The Perfidious Parrot (19 page)

The drunk’s grasping hand trembled. He leaned against de Gier. De Gier pushed him back. The bum fell over. He groaned. His legs shook uncontrollably. He blew spittle bubbles. The whites of his eyes showed.

De Gier walked to a nearby phone booth and dialed 9-1-1.

“Location?”

De Gier looked outside. “At a crossing.” He read signs. “Corner of Walk and Don’t Walk Streets. No such streets? Beg your pardon. Just a moment.” He left the cell and returned. “Corner Olivia and Frances Streets.” No, the incident had nothing to do with him but with a local person who seemed to be having an epileptic fit. He himself was a tourist. Name? “Janneman Jackrabbit. No, I can’t spell that in English. Bye, Miss.”

Pity, de Gier thought, when he was back on his bicycle again. The idea seemed good enough. If the killer of the British bank inspector had been a military type gone bad, then a brother in arms, given the smallness of Key West, would know said killer. This was America, land of action. He had seen
Soldier
of Fortune
in the hotel’s lobby. The magazine contained combat stories, essays on the art of killing and foreign areas where desperados could earn good money. There were ads offering “services.” De Gier imagined alcoholic former Commandos, Green Berets shooting up, Marines with mental problems. He recalled
The Dirty Dozen
, a movie featuring criminals released to perform misdeeds. This was the country’s most southerly extremity, the “Conk” Republic, a dead-end street collecting odd men out. Wouldn’t the killer stay put in Key West, while spending his fat fee?

Perhaps a homeless drunk was not a good source of information. Who, thought de Gier, bicycling past ornamental bushes and palm trees, looking into busy bars and bustling marinas, who would know where to find big-spending hit men?

The Eggemoggin Hotel staff? Dear boys, helpful, charming, but would they know where hard core-criminals spend their loot? Sergeant Ramona Symonds of the Key West Police Department would know. De Gier did have his professional pride, however. Would an Amsterdam Murder Brigade detective with twenty years experience seek help from a colleague who insults, humiliates and arrests him? There were other considerations. Man versus woman. White versus black. The competitive element seemed suddenly important. Hetero versus homo. Or was Sergeant Symonds bisexual? Was going either way more likely with women? What did
he
know? Was he into dualism now? This versus that? What about his oriental esoteric studies? Shouldn’t he aim beyond dichotomies?

De Gier, troubled, alone and lost, sat on the low wall of the Fleming Street Public Library, framed by decorative travellers palms, so called because they resemble fans, and women wave
fans when their lovers leave. De Gier waved his upper body. He directed himself to the only being who had ever loved him.

“Grandma Sarah,” de Gier thought. “Are you there? I have been arrested in America. I am free on bail. I am looking for a hit man. If I don’t find him I will be food for small rodents. In a badly ventilated cell, Grandma Sarah. I’m sorry I’m bothering you, you hear? I know you are up there in heaven with Canary Pete who sang for me when you asked him, and the doll’s house you let me play with Sunday mornings. Remember? Would you mind helping out here?”

Grandma Sarah would have better things to do, de Gier thought, bicycling along unhappily. He shouldn’t be bothering the dear woman. What hadn’t she expected from him and look how it had all turned out in the end. He could see his grandmother now. She was graceful, tall, with full, sexily curved lips, even though she was ancient. He could feel her caressing hands. He recalled the voice that told funny tales. About an ark filled with animals. Giraffes and cockroaches. Noah’s ark.

Noah.

Captain Noah.

Captain Noah of the schooner
Berrydore
.

De Gier passed a red light. Horns sounded. “Asshooooooole,” the multitude shouted. De Gier hardly noticed. “Did you say ‘Noah,’ Grandma Sarah?”

De Gier still had Captain Noah’s number, on a piece of paper in the breast pocket of his cotton jacket. He found a telephone booth and dialed.

Grijpstra put down the plastic bucket and fell back on his bed. The commissaris took a face towel from a dish filled with crushed ice and placed it on Grijpstra’s forehead. “You know what is nice about our situation, Henk?”

Grijpstra’s stomach rumbled. “No, sir.”

“That we have no back-up,” the commissaris said. “Do call me ‘Jan.’ You can’t do it, can you? De Gier can’t do it either. I think that you two need a master to look up to. Someone who makes decisions for you.” The commissaris shook his head. “You know that’s childish, Henk. To live within someone else’s set of morals. As if leaders can be trusted. You really revere rule-makers?” He put a calming hand on Grijpstra’s noisy belly. “You know what Mark Twain said.
Any fool can make a rule
.”

