The Perfidious Parrot (3 page)

Grijpstra was distracted. “You caught the cats?”

“Found them a home on St. Maarten,” Carl said. “They weren’t much fun in the chopper. Dad wanted to toss them.”

“And you had been on St. Maarten?” Grijpstra asked. “You and your father happened to be flying about in your helicopter?”

“We were
sailing
about,” corrected Ambagt, “and the chopper comes with our ship. The tanker, the
Sibylle
was coming from Iran.” Ambagt held a finger upon his lips. “A secret, yes? On her way to Cuba. Nobody is supposed to know that either, yes?”

“What’s with the secrets?” Grijpstra asked.

“Uncle Sam just hates that route.” Ambagt kept smiling now, winking between bits of sentences. “Iran, that’s sheiks
blowing up kindergartens … Castro is bad for American health too … the USA blockades Cuba’s supply route … only little fellows like us can sneak through … international waters … me and Dad don’t subscribe to anything … anonymous is the word … used to be South Africa that was blocked oil-wise … Ambagt & Son used to sell them Russian oil … that South Africa is niggerland now, dirt poor niggers won’t let you make a profit.…”

“Your and your father are smugglers of crude oil?”

“Free traders,” Ambagt said.

“Is your chopper-equipped ship a tanker, too?” Grijpstra asked.

“NononoNO.” Ambagt waved defensively. The Rotterdam accent returned. “Our
Admiraal Rodney
is a FEADship. FEAD like in
First Export Association of Dutch Shipbuilders
. Yessirree. Seaworthy super luxury.” He looked at Grijpstra. “Designed for superspenders like me and Dad. For the cat’s meow. For the crême de la crême. For the upper layer of the crust of an otherwise negligible humanity, Mr. Detective. Right?”

“Ah,” Grijpstra said.

“Be impressed,” Carl Ambagt said. “Who else owns a FEADship? The sultan of Borneo, richest man in the world. Some movie moguls, a merger billionaire or two. Freddie Heineken, maybe. The Chief Samurai of Mitsutomo. You know who does not own a FEADship? The Dutch queen. She can’t afford one.”

How terrible, Grijpstra thought, to be really wealthy. Like himself for instance. Fortunately he did not have to tell anyone. Ambagt did—why else would he keep winking and raising his
tiny voice? Grijpstra felt increasing shivers. “Yes, Mr. Ambagt, so you live on a houseboat.”

“Palatial motorized vessel.”

“Tax free?” Grijpstra asked.

Ambagt slapped his thigh. “Not one penny for the Dutch authorities. Our yacht flies the Liberian flag. Ever heard of Liberia, where American slaves were transported and freed so that they could keep slaves themselves?”

“And your sailboat touched the island of St. Maarten and …”

“Power boat,” Ambagt said. “Thirty million dollars worth. Gold and marble interiors. Very silent engines. Hot and cold water. Giant microwave oven. Direct TV-dish with five umpteen times umpteen channels. Twenty-four-hour suite service.”

“My
my
,” Grijpstra said.

“And yes, indeedy,” Carl Ambagt said. “We were visiting St. Maarten. We often do.
There
is an island that allows for pleasure. The authorities like to come on board for drinks before having us share their joys ashore. Me and Dad, from our master suites on the
Rodney
, were talking to the
Sibylle
when we lost our connection. The tanker was south of St. Eustatius then, about to cross to Cuba.”

“You said south of Saba, just now.”

“No matter,” Ambagt said. “Saba, St. Eustatius, St. Maarten—three pimples on the same ass. So me and Dad were sipping piña colada and nibbling caviar on toast and Dad is cell-phoning the
Sibylle
, like twice every day and nothing doing, yes, right, a canned voice talking bull.”

“Answering machine?”

“Satellite,” Ambagt said. “So Dad goes to the bridge of the
Rodney
and tries the radio and still nothing doing. Our business capital is afloat on that dumb tanker. Uninsured. So let’s have a look, Dad says. We couldn’t get off straightaway for the chopper had a problem. Moisture in the engine, she never liked sea air. And the
Rodney
herself was low on fuel.”

“And because you couldn’t make contact you feared something bad happened to your chartered tanker?”

“Yes,” Carl said angrily. “Yesyesyesyes.”

“Do you fly the helicopter yourself?”

“Who else?” Ambagt asked. “Dad drinks. He reacts slowly. He doesn’t get the dials. Besides, Dad is pre-puter.”

Grijpstra looked surprised.

“Computers?” Ambagt asked. He looked about the room. “Hey, you’re pre-puter too? How can this be? Where is your ’puter?”

