Madame Sappho's Massage Parlor. Scarlet and Luna.

— What a hole.

The tall black man shook a couple of cigarettes out of the pack, put one in his mouth, and handed the other to me. I nodded in agreement to my friend, took the offered cigarette, and flicked my ZIPPO, lighting Mark's first, then lighting my own. After taking a drag and blowing a couple of smoke rings, my friend leaned back in the plastic chair of the seaside cafe and continued:

— What the hell does the boss need in this ass-end of the world? If you sold this whole shitty town, it wouldn't even cover shoelaces for his boots.

I nodded again in agreement. Although, I actually kind of liked the little town lost on the shore of the Aegean Sea. Quiet, peaceful, with friendly

locals selling fish, seafood, and whatever the local farmers managed to grow on the narrow streets. And I also liked the almost complete absence of tourists, especially our fellow countrymen, the Chinese, with their chattering in Mandarin and the clicking of phones and cameras. The town was saved from the invasion of this noisy crowd by the complete lack of historical landmarks. Accordingly, the prices here weren't just democratic, they were downright dirt cheap, as they say. And the goods matched the demand.

Mark was ranting about the "hole of the world," while I watched an old man packing silvery fish into a crate. In Brooklyn, they pay that kind of money for plastic sushi. Here—for freshness. Too bad we came here with guns, not fishing rods. The people here are simple, and the prices are low. No luxury segment, as they say. Nobody here gives a damn about it. And our boss, for whom we work as special assignment managers, loves expensive things. And he's extremely greedy.

— We've been pounding the streets of this shitty little town for two days now, — Mark continued to complain. — Waiting for that fat pig to dock at this goddamn shore on his super-duper expensive yacht. Why pay a ton of cash for a tub that can't even arrive on time. You agree, Xulang?

Mark is my old friend, we used to push weed together in school, which is how we ended up in Uncle Sam's hostel. He's the only one I allow to call me by my full name; for everyone else, I'm just Xu. Since the question was addressed directly to me, I had to answer.

— Yes.

— See, that's what I'm talking about, the Russians dropped anchor two days ago, and our boss is late, like their president to the English queen. And in this shitty town, you can't find any whores or weed. Yesterday I found an ad online for a local massage parlor—they ask two hundred euros an hour. In Brooklyn, for that money, a whore will suck all night and even run for donuts and coffee in the morning.

The Russian mafia had taken over all the criminal business in Greece. From whores to arms trafficking. The boss was going to meet with their local boss, or, as the Russians say—the overseer. What business our boss had with them, we didn't know and didn't try to find out.

Mark falls silent when a waitress comes over to take our order. She doesn't understand English very well, and it takes him half an hour to explain what we want. Mark, like me, speaks Greek perfectly, but the people around us don't need to know that. They bring us fresh fried fish and lemonade. We have a rule: while we're on the job—no alcohol, no other stimulants. You never know, we might have to shoot our way out or run from the cops. And also, when you're breaking a debtor's knees or a thieving manager's fingers, the main thing is not to overdo it. I, and Mark too, don't really like our job. Honestly, for as long as we can remember, we both feel like we're not in our place. That's what brought us together: a talkative black guy and a silent Chinese guy, two colored guys from Brooklyn. Together we've been through a lot: college, prison, from which the boss practically bought us out to do his dirty work.

We ate and were drinking coffee when the boss called and said to meet him at the pier in an hour. Finishing breakfast, we went down to the shore and an hour later stood before the bright eyes of Paul Green—our employer.

Mr. Paul sat in his cabin at a large English oak table, smoking a cigar and sipping scotch. When we entered, he nodded, inviting us to sit, and got straight to business.

— Need to find my nephew, Jack. He disappeared six months ago, and nothing is known about his fate. Frankly, I don't give a damn about this useless weasel, but he owns the controlling stake, and the shareholders are starting to ask unnecessary questions.

Taking a drag from his cigar and a sip of whiskey, he continued:

— Fortunately, this misunderstanding made out a will to his fiancée, so I won't be too upset if you only find the body of my unfortunate nephew. You won't be upset either, Sue, will you? — he asked someone under the table.

A girl's giggle came from under the table.

— Boss, why should we start looking for him from here, not from home? — asked Mark.

