The Perfidious Parrot

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  Katrien banged a ladylike fist on the table. “You did not, Jan. You used to say that good luck comes to those who keep trying.”

  “I don’t think so now,” the commissaris said, “I gave in. I no longer believe in positive thinking. Things don’t get better and better, things just are, and you can always fit in with things somehow. Things just happen, I happen along.”

  “Shit just happens,” Katrien said. “Like me getting old and ugly. You going off on your own again. Having fun.”

  The commissaris banged a gentleman’s fist on the table. “No, Katrien. I marry you and you are beautiful and then you are a grandmother and baby-sit and you’re still beautiful. You were just fine then, you’re just fine now.”

  “I look like shit,” Katrien, smacking her hips with her hands. “Look at me. Bah.”

  “You know,” the commissaris said. “I find you more elegant as you grow older.”

  “I am just fine,” Katrien said. “Everything is just fine. Crime is just fine. Crooked Ambagt & Son running into corrupt Ketchup & Karate is just fine?”

  “It just is. I call it fine because I prefer laughing to crying.” The commissaris shrugged. “And it will be gone in the end. Look at our world, Katrien. Think back a little. A meteor hits a planet. Because of that impact dinosaurs will eventually be replaced by us, human monkeys, as the dominant species. Now look ahead a little. A few million years pass like a flash and another meteor will hit the same planet. This time the planet changes into empty space. All is gone. Even the records, for there is nobody left, nobody to recall that anything went on. I can’t even say that anything went on here for there won’t be a here. Just empty space where the planet burned out.”

  “You know,” Katrien said furiously, “I think you’re dreaming up your own universe. You got bored. You had to dream up some action, so you dreamed up this giant tanker so that Grijpstra and de Gier would have something to do again, and you could lead them into trouble.” She poured coffeeless coffee. “Enjoy.”

  “This,” the commissaris said, tasting, “isn’t even unprinted E-mail. This is embryonic. This is not even a concept. This is pure cyberspace sh—”

  “Jan!”

  “You used that word just now.”

  “I am a woman,” Katrien said. “Women can say anything now. You’re an archetype.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of the old wise man.”

  “I am?” the commissaris asked. He kissed her cheek. “What do wise old men do? Stick to their diet and walk briskly in one of Holland’s last enclaves of pure nature?” He put on the hat with the pheasant feather Katrien bought him for his birthday, grabbed his cane and limped out of the house.

  The commissaris parked his old model Citroën behind the windmill at the entrance of the nature reserve north of Amsterdam. He grumbled and groaned as he hiked along the shore paths. Insects rose from cattails and ferns and successfully penetrated his armor of bug spray. Summering boating people sipped lukewarm beer while singing along with radio transmitted advertising jingles. A giant helicopter carrying nature reserve-watching tourists thundered over the protected wetlands. The commissaris reached a graffiti-covered bench and sat down to enjoy the remnants of silence. He observed waterfowl. He reflected that this was his life now. There was the investing on behalf of Grijpstra and de Gier, of course, but the money kept increasing. No challenge there. Most days looked alike. The money business required glancing at the financial paper, analyzing his computer screen twice a day, attending to the pains in his legs. Left thigh becoming too sensitive? Sell winners. Right thigh bone feeling hot? Buy recent losers. That interesting kind of splitting cramp with twisting and soaring red-hot arrows that reached both his knees? Sell anything that the analysts were telling him to hold on to. He didn’t really care to do this kind of work now; there was too much money in the account anyway, the boys would never have any need of it. De Gier considered the stuff a useless burden and Grijpstra no longer believed he could please Nellie by buying her more kitchen gadgets. It would be better if G&G were to engage themselves seriously again. It no longer interested the commissaris to watch de Gier grow ever more silly-named weeds in his paradise-loft, while waiting for Eve’s apple. Grijpstra might have his apple now, fed to him thrice a day by the queen of his dreams, but Grijpstra was gaining weight, hardly played his drums and kept painting the same dead ducks.