Grijpstra gestured helplessly. The commissaris passed the bucket. Grijpstra barfed.

“Why do you ignore,” the commissaris asked, “the pleasant aspect of our present predicament? We have freedom. You want to shy away from freedom?” He waved fists. “Like in the good old days, Henk, when Dutch freemen sailed about here and behaved any which way they pleased.” He patted Grijpstra’s rumbling belly affectionately. “So what would please us right now, you think?”

Grijpstra was on his back again. The commissaris dipped his little towel in melting ice. He had learned the therapy from Katrien, in a past almost forgotten, when he was still a drinking man and behaved inappropriately at parties, waylaid women in the corridor of a host’s house, drove drunk, saw concentric colored circles whirling in toilet bowls. A bad habit getting worse then. Finally Katrien had confronted him forcing a decision. No more. Very well. Grijpstra never knew the commissaris as a drunk. So now the commissaris could annoy the poor fellow. “Are you and de Gier really pleased wallowing about on illegal found money?” the commissaris asked sternly. “Do you like hiding your treasure behind a million dollar fee offered by little Mr. Slick and his drunken old Daddy-o?”

“But, sir …”

“Just kidding, Henk,” the commissaris said. “And I did have a good time investing your treasure. Did you check the last bank statement?”

“Doubled,” Grijpstra whispered fearfully.

“I was going all the way,” the commissaris said. He became more and more cheerful. “If you
knew
what capers I played with your money.” He shook his head. “Going on margin, playing puts, going short, wagering the wad, time and again,
Henk. I took every chance no investor should ever take.” He laughed. “But what did I care, eh? It wasn’t
my
money.”

Grijpstra groaned.

“You’re right, Henk, I managed to double your loot.”

Grijpstra stared at the cabin’s ceiling.

“But that’s it for now,” the commissaris said. “I am bored with juggling figures. It’s all in bonds now. One hundred percent safety and an average seven percent yield. Do you have any idea how much seven percent of nine point four million comes to, Henky? You think you and Rinus can subsist on that? Tax free? All you have to do is drive to Luxembourg once a year and fill up your limo’s trunk with crisp banknotes. Living off the fat of Luxembourg?”

Grijpstra smiled anxiously.

“Stewed eel in pea soup for breakfast,” the commissaris said. “Cream pudding and butter cookies for lunch, pork chops floating in their juice for dinner. A bottle of syrupy liqueur, a good fat black cigar, an extra large hooker for ye old hup-ho.…”

Grijpstra gestured pleadingly. The commissaris passed the plastic bucket.

Grijpstra, exhausted, tried to doze off. The commissaris lay down too. The
Rodney
was still swaying a little but found her balance as soon as she faced the Florida current squarely. “The side-wobble seems gone,” the commissaris said cheerfully. It was the turning wiggle-waggle that upset the stomach, he explained to Grijpstra, especially when that kind of shimmy was accentuated by the short but not really regular wobbly shaking of rip-tidal waves. The main thing was that they were out of the circular currents, or did Grijpstra think there might still be
surprises? The commissaris had heard tornados do occur close to Cuba. “They suck small ships
down
.”

Grijpstra sat up.

The commissaris apologized. Everything was okay now. He guaranteed it. “You’ll be just fine, Henk. What were we talking about? Our freedom. The chance to finally do whatever we like.” He eyed Grijpstra. “Like what?”

“Go home to Nellie,” Grijpstra pleaded.

The commissaris didn’t think Grijpstra really wanted to cop out now. Nellie was a comfortable woman, Grijpstra had enjoyed that, but he should be about ready for a break now. Tension and action again, that was the ticket. “Adventures, Henk.” The commissaris sketched their actual situation: Grijpstra and he, unarmed, in the power of two pathological entrepreneurs …

“From Rotterdam,” Grijpstra whispered hoarsely.

Indeed. The commissaris had been avoiding that city most of his life but he did know a little bit about Rotterdam. Europe’s Number One Port was known for cold winds forever wafting in from surrounding wetlands. No canals, no gable houses, not too much poetry, a lack of art. Dull, straight, a working man’s heaven. Rotterdam merchants believed in continuity, in doing business in the long run. Honesty today, profits in the future. Ambagt & Son were clearly exceptions and their very contrariness would be dangerous. The commissaris theorized, combine Carl and Peter’s immorality with customary Rotterdam energy and foresight, add irritability caused by having grown up in rain, drizzle and fog, and obtain a multiple danger factor.

