Amsterdam Noir

by René Appel

  Mother has left me a note. She’s gone to the beauty parlor and wants me to do the shopping. There’s a list in the linen bag on the inside of the kitchen door. The money is in an envelope.

  The thought hits me the second I touch the bag.

  Mother is going to poison me. She’s letting me do the shopping so I won’t be suspicious, but she’s already bought the poison, see? She tells me to get the ingredients she needs to make her endive stew with bacon, that way she figures I’ll never stop to think how easy it’ll be for her to stir the poison into the stew. She’ll serve me a poisoned dinner, a meal I know she doesn’t like and won’t eat.

  She wants to get rid of me.

  I don’t fit in here.

  * * *

  I wish Ted would come, wish just once he’d come during the day instead of at night. I could talk with him, explain my suspicions. He would give me good advice. Maybe if I sit very quietly on the sofa and stare straight down at the floor. I listen for his footsteps, not moving a muscle.

  The clock in the hall strikes four. He’s not coming. I’d better go do the shopping. But I won’t eat the stew, not one bite. I won’t let myself be poisoned. Not by anyone.

  Wednesday

  The new day is only ten minutes old. I slipped into the kitchen half an hour ago to make two cheese sandwiches. Mother loves cheese, so that’s something she won’t poison. And bread is safe. And butter. And milk. Anything Mother eats, I can eat.

  She was insulted I wouldn’t have any of the endive stew. She asked me what was going on with me, if I’m taking my penfluridol. She’s always bitching about those pills. I have to stop myself from kicking a kitchen chair to bits.

  I told her I had a stomachache and couldn’t keep anything down. Then I went to my room and watched TV. With the door locked.

  I’m positive Ted will come tonight. Maybe he’ll tell me about the city where he was born. He’s done that before, and that’s why I googled Burlington tonight. I found out it’s a city of interesting contradictions: it’s the biggest city in Vermont, but the smallest biggest city in any of the fifty United States. When you think that Ted’s not only a serial killer but also somebody’s best friend, you can understand why he was born in Burlington.

  * * *

  I have to tell him I saw her in the station yesterday afternoon, a woman who fit the description for tomorrow’s mission. Should I have talked to her? That question weighs on my mind.

  He’s told me many times how he approached his victims. If you go up to a woman and you’re friendly but you don’t bug her, most of the time she’ll talk with you. But the best way to get her attention is if there’s obviously something wrong with you: your arm’s in a sling, you’re using a cane and limping, you’ve got a big bandage on your head and you act like you’re dizzy. Then they’ll be all concerned, they’ll ask if they can help you.

  When Ted found out I don’t have a car, not even a driver’s license, so I can’t drive women to some remote place and attack them there, he was mad at first. But later he said I was a new kind of challenge for him, and he gave me instructions I had to memorize but not write down. He decided the starting point would be Amsterdam’s Central Station, and he told me which track and what the victim would look like. It wasn’t until he’d come to see me a dozen times that he told me he wanted to concentrate on women who looked like the victims who’d escaped from him his first time around.

  I have an old schoolbag that’s just the right size to hold my bat. It has a long shoulder strap, so I can clutch it tight to my stomach when I carry it.

  Up to now, my first seven tries were no good, because the women I was supposed to find didn’t show up at the right track when they were supposed to. Ted says I have to pay closer attention, be sharper. Tomorrow is my eighth chance, and this time it’s going to be just fine. I’ve already seen the woman, and I know she’ll turn up right when she’s supposed to. I’ll bandage my left hand in the morning, and I’ll walk with a cane. When the woman gets off her train, I’ll catch her attention by the stairs, and I’ll ask her to help me down. Halfway, I’ll say I’m dizzy and I need some fresh air. Track 13B is close to the station’s back entrance, and that’s where I’ll have the best chance to use my bat.

  And to get away without anyone seeing me.

  I know it’s risky. But I’ll take my chances. I’m not worried. Ted will protect me.