  And what about his own quest? A superior garden reptile to have a monologue with, but Turtle’s interest seemed to be waning lately. Besides, what did he require the turtle-conscience for now? Did he need advice to make choices? Yes or no to another holiday with Katrien? Holiday from what? Katrien was minding the grandchildren, she was done with travel. Perhaps Turtle might advise some discreet drinking, even whoring, at expensive locations, some private brothel on Apollo Avenue, or maybe an apartment in Beethovenstreet with a stately goddess specializing in pleasing old gents, catering to senile perversions, but should he even consider such a waste of his decreasing energy?

  The commissaris rubbed his aching body against the back of the park bench. He tried to visualize a goddess in the Beethovenstreet apartment. Perhaps a somewhat mature woman in a long simple dress, hardly any makeup, gradually opening up to a more intimate conversation while she stepped out of her gown, yesyesyes, but even so, the woman could be his daughter, or if she happened to be younger, his grand-daughter—once he considered those aspects the end result, if any, was sure to fall short of expectations. Still, he had better continue his enquiry. If not he would be like other old men whom he saw fading away while they roamed the city’s parks and nature reserves. Former directors of downsized corporations, once powerful city officials forced into accepting early retirement, now being quacked at by water fowl peering at the human ghosts wandering between willows and cattails.

  The commissaris dutifully observed black coots, busily swimming about. There were fat coots with white bills and slender coots with red bills. They kept nodding their heads, not because they wanted to confirm his soul-searching but because their biological programs made them bob their heads forever. Walk-bob-head. Swim-bob-head. The commissaris had gotten up to look at tall water lilies when he heard shots.

  The Bosnian Serbs are attacking, the commissaris thought. The Tutsis invade the Hutu camp. Ceylonese Tamils are launching a suicide attack. Arabs on the rampage. A German young intellectual has finally, after watching too much evening news, converted to fundamental Neo-Nazism and now has to prove himself by killing me.

  Or was it a flipped-out hunter hiding between the bushes at the other side of the brook? The “silence” area between the Amsterdam satellite towns of Abcoude and Ouderkerk does qualify for pheasant hunting but it wasn’t the season now. The shots weren’t fired by a shotgun. No loud bangs here but sharp cracks, normally associated with the firing of an automatic assault gun. An American liberation weapon, the M-16 used by the Dutch Army? The Kalshnikov used by Eastern European forces?

  Now bullets whined close to the commissaris’ head.

  He knelt between waving grass plumes. The tall pheasant feather on his hat was hit and snapped in two.

  Katrien had been wrong once again, the commissaris thought when, back at the windmill parking lot, he got back into the old Citroën. The situation wasn’t dangerous at all. All the shots had missed him. De Gier’s cracked ribs were healing nicely. Grijpstra wouldn’t be sick to his stomach forever. These harmless assaults could be explained as invitations to return to the good life. As encouragements, loving touches from the guiding hand of a benevolent spirit.

  Yessir, as far as he was concerned, and he was concerned now, the invitation could be accepted.

  The commissaris whistled a popular football jingle, “Kick Ass Hahahah, Kick Ass Hahahah,” following an arrangement for mini-trumpet, drums, percussion keyboards and voice, composed by de Gier. He stopped at a carwash on the way home. He noted with pleasure that the weather happened to be superb. He was still whistling when he pushed his front door ope
n.

  “Oh no,” Katrien said when she saw his face.

  He kissed her cheek. “What’s wrong, my darling?”

  “And I can’t go along to take care of you,” Katrien said. “You knew that. You’re slipping out of reach again. And I have to play grandmother here. Stay away from those tropical beauties, Jan. Don’t overeat now. Don’t forget your pain pills. Stay close to G&G, they like to protect you. Beware, dear.”

  “Let the enemy beware,” said the commissaris, hissing the tune of “Kick Ass, Hahahah.”

  The commissaris, stumbling about the loft, found a pith helmet and a tropical suit, with a tunic that buttoned all the way up to the chin. He shouted. “A tutup coat, vintage Dutch Indies, from the good old days!” He held the coat up. “Dad used to wear this, on the plantation, Katrien, during the twenties. Real shantung, still as good as new. I bet you this sort of thing is in fashion again, I’ll be the king of the Caribbean.” Back in the living room, duly uniformed complete with cork-and-linen helmet, the commissaris marched stiffly around Katrien, stopped, clicked his heels, saluted.

  “What do you think,” he asked shyly. “Does this look okay on me, Katrien?”

  Katrien laughed, then cried.