“Upstairs,” Grijpstra said. Nice big one, Grijpstra thought, with speakers. Nellie could work it—handled the mysterious machine’s modem, its rom and ram, showed color photos on the monitor, printed the photos in color too, used it for video clips. Played games. Computer completer.

“It’d better be there,” Ambagt said. “We may need your databank of befriended bad guys. Your file on judges craving sex with kids. Your list of cross-dressing prosecutors. Your notes on the private lives of colleagues from yesteryear when you still slaved in the service.” He slowly lowered an eyelid. “Haha, Mr. Detective. We know you know the ins and outs so Dad and I don’t mind slipping you big banknotes.” He gestured widely. “I know what you’re up to, Fats. I’m offering just what you need. With this case you can show some real earnings to the Tax Man.” Carl smiled. “Right?”

Grijpstra growled.

Ambagt looked frightened. “You okay?”

“One moment here,” Grijpstra said. “Just one doggone moment before we continue this conversation, Little Feller. How did you find me? Tell me, right now.”

Grijpstra got up ponderously.

“Hey,” Ambagt said shrilly. “We’re going to stay nice, right? You and your partner are free men too, am I right?” He gestured wildly. “Get it? Why I came here? Right? Sartre, you know?
Condamné à la liberté?
Condemned to freedom? Isn’t that what you are too? You and Sergeant de Gier, the hero? Ever since you found your treasure you don’t care a damn about anything neither? Like me and Dad? Adjusting to being freely afloat in the lawless void? God-less?”

Grijpstra sat down. There He was again, the Lord, or was it the non-Lord, or was there a Difference? Same Difference? And there was His Non-Law again too, or was it His Non-Law Neither? Befuddled by too many negatives Grijpstra groped.

“So what about this Sarter?” Grijpstra asked.

Carl hastened to explain. “That we, by a provable absence of a creator taking an interest in the right or wrong of our existence, are condemned to be free. Alas.” Carl grinned helpfully. “Alas, perhaps? Maybe being left alone is not that unfortunate after all? Perhaps we can put our newfound liberty to some use? Me and Dad enjoy our newfound freedom on our yacht, right? You and your former sergeant do the same in this building, right? Aren’t we birds of a feather? Free creatures of splendid plumage?”

Grijpstra grabbed his phone. “Rinus, mind coming down a
second? Put on your gloves. I have a wise-ass here who needs beating.”

Ambagt rose slowly.

The long fluted barrel of Grijpstra’s weapon, quickly retrieved from his desk’s top drawer, pointed at Ambagt’s forehead.

Ambagt sat down slowly.

Ex-Sergeant-Detective de Gier entered the executive office of Detection G&G Inc. Athletically, of course, Grijpstra thought bitterly. De Gier would never perform in an ordinary manner. Always the bouncy gait, always the wide swinging shoulders, the proudly raised square chin, the hawk-like nose, the large sensitive eyes, the heroic mustache, the brushed-up curly hair.

Grijpstra introduced henchman to victim: “My partner detective, Rinus de Gier. Carl Ambagt, alleged piracy victim, a native of Rotterdam, a tax-free dweller on an international houseboat.”

“A speaker of nothing but the truth,” Ambagt said. “Me and Dad live on the
Rodney
. A type of luxury yacht built in this country. King Saud of Arabia owns a FEADship. We do too.”

De Gier held up a pair of leather gloves. “And why, dear sir, do I have to beat you?”

“Dear sir accuses us of owning an illegally obtained treasure,” Grijpstra said.

“Dear sir accuses nobody of nothing whatsoever,” Carl Ambagt said.

Grijpstra frowned furiously. “You’re with the Tax Department, aren’t you, fink?”

De Gier frowned too. “Entrapment isn’t legal in your game, fink.” He flexed muscles. “I am good at judo.”

Ambagt said he wasn’t bad at boxing.

“Shall we?” de Gier thought, making gracious movements with his gloved hands.

They should not, Ambagt said, because surely de Gier would be better at judo than he himself was at boxing. He asked for permission to reach for his wallet without being beaten or threatened. He just wanted to show some ID.

“Here with the wallet,” Grijpstra said.

Grijpstra emptied the snake-leather pocketbook. He studied the credit cards, the passport, an American driving license, a photograph of a uniformed naval officer with sideburns and a large purple nose (“Dad,” Carl Ambagt said), a wad of hundred dollar bills, assorted Dutch banknotes, a laminated playing card-sized drawing of a skeleton in a dress, riding a horse. “Mexican Magic,” Ambagt said. “Female death imagery is supposed to be lucky. Ever been to Mexico? Not yet? Me and Dad visit there all the time, Yucatán mostly, the peninsula pointing at Cuba, right? Ever heard of a Dutch Government Tax Inspector knowing his way about the Yucatán peninsula, right?”

