Merlin of the Magnolias

by Gardner Landry

  Mickey went on to recount his sightings of whom he believed to be Tite Dûche exiting the Umber Tulip on the Geldersekade. He then described his unease at seeing the strange group of black-clad men exit the storied BDSM hotel. On hearing this part of Mickey’s story, the Dutch official straightened a bit and cast Mickey an icy glance.

  “What, as best as you can remember, did these men look like?” queried the detective in professional tones.

  “They were all dressed pretty severely in black. Some of them wore glasses.” Mickey then lifted his smart phone from the bar counter and said, “Here, I took some pictures of them. Do you mind?”

  “No, go ahead,” responded the detective, his attitude shifting a bit. Mickey walked a few steps down the bar and placed the phone in front of the officer.

  The Dutch detective froze on seeing the image then quickly asked if he could see some other photos of the group. Mickey complied by swiping through the photos for him.

  “Stop right there! Wait, go back one frame.”

  Now Mickey was the one who was intrigued.

  “And you say you think that the man who left before them might have something to do with this group?”

  “It’s a hunch. Yes.”

  Now the detective looked at Mickey with steely eyes and said in very measured tones, “I don’t know you, nor do I have any reason to trust you, but part of my work, despite all of the science and official procedural protocols, hinges on hunches.”

  “Okay. I mean, you can research me, right? I don’t have a criminal record of any kind, have never been arrested, or in any kind of trouble with any government, et cetera, right?”

  The man nodded, sat in silence for a moment, and then said, “The group you saw is one of the most notorious bondage and sadism groups in Europe. They are considered the very cream of the crop for their area of expertise. And the crop is one that a rider might use, not the kind that grows in a field. I say notorious because they have been connected to criminals and criminal activities over the years. We just haven’t been able to get them on any of the specific charges because they are so secretive, so good at covering their tracks.”

  “Shit!” Mickey barked.

  “The tall guy, as you guessed, is their leader,” the Dutchman said. “He is known as Willem, a pretty common Dutch name, but some of their worldlier, shall we say, sophisticated clientele call them by a rather chillingly appropriate name considering Amsterdam is their base of operations.”

  “So, what’s the name?”

  “The Syndics of the Rapers’ Guild.”

  “Whoa!” Mickey said in amazement as he visualized one of his favorite Rembrandts in the Rijksmuseum.

  “Again, however, we haven’t been able to adequately connect these guys to some of the crimes with which they are implicated. They’ve been pretty slippery, if you will.” The Amsterdammer cracked a wry smile. “Until recently.”

  Mickey leaned forward.

  The officer took a long pull from his beer. “As of this week, we have a bona fide mole in the group.”

  “A rat?”

  “Yes, a kind of double agent. He provides information when we ask for it. Lately, we have instructed him to photograph anything that looks like it might be of use in the Syndics’ clients’ wallets, man-purses, or clothing. He uses a small spy cam, and he’s getting pretty good at taking the photos discreetly.”

  “Okay?” said Mickey quizzically.

  “Now I have a question for you,” said the officer without blinking and looking Mickey in the eye.

  “Sure, shoot.”

  “What is the name of the guy you thought you saw walk out before they did?”

  “Are you ready for this?”

  “Yes.”

  “This guy’s name is Tite Dûche. He pronounces it ‘duke,’ but people who aren’t exactly fond of him generally use another pronunciation because it is spelled d-u-c-h-e with a circumflex accent over the u.”

  “Ha!” the Dutchman allowed a second of levity before resuming his professional attitude.

  “Right?” Mickey laughed. “So, his name is N. Teitel Dûche the Fifth. Here, I’ll write it for you.”

  Mickey wrote Tite’s name on a bar napkin for the detective, who looked at it for a moment, folded it, and placed it inside a coat pocket.

  “So, here’s another weird thing,” Mickey continued. “I’m finding myself kind of entwined in what may be a criminal investigation in my home city in the U.S. regarding this guy because of some things my nephew uncovered incidentally.”