  And if the woman I’m waiting for isn’t arriving on the train but leaving on it, I’ll just climb aboard with her. With my cane and my schoolbag. I’ll sit near her and make sure she notices me.

  Then I’ll grab her right before the train pulls into a station. Or maybe it’ll be better to wait until the train comes to a stop, so I can get off right away.

  Thinking about the woman on the track, about finally carrying out my mission, is exciting. It’s giving me a boner. I like the way that feels.

  I hope Ted’s coming tonight, and that he tells me more about what he did with the bodies. He is so cool!

  Thursday

  Ted didn’t come last night. I’m really disappointed. It would have been helpful to discuss the plans for today one more time. Maybe he didn’t show because he thought it would be too much of a distraction. Maybe he’s afraid I’ll back out at the last minute.

  You never know.

  My mission begins at eleven thirty, and I’ll be sure to take a tram that’ll get me to the station on time. Better to arrive half an hour early than one minute late. Because what if the woman turns up exactly at eleven thirty and I’m not there?

  I have to get this right.

  * * *

  Mother thinks I look exhausted, and she wants to know why that is. I don’t have a job, and I don’t really do much, so why am I so tired? She thinks I don’t get enough physical exercise but work myself up too much mentally. That needs to change, she says.

  I’ll have to find a way to fake her out.

  She offers me homemade jam, and I say thanks but no thanks. She wants to know why I’m barely eating anything, do I still have a stomachache? And then of course she gets on my case again about changing my meds from the pill to an injection.

  I try to tune her out and concentrate on my cheese sandwich and the glass of milk I made sure to pour for myself.

  Track 13B, I think. Woman with long blond hair parted in the middle. Brown leather jacket, tight black skirt, black stockings, black boots with high heels.

  The bandage and the bat are in my bag. I hid the cane in the bushes by the garden gate, I’ll fish it out as I pass.

  “She’ll be here in half an hour,” I hear Mother say.

  I sit up straight. “Who’ll be here in half an hour?”

  “Your caseworker, Anja. I called her. You’re not well, you need an extra visit. And a shot.”

  I get up. “Tell her I said hi. I have to go.”

  A second later, she’s all up in my face: “You’re not going anywhere until you’ve talked with Anja. I’m doing this for your own good, boy. You’ll thank me later.”

  I look at her. She means it, she’s not going to let me go.

  But I have to go.

  Why isn’t Ted here when I need him?

  * * *

  The front door is locked. Where is the key?

  Mother smiles.

  I feel myself becoming calmer. Okay, fine, she has the key. It’s obviously in her apron pocket. She always cleans the house after breakfast, and she’s already wearing her apron.

  It’s almost ten o’clock, it’s a five-minute walk to the tram stop, I might have to wait another five minutes for a tram, and then the ride takes twenty minutes. That gives me just enough time to get the key, and if she won’t give it to me willingly . . .

  I go into the living room and sit in my chair. Mother is puttering around in the hall. She’s probably getting the vacuum cleaner from the closet at the top of the basement stairs.

  The basement!

  The bag with the bat is still in my bedroom, but the base of the lamp that
stands on the armoire in the living room will do just as well.

  * * *

  I’ve put on a clean shirt and also a clean sweater. The key was indeed in the pocket of Mother’s apron. The vacuum cleaner is back where it belongs, and so is the lamp. The basement door is locked. I can go.

  The doorbell rings.

  “I rode my bike,” says Anja. “It’s actually quicker than coming by car, so I’m a little early. Is it okay if I leave it outside?”

  “You’d better bring it in,” I recommend.

  * * *

  There’s a detour, because they’re working on the tramline. Signs show you which way to go.

  I haven’t ridden a bike in a long time, but I don’t have any trouble. It’s nice, the wind in my hair. I’m careful not to let the wheels drop into the tram rails.

  I’ve got my bag on my right side. I bandaged my hand before I left the house. I have to hurry, because it’s already five minutes to eleven. I pedal past de Bijenkorf, and I can see the station up ahead. I know for sure the woman will be there, and the thought gives me wings.

