The Streetbird

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  "I'll provide another boat," Cardozo said. "If I'm allowed to join."

  "You'll have to be in uniform so that you won't be shot by accident. Is there enough time for all that?"

  "I live on the New Emperor's Canal," Cardozo said, "and I keep my uniform there and my brother has a boat, a fourteen foot dory with an outboard. Where do I meet you?"

  "Under the bridge at the Marine's Quay."

  "And I?" asked Adjutant Adèle. "Which is my patrol?"

  "Adèle," Jurriaans said, "you serve with the bureau staff."

  'I do?'

  "And you're a woman."

  "Listen to me," Adjutant Adèle said. "I'm a qualified policewoman and I have passed all my swimming tests. I shoot about as well as you do. I've been practicing judo for years. My rank is higher than yours. Either I go or I'll be phoning the chief constable within the next minute."

  "Maybe he wants to come too," Karate said. "I've been told he's rather an adventurous type."

  Someone knocked on the door. "Yes," Jurriaans said.

  A female constable came in. "There's a Kraut gentleman downstairs who has been banging on the counter."

  "I'm coming."

  "And Mr. Slanozzel phoned. He says he's getting a little bored."

  "Yes," Jurriaans said. "Did everybody understand everything?"

  "Did you?" de Gier asked Grijpstra.

  "No," Grijpstra said.

  De Gier glided his flat hand over Grijpstra's bushy hair.

  "I never understand anything," Grijpstra said, "but it does seem to me that we're being sucked into another soppy mess."

  "Yes."

  "Don't grin like that."

  "Am I grinning?" de Gier asked. "Maybe I like this sort of thing. I hope that there'll be a hellish glow about that ship and that the ducks on Catburgh will be skeletons that will light up whitishly, floating on slimy green water. The women should all be nude, and poisonous yellow flames will flash from our phallic weapons. The music is Wagner, and it'll be quiet at times, and then you will hear, if you really listen, Johann Sebastian's harpsichord. And the clanging of chains dragged over sharp rocks."

  "If it's quiet, there'll be nothing to hear," Adjutant Adèle said, "and if you don't mind, I'll keep my clothes on."

  "You're not at home in the sergeant's fantasies," Grijpstra said.

  "Not yet." De Gier's encouraging remark was accompanied by a show of his perfect white teeth, a slight bow from his narrow waist, an increase of the width of his ample shoulders, a sultry glistening in the tender brown of his large eyes, a display of short but wavy curls, a possible caress of his hands that approached the adjutant's body.

  "Out of my way," Adjutant Adèle said. She marched past the sergeant.

  "I don't think she cares for you," Grijpstra said.

  De Gier agreed. "But she's a lovely woman nevertheless. That dark hair, framing a dainty face, and those green catlike eyes with the deep gaze. She's exotic, don't you think?"

  "Like Opete," Grijpstra said. He got no answer, and looked aside. De Gier was replaced by Varé

  "Opete?" Varé asked. "I thought you knew nothing about voodoo."

  "All I know is that a vulture is called Opete."

  "Opete," Varé said, watching Adjutant Adèle marching through the door. "The term signifies a special power and it is said that it often possesses vultures. Opete is the flight of the wisiman, the power that lives in his wings so that he may be free of the earth and watch from the sky."

  "And Tigri?" Grijpstra asked. "What does that word signify?"

  "The wisiman's claw. When it touches, it won't let go." Varé sighed. "That's rather unpleasant for the victim, but the victim's position is about as bad when the wisiman does let go."

  \\ 24 ////

  "THIS UNIFORM MAKES ME LOOK SILLY," CARDOZO TOLD THE mirror, "and it also makes me look smaller." He left the room and met his brother in the corridor. "Admiral," Cardozo's brother said, "what do you want my boat for? I've just revarnished it. You're going to scratch my dory."

  "Can I have it or not?" Cardozo asked.

  "Not."

  "Then I hereby confiscate your boat."

  His brother put his hands on Cardozo's shoulders. "Would you like to be beaten up, Simon?"

  "Assault on an officer is a serious offense."

  "I admit," Cardozo's brother said, "to having returned my party card to the Communists, but the gesture does not mean that I subscribe to current conditions. I'm still against everything."

