Sofie Metropolis - Softcover

  OneTHERE ARE TWO KINDS OF people in this world: Greeks and those who wish they were Greek.At least that’s the maxim to which my grandfather Kosmos subscribes. Me? Well, I suppose maybe we all are divided up into two groups. But I don’t think it has much to do with ethnic makeup, because let’s face it, we’re all pretty screwed up no matter where our parents, grandparents, or forefathers hail from.The first group is made up of those who follow the road well traveled. Maybe because they’re afraid of losing a heel, getting a run in their stockings, or, worse, disappointing their families. Then there are those who take an alternate route—or perhaps even forge a path all their own—so focused on the road twisting and turning before them they don’t have much time to think about what kind of shoes they’re wearing, much less what anyone else is thinking.I know the difference between the two groups because I used to belong to the former. Now I’m happy to say I’m a card-carrying member of the latter.I used to be Sofie Metropolis, waitress and good Greek daughter—not necessarily in that order. Now I’m Sofie Metropolis, PI.Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? Sofie Metropolis, PI. I definitely like the sound of it. Even though I won’t be legally licensed for another three years (the result of some hokey New York State law). And even though some might argue that my abilities as a private investigator rate somewhere between amateur sleuth and pet detective. Of course, it doesn’t help that I’m not anything like my own idea of what a private investigator should be. When I think PI, I think Philip Marlowe, James Garner in The Rockford Files, or VI Warshawski. Or, at the very least, my Uncle Spyros, who’s nobody’s idea of what a PI looks like but has made a passable living at it for the past thirty years.Anyway, Uncle Spyros is to blame for my quitting my waitressing job three months ago and hiring on at his detective agency. All because he asked me one simple question: “What do you want to do with your life, Sof?”Maybe it wasn’t so much the question itself, but the mud puddle I was knee deep in the middle of when he asked it.But where Uncle Spyros is to blame for my professional woes, the rest of my family is responsible for my personal instability, no matter how much I love them.You see, three months ago, on the day I was set to marry a good Greek boy, just like any good Greek girl eventually does, I caught my groom schtupping my maid of honor in a back room at St. Constantine’s Greek Orthodox Cathedral. It was then that I realized that good was overrated. I’d spent so much time trying to be good, trying to live up to others’ ideas of what good was, that I never stopped to ask myself what I wanted, good, bad, or otherwise. Which is why Uncle Spyros’ question will be forever burned into my brain.So I nixed the groom and kept the wedding gifts—the biggest being the six-unit apartment building my family bought and couldn’t exactly return for store credit. A lot of the other gifts still sit, unwrapped for the most part, in a corner of my bedroom on the top floor of my biggest gift. From time to time I pop open one of the bottles of reception champagne, then unwrap one or two of the gifts that don’t look like toasters. My mom thinks it’s bad etiquette that I don’t return the gifts. Me? I figure since everyone knew about my groom’s extracurricular activities but me, I deserve a little slack. Besides, most of the gifts are from his family. And since he’s threatening to sue me for the cost of the two-carat engagement ring I fed to the garbage disposal ... well, let’s just say I’m glad I arrived early on that fateful day, or else I might even now be married to the lousy skirt-chaser.Still, after all this, my mom, Thalia Metropolis, never gives up on the idea that someday I’ll get married. Someday as in tomorrow or the day after that. You know, so I can produce more little Greek children who’ll suffer from their own cultural identity crises.And in case I needed a reminder of that, a prime example of what my mother thinks of as groom material sat on her plastic-covered sofa, staring up at me with a goofy grin. He was Greek. Of course. And he looked like he could do with a good salon referral. Preferably one that included body waxing.I’d stopped by my parents’ house to see if my brother, Kosmos, or my maternal grandfather—also Kosmos—were around so they could help me carry the mammoth area rug in the back of my Mustang convertible up the two flights of stairs to my apartment. It was a Saturday morning and a hot spring day in June and I’d gone into the city to do a little shopping at the Chelsea Flea Market. And I’d spent the half hour—sans traffic—driving back to Astoria in the northwest corner of Queens wavering between shopper’s high and guilt.Of course, right now all I felt was exasperation. The guy in front of me on the couch hadn’t blinked. And I’m pretty sure I was scowling.