  “Your nephew?” queried the detective.

  “Yes. My brother was many years older than I. So, he’s not even a whole generation younger in age than I am, right?”

  “I don’t know,” said the Dutchman.

  “You don’t know what?” queried Mickey.

  “I don’t know how old your nephew is.”

  “Well, he’s in his early thirties, okay?”

  “Okay. And you said your brother ‘was’?”

  “Yes, he and his wife died quite a long time ago in a plane crash. Anyway, all of this started because of an egging.”

  “An egging?”

  “That’s what we call it when someone throws eggs at your house.”

  “Oh, I see. How American.”

  “So it starts with this egging, and then when this guy Tite Dûche’s sons are implicated as the eggers, my nephew—don’t ask me why—attaches a tracking device to the guy’s car.”

  “I see,” responded the Amsterdammer.

  “And then—now get this—my cousin works for a company that has a promotional blimp.”

  “A blimp?”

  “Yeah. A blimp, a dirigible, an airship. A big, slow-moving cigar-shaped balloon in the sky. They run ads on a giant screen on its exterior skin at night. It flies over football games and state fairs in the daytime.”

  “Very American.”

  “Yes, I’ll give you that. Everyone seems to love the Airmadillo.”

  “The what?”

  “The Airmadillo. It’s a play on words. An armadillo is a kind of prehistoric-looking armored little field beast in Texas. It’s iconic, kind of like the kiwi is for New Zealand.”

  “I see.”

  “Anyway, I’m getting off track.”

  “Okay.”

  “So, my nephew, who seems to have been learning to fly the blimp as a benefit of his job, tracks Dûche’s car to an address in a part of Houston I’m not familiar with and notes some pretty strange activities.”

  “What kind of activities?”

  “People being loaded into vans and delivered to the Port of Houston. Also, a very intense heat signature.”

  “Heat signature?”

  “Yes, my nephew is not a bad guy, but he is a bit of an odd bird, to say the least—fancies himself a gadget expert. So he brought along a heat sensor attachment for his phone on the last night he flew in the blimp before it relocated to another part of the country for the remainder of the summer.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “And this whole time I’m in conversation with a friend of mine at the county district attorney’s office. So I tell him about all of this and long story short, the Houston Police Department thinks there’s enough questionable activity that they are now surveilling the property and following vehicles arriving and leaving there. And my nephew has a digitized log of all the times this guy Tite Dûche’s piss-yellow Porsche has been there. It’s quite a few, by the way.”

  “Hmmm. Egg-hurling vandals, a dirigible named after a beloved prehistoric-looking animal, and a Porsche the color of urine. Texas must be a colorful place.”

  “And a ninja suit–wearing vandal who smashed my nephew’s beloved armonica.”

  “Harmonica?”

  “No. It’s called an armonica. It is composed of different sizes of spinning glass discs played with the fingertips. It’s similar to getting sound from a wine goblet. It was invented by Benjamin Franklin.”

  “How very American, i
ndeed!” responded the Dutch detective, now confused and bemused by this headstrong half-drunk American’s story.

  “And the intruder wore a ninja suit?”

  “Yeah, a pitch-black one—in the middle of summer in Houston. He must have really wanted to do this.”

  “Do you think this ninja has anything to do with the other events?”

  “I don’t know. I guess. I thought I would mention it when you got on the theme of colorful stuff. Anyway, I’m not trying to entertain you. I’m just a bit perplexed with all of this.”

  “It’s not a problem. This is the kind of conversation that makes my life interesting. Do you have a card?” queried the officer.