  "Let me go."

  "No."

  Mrs. Cardozo stumbled up the stairs.

  "Mother," Cardozo said. "He won't let go of me and I've got to work and I need his boat. On behalf of the state. Tell him to give me the key."

  "Give the key to Simon, Samuel," Cardozo's mother said, "and I want you two to stop squabbling, your father has a headache."

  "I have to make a telephone call," Cardozo said.

  "You'll have to speak softly."

  Cardozo tiptoed into the living room and picked up the phone. "Shsh," his father said. "Yes, Dad," Cardozo said. "I will dial gently."

  "Who are you phoning?" his mother asked.

  "The commissaris."

  "Isn't the commissaris on leave?"

  "Yes?" the commissaris' wife asked.

  "This is Cardozo, ma'am. I'm sorry to have to bother you at this time of the night."

  "Yes," Cardozo's father said. "You're bothering everybody. I can't sleep and I've got a headache and that's why I'm sitting here. You've just woken up your mother with your stamping and yelling."

  "He woke me up too," Samuel said, "and I have to go to work tomorrow. He's going to wreck my boat. Tell him I don't have to give him the key of the outboard."

  "My husband isn't here," the commissaris' wife said.

  "I know, ma'am, he's in Austria, but I have to speak with him urgently. Things aren't going right here."

  "That's correct," Cardozo's father said. "Why don't you all leave this room? I was here all by myself, not harming anyone, and it's one o'clock in the morning. This is like the Central Station, and I have a headache."

  "Perhaps I can find him," the commissaris' wife said. "Would you like to leave a message?"

  "Something is very wrong here," Cardozo said.

  "Would you care for an aspirin?" Cardozo's mother asked his father.

  "I would care for some silence," Cardozo's father said. "I'm retired. I have a right to peace and quiet."

  "There are still some payments due on my boat," Samuel said.

  "But things never go quite right, do they?" the commissaris' wife asked.

  "Why don't you go to bed?" Cardozo's mother asked his father.

  "Because you'll snore and wake me up."

  "He wants to confiscate my boat," Samuel said. "I think the country is at war again."

  "Perhaps your husband should come back," Cardozo said.

  "Water squatters," Samuel said. "That's who they'll be after now. First they brought in tanks, and now there'll be warships. It's all the same to me, but I don't quite see why I have to lose my boat."

  "I'll tell him," the commissaris' wife said.

  Cardozo replaced the phone. He put out his hand.

  "Give Simon the key, Samuel," Cardozo's mother said.

  \\ 25 ////

  A SLICK SOUNDLESS CAR GLIDED ALONG THE POLISHED cobblestones of the Catburgh Quay, edging its slender nose through the fog, drawing stripes of light under the large orange bowls radiated by street lanterns into the moist air. Slanozzel switched the engine off by lightly touching a button with his long suntanned fingers.

  "Here you are, gentlemen."

  "That's all it is?" de Gier asked. "A villa on a tub?"

  "A brothel," Slanozzel said. "Three stories filled with pricey pleasure, with what used to be forbidden, because nowadays anything goes. I think we had more fun in Victorian times."

  De Gier lowered his window. Music screeched out of the houseboat. "Violent violins," de Gier said. "Hardly what I
had expected. And a singing lady, vocalizing vulgarity. How can anyone get anything up when they pour that sort of slop down your ears?"

  "It won't be too difficult," Slanozzel said. "The ladies are helpful, and a drop of alcohol stimulates."

  Grijpstra grunted in the back of the car. "You're spoiled, your generation has trouble enjoying anything."

  De Gier turned around. "Do I hear pity?"

  "Yes," Grijpstra said. "But you were born too late. There were better times when you weren't around yet."

  "What do you know? You ever visit brothels in the remote past?"

  Grijpstra smiled. "My pleasures were always simple. An evening in the quarter wasn't as costly then as now. You could have a square meal at the Chinese for a few guilders and spend another ten on hard drinking later in some speakeasy where American Negroes howled through trumpets and where they had some wild women on the floor, bouncing their boobs." Grijpstra nodded. "Even flashing their tongues."

  "Did you flash back?"