  8

  DOUBLE PRICE

  The nice thing about life, the commissaris thought, during the meeting in the Run Street billiard café, is that nothing ever works out as advertised. Grijpstra’s and de Gier’s show-off talk apparently was based on very little. The strip-lady might exist but if she did she had that day off. The balcony was empty. The pianist wasn’t there. The billiard table was hidden below its dust cover.

  Grijpstra talked about nurse Sayukta’s visit to de Gier’s loft to see if he really grew weeds there. “A mutually useful relationship, sir. Sex traded for insights. The nurse is an adept of the Hindu sadhana. De Gier needs practice after all that reading.”

  “That so?” the commissaris asked de Gier.

  “Never,” de Gier said.

  The commissaris rummaged in his briefcase. “I have a map of the Antilles here.”

  Although Ambagt & Son’s proposal, on the commissaris’s advice, had been accepted by Detection G&G, including the commissaris himself as on-the-spot counselor, de Gier had not been convinced the job was a good thing. Grijpstra tried to persuade his laggard partner. “The Caribbean is good for you, Rinus. Sayuktas galore, and not the tame version you see in Holland. Out there they water-ski, nude.”

  De Gier thought that the wild Sayuktas, roaming their own habitat without any measure of control, could make him ill. He wanted to stay in his loft with his meadow parsnips and green-headed coneflowers. “While using a nature-cured healthy body the spirit develops.”

  “Please,” Grijpstra said. “You should get rid of your mangy rat buds and dogshit poppies. Why do you think those noxious weeds survive in the city?”

  The commissaris spread his map between bottles of fake beer. “Look here, Rinus, these are the islands where Sibylle lost her cargo. St. Eustatius, here. Saba. And here is St. Maarten where the Admiraal Rodney is going.”

  Grijpstra was in daily telephone contact with their clients. Young Ambagt reported that the yacht was now in Bermuda. Some minor engine trouble, nothing bad, but not something that could be repaired on a resort island either. It might be better if the Rodney headed for Florida. “The Ambagts want us to fly to Key West and board their boat there.”

  “And from there to the Antilles.” The commissaris looked pleased. “That’s where this adventure started.”

  Grijpstra thumped the map. “YesyesYES.”

  “You’re going to be seasick, Henk,” de Gier warned.

  Grijpstra slapped his partner’s shoulder. “Key West! I read about it. At the dentist’s office. Supposed to be beautiful. KLM charter flights connect Amsterdam directly to the Florida Keys but it will be more fun if we go to Miami and drive a car from there.” Grijpstra’s blunt forefinger traced the route. A hundred and forty miles of speedway and bridges connecting islands. “This bridge here is over seven miles long. Gulf of Mexico on the right side, Caribbean on the left side. We rent a Cadillac, that would be all right, wouldn’t it, sir? And play CDs while we drive. I’ll bring my new Wallace Roney.”

  “Sir,” de Gier said. “This is ridiculous. Are we going to give in to bad guys? Because they slapped me about and dunked Grijpstra?”

  “Nah.” The commissaris estimated distances on his map. Key West, the most southern point of the USA, was at some distance from Bermuda—about a week’s steady going for the disabled Admiraal Rodney. He suggested that they leave the next morning, make Grijpstra’s car trip, spend a few days in Key West and while waiting for father and son Ambagt, look around. “Yes. That’s it. We’ll do that.”

  Katrien, like de Gier, had also accused him of putting himself into criminal hands. And there was the matter of rank. Ketchup and Karate were mere constables, trying, Katrien said, to pull a staff officer down. Peons taking on executives. “But so what, Katrien?” he had replied. “Can we afford to underestimate talent within the lower echelons?” The strength, energy, even intelligence of Ketchup and Karate were not to be sneezed at. Certainly, he had misgivings about their motivations. He did not assume that the two rascals longed for the good old days of pre-drug trade peace and quiet. K&K always tended toward evil. “They’re in this for the money, Katrien. But they can be of help.”

  “Shouldn’t you devise a plan that would punish those two little weasels?” Katrien asked. “Poor Grijpstra and de Gier … K&K are bad, Jan. They could have gone after you too. No, don’t look stupid now. Everybody knows you go hiking in the nature reserve every day, they could have pushed you off a dike, run you over with a tractor”—Katrien laughed, she knew she was exaggerating—“they could even have shot you.”