— Because he was last seen at a local hotel. Here are his photos and money for expenses. A Russian is waiting for you at the pier; he'll give you a car, his phone's geolocation data, documents, and weapons.

The boss pushed a thin yellow envelope with photos and a fat envelope with money toward us and waved his hand, dismissing us.

On the shore, a guy with crude blue tattoos on his fingers was indeed waiting for us. He handed us the keys to an inconspicuous Toyota Camry. In the car's glove compartment, we found two Glocks, Interpol employee IDs with our names and photos, and a printout of calls with geolocation data.

— Mr. Scrooge really splurged, bro, looks like the shareholders have him by the balls tight, — Mark flashed a smile. I nodded in agreement, putting the pistol in the holster under my arm.

Picking up the trail turned out to be easy. Actually, a piece of cake. The last time Jack called was from the same hotel where we were staying. From there, according to the porter, he took a taxi to go sightseeing around town. After questioning the few city taxi drivers, we found out he had gone to a mansion on the outskirts of town several times. More precisely, twice in one night. The first time he stayed about an hour, then halfway remembered he'd forgotten something and asked to go back. The taxi driver took him back, and Jack, like a madman, jumped out of the car and never returned. We checked the mansion and its owner, or rather, its mistress, but found nothing interesting. The mansion was bought a year and a half ago by a woman who came from the island of Mytilene, lives there, and opened a massage parlor. Only the price of the massage was suspicious—a whole two hundred euros.

To start, we decided to do a little surveillance on the house and, stocking up on coffee and donuts, parked on the street so we could see the main entrance.

________________________________________

— Where are you rushing off to, Fiona, let's tumble some more, — said the faun, turning onto his stomach and propping his horned head on his hands.

— Go to hell, Takios, you're not even hard anymore, — answered the petite blonde, tying the belt on her short silk robe.

— So what, — replied the faun. — But look what I have.

He quickly stuck out and retracted his long purple tongue several times and crossed his eyes. The girl laughed.

— You're such a goofball, — with these words she bent down and pecked Takios on the cheek.

— Really, Fiona, we could go to the lake for a swim, — said the second satyr, sitting up on the bed.

— I need to get myself in order, make breakfast, and serve it to Mistress Sappho. If I'm late or look bad—she'll punish me.

— We'd have more time if you invited us over again.

— The Mistress forbade it after the last time, — the girl sighed. — We make too much noise and disturb her sleep. Plus, after your hooves, the sheets are only good for rags. Takios, why did you shit under her favorite roses?

— I was fertilizing them! — the faun feigned indignation. — Look how well the trees grow in the forest—it's only because my brother and I fertilize them daily. You humans are so ungrateful and stupid! You flush such valuable fertilizer down those... what are they... oh, toilets. That's very wasteful!

— I'm not human, I'm a bacchante, — the girl pecked her lovers goodbye and stepped into the shimmering portal.

Once in the house, she closed the door, untied the knot on the handle, and, opening it again, stepped into the bathroom. After a quick shower, she tidied herself up, applied light makeup, and hurried to the kitchen. While the coffee was brewing, she put a white lace apron over her naked body and stockings. Loading breakfast onto a tray, she began climbing the stairs to the mistress's bedroom.

Climbing the stairs, she paused by the window. The silhouette of a man getting out of a car to smoke seemed familiar to her. A second man got out and approached, giving him a light; the flash of the lighter illuminated the men's faces. Fiona gasped and hurried up the stairs.

Approaching the door, she knocked and, waiting for permission, entered and knelt.

— Wait a moment, — whispered Mistress Sappho.

She lay on the bed, legs spread and bent, holding a voluptuous redhead by the hair, who was diligently working her tongue, trying to please her mistress. After a couple of minutes, she exhaled noisily and, releasing the redhead, sat up on the bed. Fiona stood up, moved the table, set out breakfast, and, pouring coffee into a cup, knelt down beside her. The redhead, getting on all fours on the bed, approached the sorceress from behind and, moving aside the witch's long, thick, jet-black hair, began gently kissing her neck.

— Mistress Sappho, I need to tell you something, — said the girl, kneeling.

— About your fauns again? Don't ask. If you want—run to the forest at night, but I don't want to see them here anymore. Especially that shithead Takios.

— It's not about that, Mistress Sappho.

— Then what?

— My uncle's people are watching the house, they're looking for me, I mean not me, but Jack.