“Proof?” de Gier asked.

“How do I prove I know the Yucatán?” Ambagt asked.

“Mexicans speak Spanish,” Grijpstra said. “Speak Spanish, dear sir.”

De Gier danced about the room, feinting at Ambagt’s head.

“A travès de los siglos,”
Carl Ambagt said,
“por la nada del mundo, yo, sin sueño, buscàndote, el paraiso perdido.”

De Gier sat on the other visitor’s chair. “That’s what most of us are doing, all right.”

“What are most of us doing?” Grijpstra asked.

“Throughout the centuries,” de Gier said, “dealing with the world’s lack of substance …”

“Por la nada del mundo,”
Carl Ambagt said dreamily, “Nicely put, right?
‘Nada’
doesn’t just mean ‘insubstantiality’ you know, but indicates an illusion, an appearance of the earthly bullshit we keep creating for ourselves, insisting that it would be reality …”

“… and I,” de Gier continued translating, “restlessly, keep searching for …”

“… for ‘paradise lost,’ ” Ambagt said, “meaning truth in this case, the beautiful essence of being that forever,
a travès de los siglos
, is beyond our reach.”

“A tax inspection poem,” Grijpstra said. “Only a tax inspector can think up such endless misery, dear sir. Beat the shit out of him, Rinus, I knew he was no good.”

“A poem indeed,” Ambagt said. “Later, the poet will face a bouquet of shadows,
un boquete de sombras
, and quiet folks standing up in their graves, and a bunch of sad birds,
aves tristes
, trying to sing with dried-out voices,
cantos petrificados
 … a work of art by Alberti,” Ambagt sighed. “No Mexican but a Spanish poet. I found his work in a Puerto Juarez bookstore, however, on the Yucatán, magic land of the Mayas.” He
addressed Grijpstra. “Isn’t Spanish the most beautiful language ever?” He addressed de Gier. “So where did you learn the lingo, eh?”

De Gier looked past Ambagt’s head.

“In his loft planted with weeds,” Grijpstra said gruffly. “Upstairs, in this house. De Gier absorbs foreign languages between sneezeweed and purple fringed orchid. And yourself, you fickle fellow?”

“I started learning Spanish at Erasmus University, I completed my studies being bedded by Mexican lady-whores.” Carl Ambagt laughed. “An ideal program.”

“Erasmus University is exclusive,” Grijpstra said. “Isn’t your background rather humble?”

Ambagt blushed. “You noticed?”

“Answer the question,” Grijpstra shouted.

“I got a scholarship,” Ambagt said. “I am a genius as you must have noticed.” He patted his own shoulder. “Number One on the admission exam. Once in, I did well but I truly excelled in Spanish. But school was boring. I dropped out. Dad had started up the car business by then and I had to help out with the inventory. The teachers were glad to see me go.” He smiled. “Lot of jealousy, you know. Not only was my intellect superior to theirs but I was driving a Jaguar, visiting the better brothels.”

“Kicked out of Holland’s most prestigious university of commerce,” Grijpstra nodded. “Came to a bad end. As was to be expected.”

Ambagt raised his hands. “Whatever you want to call it, but what else is an end but a fresh start, right, Fats? So what? Right?”

“So I don’t believe you, you asshole,” Grijpstra shouted while hitting his desk top. “So you like visiting brothels do you? So that’s how you got to know this house. You came after Nellie. The ONE ON ONE bar. You noticed the new sign. You decided to check out the present situation.”

“Confess,” de Gier said kindly. “If you do maybe I won’t beat you.”

Ambagt looked surprised. “This place was a dive?” He looked about him, noticing mahogany wainscotting, a portrait—in oils—of a magnificently bearded constabulary captain in a lace collar over a velvet tunic, orchids in a Chinese vase on the wide windowsill, a leather bound encyclopedia in twenty-four volumes, a medieval crossbow decorating a white plaster wall. “One wouldn’t think so.” He pointed at empty wall space. “Why don’t you hang a Rembrandt etching? You guys are loaded.”

Bad Detective de Gier brandished his gloved hands.

Good Detective Grijpstra smiled kindly. “Now, dear. Who recommended us? Tell us.”

Ambagt let that pass. He was here to do business. He offered a million, a hundred thousand up front to cover expenses, if Detection G&G Inc. would recover, in any which way the firm cared to do that, one uninsured cargo of crude oil, lost due to piracy of the
Sibylle
.

Grijpstra’s egos battled. Busy Grijpstra lost.