“Sofie! I was just telling Themios that you might stop by.” My mother came in from the kitchen carrying a tray of the standard: Greek coffee, glass of water, and something sweet. In this case the sweet was koulourakia, my mother’s version of a Greek vanilla cookie that turned rock hard five minutes out of the oven and was inedible unless you first dunked it into the coffee.I looked back at Themios.Sometimes it seems my mom always has another potential groom hanging around—you know, on the off chance I might stop by (which happens often, because I only live a block away and, yes, I admit, every now and again I get a little homesick. But that’s between you and me). My mom recently read that you could have your hymen surgically replaced and wants to schedule an appointment for me yesterday You know, so she’s not ashamed on the rare occasions I go to church. Oh, and for the guys like Themios that she’s always trying to fix me up with because, you know, no man wants a girl who’s “been around.”I can see it now. Sofie Metropolis: PI and born-again virgin.“Themios Kokotas, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Sofie.” Mom put the tray down and leaned closer to me. “You could have cleaned up a bit.”I was wearing jeans, a black Lycra T-shirt, and a pair of Skechers slides. Comfortable, but not exactly groom-nabbing material. Not that I intended to nab any grooms in the near or far-off future. I stared at Themios. Especially not this groom.“She’s older than I thought,” he said in Greek.I squinted at him. He couldn’t possibly be implying that I wasn’t the right bride material?“Is Grandpa around anywhere?” I made a point of asking my mother in English.“Funny you should say that,” she said, sitting down on the far end of the couch and motioning for me to sit between her and the human Chia Pet. I ignored her. “He stopped by earlier looking for you.”I headed for the kitchen where my grandfather always hangs out.“Only he left straight after.” My mother put the coffee, water, and cement cookie down in front of Themios. “And before you ask, your brother’s not here either He went to some sort of seminar or another downtown.” She smiled at her guest. “My son’s going to be a doctor.”That’s doctor as in Ph.D., not physician, but try explaining the difference to Thalia Metropolis.And that’s my brother. Always expanding his mind and making me, his older sister by a year, look like an even bigger idiot. It was all I could do to graduate from high school eight years ago while he was now a year away from a double doctorate in psychology and education.Don’t get me wrong. I’m proud of my little brother. But sometimes I think he stays in school just to get out of working at the family restaurant.“I’ve really got to go, Mom.” I aimed what I hoped was a smile in Themios’ direction. “It was really nice meeting you. I hope you enjoy your visit to the States.”“Visit? I’ve been here twenty years.”Oops.I bent to kiss my mom’s cheek and swiped a cookie at the same time.She caught my arm in a death grip. The kind only mothers know how to give.“I’ve got something else I need to talk to you about.” She slid a glance toward “our” visitor. “Something about Mrs. Kapoor.”I held my breath.“And Efi’s upstairs. She’s got another one of those ... things in her face. Her eyebrow this time.”Efi is my nineteen-year-old sister, and she recently developed a fetish for needles. When she’s not piercing something, she’s tattooing it. Mom keeps telling me to do something about it, but beyond running a chain through Efi’s many piercing rings and fastening her to the radiator, I haven’t a clue.“Tell her I’ll call her later.” I extracted my arm from my mother’s grip and dove for the door and sanity.Being twenty-six and single in a Greek family isn’t easy. I think it’s one of the reasons why I’d agreed to marry Thomas-the-Horny-Toad Chalikis in the first place. Sure, he was a cheating bastard, but could he carry my rug up to my apartment?Sometimes I think it would be better if I just packed up and moved to someplace like ... I don’t know, Omah...