  “Haha,” laughed the commissaris.

  He wasn’t into punishing people. Punished people, like beaten dogs, tend to get nasty. It is better to wait for people to do something right for a change and then flatter them to high heaven. Besides, K&K, together with Inspector Cardozo, linked him to the might of the Dutch state. Piracy, the commissaris thought, wasn’t this something? Michiel the sailor’s corpse pecked by seagulls, a fact documented—according to Grijpstra—by a color photograph. Captain Souza, found in his cabin in a helpless condition. They were obviously confronting a cruel and daredevil enemy. Any help would be nice.

  “I say,” the commissaris said, “Grijpstra, I forgot to ask you. What happened to the Sibylle’s captain, Souza, that poor chap.”

  “Taken home to Aruba, sir.”

  “Young Ambagt said so?”

  “Yes sir, the Sibylle captain was helicoptered to St. Maarten and ambulanced to the airport. Something wrong with his legs. Poor circulation. Gangrene in both feet.”

  “And the captain knew nothing about the assault on his vessel?”

  “Too intoxicated, sir.”

  “Aruba,” de Gier looked at the map. “And the yacht, the Rodney is now in Bermuda’s harbor? Didn’t you say that Ambagt & Son once had their office in Bermuda? Before they became sailors?”

  The commissaris quoted a police file shown him by Inspector Cardozo. Peter and Carl Ambagt, some twenty years ago, started their career as Rotterdam-based car thieves. The garage they kept on the Schiedam Dike was a “chop shop” where stolen cars are quickly taken apart. Parts were then sold all over the country. Carl did the stealing, mostly of expensive Ford models, and Peter was in charge of chopping and dealing.

  Peter Ambagt was arrested and spent a year in the jail at North Canal, Rotterdam. Carl was released on probation.

  Prosecutors underestimated the size of their case. Shortly after Peter was released the Ambagts started their crude oil business in Bermuda, well-capitalized.

  “Capital earned by the sale of car parts?” Grijpstra asked. De Gier thought this quite likely. The total value of a car’s parts is about three times the value of the new car. The Ambagts would have sold them at wholesale so th
eir prices would have been lower. Suppose you do a car a day. Say three hundred cars a year (allowing for off-days) at twenty thousand each. That would be six million a year, gross.

  “Costs?” Grijpstra asked.

  De Gier was still calculating. Help. Rent. Having dinner in the “The Meuse” Yacht Club. Peter Ambagt had a male Chinese prostitute habit to keep up in the Cat’s Creek quarter his file had said. Then there were Carl’s linen blazers and Swiss gold watches. Say they made a profit of three million a year, say they kept it up for five years, that would give them savings of fifteen million as starting capital for the oil business. Yes?

  The commissaris didn’t see how the calculation could be too far out. According to Cardozo’s police file the Ambagts’s subsequent oil business was conducted from far-away Bermuda, well out of reach of the Dutch police. The Ambagts started off by buying Russian oil and shipping it to South Africa. South Africa at the time was unpopular with all western countries. The embargo included crude oil. South Africa has no energy sources of its own. Red Russia couldn’t deal directly with the white Protestant Boers but would sell to anybody via third parties. “And then …” the commissaris hit the table top with his small fist, “… haha!”

  “Haha what, sir?” asked Grijpstra.

  An absolute wonderful construction, the commissaris said. How did the rascals ever think of it! Real smart Alecs those two. The Russians had to be sure they would get their money so payment was arranged with a letter of credit, a transfer of dollars guaranteed by a Bermuda bank. The cash was released as soon as the Russians could prove delivery of the oil. The South Africans paid Ambagt & Son, Ambagt & Son paid the Russians, and in between was paperwork.

  “Bureaucracy,” the commissaris said. “You know what Professor Mindera of Erasmus University says about bureaucracy. The only thing that saves us from the bureaucracy is its inefficiency.” The commissaris raised an all-knowing finger. “Bureaucracy is based on lack of trust. Its paranoid fear requires tedious paperwork. Eventually even the best of us get irritated by dotted lines and multiple choices. Frustration with red tape tempts us to beat the system. Become crooks.”