  Mickey opened a silver business card case and handed the detective one of his cards. In turn, the detective opened a thin wallet containing his official credentials, including his name—Piet Penders. He then gulped down the rest of his beer and stood abruptly. Mickey also stood and noted that the man shook hands very firmly for a European as he looked at him one last time with the steely, unblinking eyes, and said, “It’s been a pleasure meeting you. I will contact you if I learn anything of interest.” With that, Detective Penders departed the bar, leaving Mickey even more confounded as he ordered another beer and said, “The Syndics of the Rapers’ Guild” in a low, astonished voice.

  • Fifty-eight

  In the tastefully appointed café at the Embassy of the Liberated Mind in the high-ceilinged House with the Eyes on the Keizersgracht on Central Amsterdam’s west side, the Dutch man who had met with Tite Dûche a few months earlier at the café in De Pijp waited for Tite on the banquette side of a two-top table at the far end of the room near a tall, opaque streetside window. His name was Nico van Rompaey, and he looked up as Tite approached his table with a slight limp. Van Rompaey motioned to the chair across from him, inviting Tite to take a seat. Dûche seated himself carefully and winced a little when he scooted his chair toward the table.

  A server appeared at his side, asking if she could get him anything.

  “Something soothing,” Dûche replied.

  “We have a very good Dutch apple pie today.”

  “Okay, I’ll take that and a cup of tea. Decaf.”

  “We have chamomile. It is very gentle, particularly good for the digestive system.”

  “Yes. I want that one. Thank you.”

  “Of course.”

  The server left the table, and Nico fixed Tite in his gaze.

  “Are you well?” van Rompaey asked.

  “I think so. I seem to have strained or pulled a muscle or something—probably taking too many steps at a time up these narrow Amsterdam stairways.”

  “It’s important not to take too much at a time … of anything,” responded van Rompaey. After a pause the Dutchman said, “Are we ready to expand operations?”

  “I’m ready to increase on my side. Additionally, I may be able to deliver some business out of New Orleans. Some pretty-established players handle this sort of thing over there, but I think I have a good understanding with a syndicate that can set up operations based on the Houston–Galveston model.”

  “Good. Instead of overconcerning yourself with how the pie is split, you are growing the pie.”

  The server placed a thick slab of Dutch apple pie topped with a massive dollop of freshly whipped cream in front of Tite.

  “I’m quite satisfied with how well you have kept the pipe full,” van Rompaey said.

  “Thank you. I’m all about deal flow. Kind of goes with the pie analogy.”

  “Yes. Indeed, it does.” Van Rompaey eased back into the cushioned banquette. “How do you feel about our enterprise in general?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you at all concerned? Do you have any qualms?”

  “I don’t think so. The machinery is well oiled and under the radar screen back in Texas.”

  “And the same here in Amsterdam.”

  “So?”

  “I was thinking in broader, perhaps more philosophical terms.”

  “Philosophical?”

  “Maybe that’s not the most appropriate word. Some people might have what they call a moral problem with this kind of venture.”

  “Moral problem?”

  “Yes, but I don’t.”

  “Me neither. Like you said before, business is business.”

  “I think that the simple people who have been conditioned to think in these terms are trapped behind the prison bars of Western dualistic thinking.”

  “Dualistic thinking?”

  “Right and wrong. Good and evil. These sorts of quaint, simplistic notions.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “It is important to remember that all is one. As humans, we are all flowing together.”

  “Uh, okay.”

  “Yes, and all is circular and inevitable. These people, who some would say we are exploiting, we are most likely simply ushering on their way to their next incarnation. Given their backgrounds, nothing good would have come their way. And if we weren’t doing this someone else would have been, because Fortuna is in command.”

  “Fortuna?”

  “Fate. Inevitable, unavoidable, inexorable fate.”

  “So, you’re saying we’re off the hook as far as the authorities are concerned?”

  “Yes. And more than that, I am saying that there is no hook, or perhaps that the hook of their idea of criminality is a ruse, a chimera—a contrived fabrication.”

  “But it could still get us in trouble.”

  “Perhaps, but I believe because of our concurrence in this enterprise, we are under a kind of shield.”

  “How?”