  "I was at the bar," Grijpstra said kindly. "There was nothing I had to do, except think my thoughts."

  "I remember the very place you must have in mind," Slanozzel said. "On the Seadike it was. No sniffing or shooting, you're right, the joy was simple, but I already had too much money in those days and I'd be carousing again later in the night. I would prefer to remember even further back—walking about with just a little money, hard-earned too, roaming along the canals to admire cleavages, choosing continuously but never quite coming to a decision, until you finally had to make up your mind, satisfy greedy lust, always too early."

  "Exactly," Grijpstra said, "and then it was all shot, but the final moment might still be worth the trouble, for you didn't just have the woman of your choice, but a conglomerate of everything you had seen that night."

  "What has changed?" de Gier asked. "I embrace Marike and think of Adjutant Adèle."

  "Have you done that already?" Grijpstra asked.

  "I should be soon," de Gier said. "I might even do it the other way around."

  "Are you talking about positions now," Slanozzel asked, "or persons?"

  "The other way around seems hard to realize to me," Grijpstra said.

  "A floating house," de Gier said. "A bad imitation of a suburban villa, constructed out of hardboard sprayed with plastic paint. Would this be a temple dedicated to lechery? With dead potted plants on the balcony? It's a good thing the whole thing is shrouded in fog."

  Shreds of clouds floated low above oily waves breaking slowly against the canal walls. Grijpstra had rolled his window down too and listened to the lazy swish lapping at the weed covered stones. Gulls sailed past, perched on a dark log and surrounded by bobbing offal. A taxi pierced the haze and eased toward the gangway. A man whose legs were wiped out by the fog floated aboard.

  "Röder," Grijpstra said. "I didn't know he was a comedian." He put up the collar of his jacket so as to be more anonymous.

  Slanozzel laughed. "Policemen have to be actors."

  "Only detectives," Grijpstra said. "The uniformed branch doesn't need to act. All they do is stare grimly from under their cap visors, even if they're bareheaded."

  "That Roder may be helping us out now," de Gier whispered, "but he's still a fascist. The last time we had the pleasure of meeting Roder, he wanted a few words with our suspect in private. When we saw the poor slob again, his face glowed like a bulb in a whore's room and Roder was taking off his gloves."

  "The suspect was a German too," Grijpstra said. He began a sigh. "Even so." He finished the sigh. "And now we use one fiend to catch another. The means foul up the goal."

  "You're upset?" Slanozzel asked. "Don't be upset. Heroin justifies a dubious approach. I rather think that Lennie should be caught improperly."

  Grijpstra's teeth showed in the car's dark interior. "You're a moral man. Mr. Slanozzel? I hope you don't mind my asking. I often doubt whether I have morals. But do you have any?"

  Slanozzel's carefully sculptured profile became visible, featuring a thick eyebrow, tufted at the end, and the gleam of a dark eye above the subtly curved nose. "I don't know. I would prefer not to have any morals, not to believe in anything. Such a lack would ease my life, but so far I haven't succeeded." Slanozzel smiled politely. "In business I'm trustworthy, but I wonder whether that noble trait is caused by high principles. It could also be that I keep my word because I know reliability improves profits in the long run."

  "Drug dealing is beyond your scope?"

  Slanozzel's other eye stared at Grijpstra too. "Drug dealing isn't business. In business both parties profit and the consumer benefits by the use of the product. I don't sell weapons either, since guns tend to kill the client." Slanozzel's raised hands supported his question. "Can I sell anything to a corpse?"

  "You sell scrap metal," de Gier said, "and leather, or so I was told."

  "Your informant is right."

  "Aren't arms sometimes manufactured out of scrap metal and whips out of leather?"

  "Certainly," Slanozzel said. "I also sell chemicals, and chemicals are often poison. Explosives are made out of chemicals too. Perhaps you know where decent business begins and ends?"

  De Gier bowed his head. "I was merely curious."

  "Your help is appreciated," Grijpstra said, touching Slanozzel's shoulder.

  "Why am I helping you?" Slanozzel asked. "Because this city is mine too? I cannot always fathom my motivation."