Now that the
Rodney
skimmed waves quietly instead of hopping about like a toddler during play-break, Grijpstra could talk again. “We’ll never get paid for this, sir.” Grijpstra was sorry he
had involved the commissaris. This misery was a direct consequence of his mishap in Amsterdam, of finding that silly money. He saw it all now. His and de Gier’s greed had opened them up to Ketchup and Karate’s tricks. The commissaris was right when he suggested that they still needed guidance. Look where their mistake had taken them. Recommended by corrupt colleagues they were assisting despicable scoundrels, and why? Just to show Mr. Tax Man that they had legal income? Where would this lead to? “To being tossed to the sharks by hired henchmen?”

The commissaris intertwined his fingers behind his head that rested comfortably on fluffed pillows. “Say, Henk, did you ever get that hundred thousand dollars the Ambagts offered up front?”

“Never,” Grijpstra said. “We’ve been losing from day one. You and I will be fish food while that Key West sergeant has de Gier chained up. You call that freedom?” Grijpstra waved limp hands. “We overestimated ourselves. Sarter was right. Freedom is fearful.”

The commissaris took a shower. He ordered hot chocolate with Graham crackers. He returned, humming, trying to skip (but his leg still bothered him) to his bed where he slipped under the eiderdown, rubbing his bare feet contentedly. “Haho, Grijpstra.”

“Haho, sir?” Grijpstra asked weakly.

“If anyone,” the commissaris said, “was ever wrong it was that Sarter of yours. Jean-Paul Sartre?” The commissaris sniffed disdainfully. “Imagine pushing an entire generation of disciples into disgust and loathing instead of urging the young ones to enjoy liberation. Ouch.”

“Are you in pain, sir?”

“Hip bones,” the commissaris said. “Every evening, at about this time, my hips attract red hot mice. They tunnel through the bone. Aww …” He turned, trying to find a better position. “Codeine stumps them.” He used his hot chocolate to wash the pills down. “Think of it, Henk. Take away the entire nonsense of judgment, of compulsively defining things as good or bad, where would that get you?”

Grijpstra squeaked with fear.

“That would get you to float free,” the commissaris said. “Afloat in the void. Initial dizziness will soon leave you. Watch de Gier. He managed a few times, briefly, and it made him the endearing fellow he is sometimes. I saw you getting close, playing drums. You forget now because you’re sick to your stomach. Remember to remember those moments. Find the way back to nowhere.”

“Get back to safety with Nellie?” Grijpstra asked stubbornly. “Maybe eat veal croquettes again? Watch funny TV?” He sat up. “You said you had a plan?”

The commissaris’s plan wasn’t complete yet. He checked his watch. “I have to phone London but they’re six hours ahead of us there.”

“Something to do with the dead Englishman?” Grijpstra asked.

The commissaris had nodded off. Grijpstra dozed too. Both dreamed. Grijpstra woke up screaming, the commissaris laughing. It was 4
A.M.
, 10
A.M
. in London. The commissaris didn’t have Quadrant’s number. He was about to enter Telephone Hell, filled with computer voices that offer obscure choices and too little time to choose, repeated dialing of long
numbers, sudden cut-off humming, more computer voices, more long numbers, occasionally tired voices wanting to know what the caller wanted to know, crackling pauses filled by bad music.

“You know what?” the commissaris asked Grijpstra. “Why don’t
you
phone London, there’s a good fellow. I’ll go back to sleep to see what happens. Which doesn’t mean that I’m not right behind you. Okay? As soon as you connect with Quadrant you wake me. Yes? Yes.”

Grijpstra thought otherwise. “But sir, suppose that the Ambagts defrauded Quadrant and that an inspector was sent who figured out how that happened. Who cares? All we have to do is somehow obtain the return of or a payment for the
Sibylle’s
lost cargo.”

The commissaris raised a hand. The index finger played an invisible phone’s keyboard. “Please?”

“No, seriously, sir. Even if the Ambagts arranged for that bank inspector to drive into our dinner, the crime would not affect our project. Why bother with Quadrant? The goal recedes while we lose our way.”

“You can’t lose a way you’re on,” the commissaris said. “Besides, the road
is
the goal. Make that call, will you?”