  “Because of my frame of mind that transcends this infantile Manichean dualism, this silly strain of the silly game most think they are playing. I have great internal tranquility. And because of that, I am happy to reap the financial rewards that flow my way. I think you may not understand it yet, but this kind of outlook provides shelter.”

  “Okay?”

  “There is great freedom in eschewing this framework contrived from what many call Christianity or the Judeo-Christian tradition.”

  “There is?”

  “But that doesn’t mean that there still isn’t the element of a game to all of our interactions.”

  “I agree with that.”

  “Good, then you’ll understand why I’m showing you these.”

  Nico van Rompaey placed a large heavy envelope secured with a string around a central button on the table. He slowly opened it and pulled from it an 8x10 photo that showed the Syndics of the Rapers’ Guild leaving the Umber Tulip, and Tite several yards away, walking away from them. Tite’s eyes widened, but he kept his cool. “So what?” he said. “I was walking down the street.”

  Van Rompaey responded coolly, “As you say in America, nice try.”

  He pulled the next photo; it showed the Syndics working Tite over moments before he screamed the safe phrase. The blood drained from Tite’s face. He sat bolt upright and glared at the Dutchman, who returned Tite’s look with a kind of smug avuncular superiority.

  “But how?”

  Van Rompaey interrupted Tite with a shushing finger at his lips in the sign for keeping a secret, then dropped his hand and said, “I own the Umber Tulip.”

  “You? I thought—”

  Van Rompaey interrupted again: “The purported ownership is a false front. You will have a very hard time finding my name associated with UT.”

  “Don’t call it UT!”

  “Why not?”

  “I just don’t like it!”

  “My, my. Getting found out certainly makes you testy.”

  Tite’s face flashed crimson as he sat in irate silence.

  “Now, you are in my game,” van Rompaey said. “Exiting it means forfeiting all you hold dear; staying in it will bring you great prosperity. There’s nothing right or wrong with that. It just is. Just like there’s nothing right or wrong with the private proclivity that led you to Willem’s gr
oup. It just is. You have nothing to fear as long as you stay in the game. I saw when I met you that you had the mark of one of my chessboard pieces, and I knew Fortuna had dictated it.”

  Mouth agape, Tite stared at van Rompaey as he relaxed farther into the plush banquette and stretched his arms out wide. He looked around and said, “Isn’t this a lovely room?” Tite gave him a questioning look.

  “Why are you perplexed?” van Rompaey asked. “You knew I was a wealthy man when we began this.”

  “Yes.”

  “And what is the entertainment of people who can buy anything they want?”

  “Being able to buy more?”

  “No, of course not!”

  “What is it?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I guess not.”

  Van Rompaey chuckled and said, “The chief entertainment of people who can buy anything they want is what you Americans might call messing with people. Perhaps you are accustomed to hearing the phrase with a more colorful verb that better conveys the dark pleasure of the sport. This ultimate rich man’s game has provided endless entertainment for the wealthy for centuries. Yes, you and I have been making money, but now I find our association truly gratifying, and I want you to know I certainly appreciate it.”

  “So, I’m the goat.”

  “The goat—what a wonderful Americanism. Yes, you are. But you are also a good income-generating business partner. And there are others to whom I look forward to introducing you.” Van Rompaey looked around the room, then back at Dûche. “Perhaps I was a puppeteer in another life.” He smiled and opened his hands in a gesture of conjecture. He eased out of the banquette and stood to go.

  “The strings between you and me are now very difficult to cut,” the Dutchman said. And in a lower voice, “Let no independent step entangle you. Besides inconveniencing me, straying would bring you sure devastation.”

  He looked down at Dûche, who looked up at him with the eyes of a caged animal.

  “Stay and enjoy the café. It’s such a pleasant day for contemplating the ancient wisdom that resonates from these old walls.” Van Rompaey pulled a deck of cards from a pocket of his sport coat and placed them on the table.