  De Gier opened his door and swept his arm invitingly so that Slanozzel could walk to the houseboat first. The gangway was narrow and blocked by the doorman. Baf lifted his cap. "Mr. Slanozzel! We missed you!" He pressed himself against the railing.

  "These are my friends, Baf."

  "Who are therefore our friends. Do come in, gentlemen. We aren't busy yet and you can choose your ladies. The assortment is even more varied than usual."

  The doorman's chest, bulging in a black T-shirt, resembled half a fifty-gallon drum and his head a ball screwed tightly on a solid neck. His hair had been millimetered and his small eyes peered out of deep sockets set in blubbery fat. He edged along with his guests until they had reached the relatively spacious rosewood-paneled corridor. The corridor led to a large low room where easy chairs and couches surrounded a round bar. "Mr. Slanozzel," the barman said, "we have been looking forward to your visit."

  "Evening, Henri," Slanozzel said. "I brought you two guests, who are also mine."

  "Welcome," Henri said, and took Slanozzel's credit card, which he pushed into his machine. He tore the slip free and unscrewed a thin fountain pen. "Three times, the usual rate. Please sign, sir, at your leisure."

  Henri was a tall man dressed in a white tight-fitting suit garnished with small golden epaulets. Ex-captain of a tourist cruiser, de Gier thought. Too much champagne one night, Grijpstra thought, and the pride of the fleet hit an iceberg. The passengers drowned after the captain left the vessel first.

  "You were a sailor?" de Gier asked.

  Henri's restored teeth gleamed. "It still shows?"

  "Tell my guests about the rules," Slanozzel said.

  Henri giggled. "There aren't any. Once admission has been paid, as it has in your case, the drinks are on me and the ladies will bestow their favors freely."

  Grijpstra grabbed the credit-card slip that Henri was about to drop in a drawer. He produced his spectacle case, took out his half-glasses, cleaned them with his handkerchief, and placed them carefully on the tip of his nose. He studied the amount that Henri had written down. He pushed the slip away and shook his head.

  "Something wrong, sir?"

  "Not at all. But the slips you are using are too small, the last zero could hardly be squeezed in."

  Henri frowned. "I will pass your suggestion to the management." He waved at the bottles lined up behind him, sorted by color. "What will it be?"

  Henri poured steadily, in spite of the slight movement of the ship. Ice tinkled and silver stirring rods pricked between the cubes. Damask napkins slid across the wa
lnut counter. Crystal dishes appeared, filled with nuts, hot pastries, and toast covered with slices of raw fish.

  Grijpstra drank and counted girls. He had reached ten when he had to start counting again. They moved about, coming and going, through side doors and up and down a staircase. He also counted the guests and totaled eight. One was himself, and three others were known to him. An older fat little gent could be the conductor of a famous orchestra and his mate might be an oil sheik hiding behind sunglasses, and two young men, overdressed and much the worse for early wear would be labor brokers, renting illegal aliens to the highest-bidding building contractor or bribing government representatives to obtain valuable contracts directly. The girls were whores—that conclusion had to be correct—but they would be special whores, in view of the size of the amount Slanozzel had underwritten. But why, Grijpstra thought, are these whores not more beautiful than they are? Is Lennie's taste limited or is this the best there is? What I see here, displayed on leather couches and Louis the Later armchairs, these women decked out in finery or nothing at all, are no more attractive than what can be sampled in a dentist's waiting-room magazine.

  De Gier thought along a similar line. The sergeant had compared the brothel's interior with that of the Royal Palace. Supposing, the sergeant argued, that the Royal Palace represents the best of the country and Lennie's premises the worst, then we must admit that evil is no better than good.

  "Evening, Lennie," said Slanozzel to a man who had come in.

  That man is no more than a man, Grijpstra thought. And yet he is a superpimp. He emanates nothing out of the ordinary. His clothes are sold in most department stores. He has a face like a thousand others, and I can meet him ten times in the Leyden Street and never notice him. Lennie resembles John Doe but is the incarnation of Beelzebub himself, and this boat is only part of his pernicious activity. Our files claim that he handles the ninety percent of all drugs that we can never find and that his tentacles reach to the highest and mightiest levels. He has done it all and will do it again tomorrow and very likely is doing it right now. There he stands and shakes Slanozzel's hand.