  * * *

  The big clock in the station’s main hall says 11:15. I’ll leave the cane in my bag until I get to the stairs to track 13B. There’s a strange noise behind me, and as I’m about to turn around to see what it is, a man in an electric wheelchair zooms by.

  I’m panting a little.

  Calm down, calm down, calm down.

  Quickly check the stores.

  There’s the stairway. Count carefully, two sets of fifteen steps.

  It’s 11:25.

  * * *

  I’m positive I looked everywhere. I didn’t miss her, she just isn’t here. Didn’t get off the train, didn’t get on. This can’t be happening!

  The train that leaves Amsterdam at 2:38 p.m. is slowly pulling into the station. It comes to a stop. The doors open, and people come out. I have a good view from where I’m standing.

  It’s 2:37. The time is up. I feel all the energy drain out of my body.

  And then I see her.

  She walks past me, close enough to touch, and hurries to the train. I follow her without thinking, and the second I step aboard I hear the conductor’s whistle and the doors whoosh closed behind me. She heads for the first-class compartment and holds the connecting door for me.

  I lean on my cane.

  “You should sit down,” she says.

  I obey, and see that she takes a seat in the middle of the car.

  * * *

  It was one minute later than the end time I was given, but I don’t think Ted will have a problem with that. I found her, and inside my head I’m cheering. She’s sitting there talking on her phone, laughing.

  But not for long.

  Pretty soon, I’ll be the one who’s laughing.

  We’re the only passengers in the compartment. Ted must have arranged it that way.

  I’m not happy about that minute.

  But I’ve got her!

  What Day Is It?

  I’ve lost track of time, and there’s a gap in my memory. The last thing I remember is the woman on the train, the way she looked. After that, there was a lot of commotion, somebody dragged me away, I was in a cell, people kept asking me questions, someone told me I had to be examined.

  I’ve got a room and a bed, but all the doors and windows are locked. The food is good. Everybody here is crazy, but the man who comes to talk with me three times a week is far and away the craziest. He tells me I tried to molest an old lady on the train, though I keep explaining that she was young. When I describe her, he contradicts me. The lady he talks about isn’t blond with a middle part, doesn’t wear a short brown leather jacket, no tight black skirt, no black stockings and high-heeled boots. When I say we must be talking about two different people, he says no, we’re absolutely talking about the same person. So he’s a total nutbag.

  Each time he comes, he’s got new idiotic comments. He thinks Mother has been dead for a year, and I haven’t seen my psychiatric caseworker, Anja, since Mother died. He says I’ve been skipping my appointments, and he keeps insisting that, given my condition, isolation is my worst enemy, because if I’m alone I don’t have anyone to correct my behavior and my thoughts.

  According to him, when Mother was still alive I used to take medication that kept the weird thoughts at bay. It’s apparently pretty much a miracle I didn’t go off the rails until now. If I go back on my meds, I can learn to think straight again. I’ll have to go to trial, but a good lawyer should be able to convince the judge I wasn’t accountable for my actions when I attacked the lady on the train. The shrink will recommend confinement in a psych ward. The doctor emphasizes that everyone wants what’s best for me.

  I’m allergic to people who want what’s best for me.

  When I very carefully describe what I did to Mother and Anja, the doctor doesn’t react.

  He ought to go take a look in the basement.

  They force me to take the pills. When I refuse, I get a shot. The meds make me dull, I sleep away half the day.

  Ted doesn’t come to see me. Now that I can’t do anything for him, he’s abandoned me. With friends like him, who needs enemies?

  What Month Is It?

  They’re fed up with my continued insistence that Mother and Anja are in the basement. The doctor thinks it would help me to see Anja. She’s coming this afternoon.

  I bet she won’t look too good.

  They’ve decided that the meds they’ve put me on are too strong, so now they’re reducing the dosage. But they make darned sure I swallow the pills. I have to put each one on my tongue, and after I swallow it the supervisor looks down my throat, probably all the way down my esophagus. I don’t feel as foggy now, and I don’t drag my feet when I walk.