— I don't see a problem, — the sorceress made a sign to the redhead, who sat down beside her and began spreading cream cheese on toast. — You're not Jack, and besides, you're my property. No one has any rights to you except me, of course.

— Yes, but these are dangerous people, they could cause trouble for you.

— For me!? Trouble? Are you in your right mind?

— They're dangerous people, they're not afraid of anything.

— Not afraid of anything, you say? — the witch took a toast, bit off a piece, and washed it down with coffee. — That could be interesting.

________________________________________

We spent the second day watching the mansion, trying simultaneously to dig up information on the mistress by all available means, and found nothing. Not nothing special, but nothing at all. As if she materialized in this town a year ago, said she was from the island of Mytilene, bought this mansion, and opened a massage parlor. This enterprise was also unclear. On the website, all sessions were booked a year in advance, despite the exorbitant price. And, strangely, no one came or went, except for two girls—a redhead and a blonde—who drove to the market for fresh produce in an old Volkswagen Beetle. "Probably this Sappho is laundering someone's dirty money," we decided and resolved to pay her a visit.

Mark and I approached the door and knocked with the old-fashioned ring held by a lion's head. The door was opened by a maid—a petite blonde with a short haircut.

— Good afternoon, — she said, flashing a white-toothed smile, — how can I help?

— We need to speak with your mistress, — said Mark, shoving a fake Interpol inspector's badge in her face.

— I'm sorry, but Mistress Sappho does not receive visitors—only clients and only by appointment, — said the girl and began to close the door.

— What, are you stupid, you're going to resist the police!? — Mark roared and, pushing the girl aside, entered the house. — Come on, bitch, tell me where this fucking Sappho is.

I followed him in and, closing the door behind me, bolted it. The girl turned out not to be timid. Taking a step back, she said:

— May I see your badges again?

— Our badges—fuck you, bitch! My fucking badge—fuck you, bitch! — Mark yelled, poking the girl in the chest so hard she staggered back. Pulling out his Glock, he aimed it at her face. — Here's my fucking badge, fuck you, bitch! I'll put a bullet in your stupid face right now, fuck you, bitch! And your brains, fuck you, will be all over this room. You'll like that, fuck you, bitch! Shut up, you stupid bitch, fuck you, bitch, and take us to Sappho.

Mark was yelling, crowding the girl; she backed toward the door, but somehow she didn't seem very scared, or rather, not scared at all. Although usually, when Mark played the dumb psycho nigger and started waving a gun around, people really shit themselves.

— What's going on here, Fiona?

A tall, beautiful woman in a dress styled like an ancient Greek chiton was descending the stairs. Her perfect, statue-like face showed no expression. Next to her was a redhead with glasses, voluptuous, dressed like a fucking secretary in a business suit with a miniskirt. At that moment, I felt something was wrong. Although the woman was unarmed, she clearly radiated some kind of danger. Not the kind we were used to—not a gun in the belt, not a knife in the sleeve. More like a live wire: nothing visible, but your skin crawls. Drawing my Glock, I chambered a round and aimed at the women descending the stairs.

The woman stopped and raised an eyebrow. I put my finger on the trigger and aimed the barrel at her face.

— What's going on here, fuck you, bitch! This fucking bitch is interfering with a police investigation, fuck you, bitch! — Mark was screaming, jabbing the barrel at the cowering blonde. — You're all going to jail, fuck you, bitch! Or we'll waste you and say you attacked us, and we'll get off scot-free, fuck you, bitch!

— May I see your documents, gentlemen?

— My, bitch, documents—fuck you, bitch! I already showed your stupid bitch the documents! Showed them, fuck you, bitch! Now tell me, or I'll blow your brains out! — Mark pressed the gun to the blonde's head.

Without lowering the barrel, I took out my badge, unfolded it, and showed it to the woman. Glancing at it, she said:

— All clear, very good. I am Mistress Sappho. Let's go to my office, and I'll answer all your questions.

The woman made an inviting gesture and walked deeper into the mansion, ignoring the weapons aimed at her.

— What, couldn't you have done that right away, fuck you, bitch!? — Mark shouted and, putting away his gun, followed the woman.

I didn't unchamber the round, just put the Glock back in its holster; I liked what was happening less and less. All five of us followed Sappho into the office. The woman sat down at the desk, folded her hands in front