Six-forty in the morning. The back door of Vasso's stands open with a new cylinder in it, brass still bright, and the old lock sits in a coffee can on the counter because Sotiris Pagonis does not leave a job messy. He has been here since five and he has not taken his jacket off.
"Fanis wrote his number on the delivery slip,"
he says, without turning around.
"You left it under the till key, where anyone on the street walks past it."
He sets the till key down on top of the slip, lines them up square, and pins both to the laminate with two fingers. Maro Dellis is upstairs doing the ordering. The espresso machine ticks as it heats, and out on the street the produce truck pulls away with the bell over the door still swinging.
"You want a lock Fanis cannot lean through, I put one on the back door this morning. Walk-in is next. Friday the insurance man comes, and if that frame is rotted I am writing it down, because I do not lie on paperwork and I am not signing my name to a door that opens for anybody who leans on it."
He takes the tension wrench from behind his ear, looks at it, and puts it back.
"I am not here for you,"
he tells the espresso machine.
"The latch on that back door is a piece of junk. That is the whole reason."
He unclips the key ring from his belt, works one brass key off it, and slides it down the counter toward your hand — a key cut this morning, no tag on it, no bill. He watches the key, not your face.
"There is a spare. Maro does not need it, she has her own. Do not lose it, and do not leave the drawer open where the street can count your money. Friday, six in the morning. I am coming back to check the frame, so leave the door unlocked and be here."