curtiss was studying him, his face thoughtful. "Where would you get a fleet of large tankers?"
"I'm going to build them."
"I'm sorry. We wouldn't be interested in investing in..."
Demiris interrupted. "It won't cost you a penny. All I'm asking from you is a long-term contract to carry your oil at half the price you're paying now. I'll get my financing from the banks."
There was a long, pregnant silence. Owen Curtiss cleared his throat. "I think I had better take you upstairs to meet our president."
That was the beginning. The other oil companies were just as eager to make deals for Constantin Demiris's new tankers. By the time Spyros Lambrou learned what was happening, it was too late. He flew to the United States and was able to make a few deals for large tankers with some independent companies, but Demiris had skimmed off the cream of the market.
"He's your husband," Lambrou stormed, "but I swear to you, Melina, someday I'm going to make him pay for what he's done."
Melina felt miserable about what had happened. She felt she had betrayed her brother.
But when she confronted her husband, he shrugged. "I didn't go to them, Melina. They came to me. How could I refuse them?"
And that was the end of the discussion.
But business considerations were unimportant compared to Lambrou's feelings about how Demiris treated Melina.
He could have shrugged off the fact that Constantin Demiris was a notorious philanderer - after all, a man had to have his pleasure. But Demiris's being so blatant about it was an insult not only to Melina but to the whole Lambrou family. Demiris's affair with the actress Noelle Page had been the most egregious example. It had made headlines all over the world. One day, Spyros Lambrou thought. One day...
Nikos Veritos, Lambrou's assistant, walked into the office. Veritos had been with Spyros Lambrou for fifteen years. He was competent but unimaginative, a man with no future, gray and faceless. The rivalry between the two brothers-in-law presented Veritos with what he considered a golden opportunity. He was betting on Constantin Demiris to win, and from time to time he passed on confidential information to him, hoping for a suitable reward.
Veritos approached Lambrou. "Excuse me. There's a Mr. Anthony Rizzoli here to see you."
Lambrou sighed. "Let's get it over with," Lambrou said. "Send him in."
Anthony Rizzoli was in his mid-forties. He had black hair, a thin aquiline nose, and deep-set brown eyes. He moved with the grace of a trained boxer. He wore an expensive beige tailored suit, a yellow silk shirt, and soft leather shoes. He was soft-spoken and polite, and yet there was something oddly menacing about him.
"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lambrou."
"Sit down, Mr. Rizzoli."
Rizzoli took a seat.
"What can I do for you?"
"Well, as I explained to Mr. Veritos here, I'd like to charter one of your cargo ships. You see, I have a factory in Marseilles and I want to ship some heavy machinery to the United States. If you and me can work out a deal, I can throw a lot of business your way in the future."
Spyros Lambrou leaned back in his chair and studied the man seated in front of him. Unsavory. "Is that all you're planning to ship, Mr. Rizzoli?" he asked.
Tony Rizzoli frowned. "What? I don't understand."
"I think you do," Lambrou said. "My ships are not available to you."
"Why not? What are you talkin' about?"
"Drugs, Mr. Rizzoli. You're a drug dealer."
Rizzoli's eyes narrowed. "You're crazy! You've been listenin' to a lot of rumors."
But they were more than rumors. Spyros Lambrou had carefully checked out the man. Tony Rizzoli was one of the top drug smugglers in Europe. He was Mafia, part of the Organization, and the word was out that Rizzoli's transportation sources had dried up. That was why he was so anxious to make a deal.
"I'm afraid you'll have to go elsewhere."
Tony Rizzoli sat there staring at him, his eyes cold. Finally he nodded. "Okay." He took a business card from his pocket and threw it on the desk. "If you change your mind, here's where you can reach me." He rose to his feet and a moment later he was gone.
Spyros Lambrou picked up the card. It read "Anthony Rizzoli - Import-Export." There was an Athens hotel address and a telephone number at the bottom of the card.
Nikos Veritos had sat there wide-eyed, listening to the conversation. When Tony Rizzoli walked out the door he said, "Is he really...?"
"Yes. Mr. Rizzoli deals in heroin. If we ever let him use one of our ships, the government could put our whole fleet out of business."
Tony Rizzoli walked out of Lambrou's office in a fury. That fucking Greek treating me like I'm some peasant off the street! And how had he known about the drugs'? The shipment was an unusually large one, with a street value of at least ten million dollars. But the problem was in getting it to New York. The goddamned narcs are swarming all over Athens. I'll have to make a phone call to Sicily and stall. Tony Rizzoli had never lost a shipment, and he did not intend to lose this one. He thought of himself as a born winner.
He had grown up in Hell's Kitchen in New York. Geographically, it was located in the middle of the West Side of Manhattan, between Eighth Avenue and the Hudson River, and its northern and southern boundaries ran from Twenty-third to Fifty-ninth streets. But psychologically and emotionally, Hell's Kitchen was a city within a city, an armed enclave. The streets were ruled by gangs. There were the Gophers, the Parlor Mob, the Gorillas, and the Rhodes gang. Murder contracts retailed at a hundred dollars, with mayhem a little less.