  And Anja’s coming to see me.

  Party time!

  * * *

  I sit beside the shrink and across from the caseworker nobody seems to realize is lying in my cellar. I have to admit she looks pretty healthy, and she doesn’t seem to have had any work done. I probably ought to keep my mouth shut, otherwise before you know it they’ll up my meds again. But I can’t stop myself from telling her that even though she thinks she’s sitting here, she’s actually dead.

  She leans a little closer.

  I pull back. She stinks like a corpse.

  She tells me everything will be okay, and she’ll always be here for me.

  Those words rock me, and I have to hold onto the table to keep from falling over.

  How could I ever have thought Ted would leave me in the lurch? How could I have doubted his intentions? When I see him again, I’ll beg his forgiveness on bended knee, if that’s what it takes. The more I think about it, though, the more I realize he won’t be mad. If he was truly angry, he wouldn’t have sent Anja to me. The only explanation for her presence is that she’s joined up with Ted. And I’m the only one who knows.

  See, this is what friendship is all about.

  Now I know for sure Ted’s coming back.

  With Anja.

  I wonder, what will my next mission be?

  PART IV

  THEY LIVE BY NIGHT

  SEVEN BRIDGES

  by Max van Olden

  Grachtengordel

  Lisa was running ten minutes late. Normally that wouldn’t be a problem, since there were usually two of them on Saturdays—but now, in early March, there were so few bookings she had to prepare the tables on her own.

  In the crew cabin, she changed from her wool sweater to a tight white blouse and put on an apron. She checked the schedule. A Delight cruise, twenty-two passengers. She could handle that—sometimes, even in the winter, they had as many as forty on board. She piled eight crates onto her service cart—six beverages, two glasses—and above those balanced the plastic bin labeled Tableware. She glanced out the window and saw people already lined up at the Pier F ticket office, waiting for the passenger door to open. Sighing, she pushed her cart out into the main cabin.

  S
tarting at the back of Princess Beatrix, she set each table, as always, with place mats that indicated their route with a dotted line on a map of the city’s canals, bottles of water, bowls of beer nuts. She looked up and spotted their guide approaching. Arno was a dope, but he was always willing to lend a hand. That was more than you could say for some of the others.

  “Need some help?” he said as he stepped on board, and, without waiting for an answer, pitched in and started setting tables. The sound system was already on, and they worked to the syrupy tones of Laura Pausini.

  They finished at a minute to four. Foreheads glistening with perspiration, they took up their positions on the dock, Lisa on one side of the door and Arno on the other. They smiled brightly at the passengers as they boarded. The four o’clock and six o’clock cruises mostly appealed to retirees and families, quiet customers who never made any trouble.

  * * *

  “Goodbody, every afternoon,” Arno began his usual spiel. After two years of it, Lisa didn’t even notice the joke anymore. Wim, their captain, steered the boat—long enough to hold eighty passengers, low enough to sail beneath the city’s innumerable bridges—past the train station. Back in the kitchen, Lisa pulled soft drinks from the fridge and arranged them on her cart.

  “The Central Station is built on an artificial island,” Arno said, first in English, then in Dutch and French and German. “It was designed by the same architect who designed the Rijksmuseum, which is where you can find our most important Rembrandt paintings.”

  Pulling the cork from a bottle of Chianti, Lisa glanced outside. The sky was gray, and there were wisps of mist along the embankment. When Arno paused for breath, she heard raindrops patter on the boat’s glass roof.

  She thought back to that morning, that lovely morning with Timo. They hadn’t gotten out of bed until ten thirty. She’d cracked open a can of Jus-Rol croissants and slid them into the oven. They’d only been together for three months, but Lisa was already spending so much time at Timo’s place she had practically moved in. Her toiletries were in his bathroom, half her clothing hung in his wardrobe, she felt so comfortable she knew their relationship was the real thing.