The Perfidious Parrot Read online

  It did. Instead of graying gently while working hard to serve the community, Grijpstra—suddenly unemployed and wealthy—aged quickly while suffering anxiety attacks. Ulcers gnawed. Gums rotted. Veins varicosed. He regained his health after marrying his free-sex friend, Nellie. Nellie said she had known all along that this marriage would happen. “Whores,” Nellie said, “don’t have to bullshit, so we’re close to Truth.”

  Grijpstra emptied out his rented apartment at the Leather-makers Canal and moved in with Nellie at Straight Tree Ditch.

  Nellie owned her building outright. It contained a small bar, the ONE ON ONE, in the basement. “Hotel Nellie” occupied all of the four stories and there was a messy loft on top.

  The unpredicted change closed the basement, moved Detection G&G Inc. into the first two floors, made luxurious living quarters for Mr. & Mrs. Grijpstra on the next two floors and had de Gier—back from New Guinea and a sojourn in Maine in the USA—strip and refurbish the loft as an indoor garden cum camping ground.

  “Things change,” the commissaris said at the housewarming party that he and his wife, Katrien, attended. “Fortune cookies and street gurus speak the truth.” He also quoted an obscure Dutch medieval poet who had versified on the theme that things are not what they appear to be. “Nothing but change is constant.”

  Apart from the treasure-finders themselves, only the commissaris knew where all the money came from. Three Surinam-based drug dealers knew too, but they were found dead in Paramaribo, their hometown on the South American coast.

  “But Henkieluvvie,” Nellie said. “Where did you get it?”

  Grijpstra claimed that her building’s expensive restoration had been paid for from his savings plus a bank loan to be repaid from the future income of Detection G&G Inc. “Everything just dandy and hup ho,” Grijpstra said. De Gier confirmed that statement. The commissaris nodded affirmation. Nothing to worry about. Nellie was not to worry her beautiful blonde head.

  “Sure,” Nellie said, preferring the present lucrative arrangement to giggling with and being bruised by paying and often out-of-control clients. Pacific Rim business gents, she had been specializing lately. Her selection paid better, but often played rough.

  No more being a long-legged playpen dolly, Nellie thought.

  No more following patrol car-radio orders when you are ready for a smoked eel sandwich and whipped-cream coffee, Grijpstra thought.

  No more administering, correcting and enforcing, de Gier thought.

  “Released from the straightjacket,” the commissaris said. He used his grandfather’s smile. “And how are you going to get through the days, Henk and Rinus? No more ‘sir’ing me. I am Jan.”

  “Doing nothing, sir,” Grijpstra said, citing his laziness.

  De Gier agreed, citing his philosophical search for meaning that would require meditation. He even explained: “To see where I get to when I care nothing about nothing.”

  The commissaris deemed the plan to be good but advised his former assistants to find some occupation. His wife agreed. “Emptiness filled with wealth creates camel-sized vermin,” Katrien said, quoting an ancient Dutch proverb. She claimed to know what she was talking about. Having inherited money that her husband helped her invest, Katrien—weighed down by wealth she had no use for—had needed therapy. “Stay busy,” Katrien said. “Do something you like doing.”

  “If you can’t make it, fake it,” the commissaris said. “Start a business, hang out a shingle.”

  Thus the birth of Detection G&G Inc.

  Some jobs turned up. There was an insurance investigation, referred by a former police colleague, the recently promoted Simon Cardozo. There was a missing girl tourist to be located. Also a pension for the widow of a hashish dealer to be arranged with the dealers’s association. Three cases in one year. Minimal income, maximal spare time. Grijpstra painted dead ducks; de Gier carefully pried attractive looking weeds from between the inner city’s cobblestones and grew them in artful planters he created from plywood found floating in canals. He arranged his wildflower and herbal garden in Nellie’s loft. He looked up the weeds in a picture book he found at an Old Man’s Gate stall. He lay about in a hammock amidst his plantation of bladder-wort, crimson clover and marsh bellflower, thought about clever Zen sayings and read Nietzsche in German.

  “What are you doing?” Grijpstra asked at times, when, fleeing Nellie’s TV, he found de Gier staring at the floor, from above twisted legs, or bent over books.

  De Gier liked to answer with oriental silence or Nietzsche-quotes in German.

  “What do your exercises or books deal with?” Grijpstra asked once. “With nothing, okay? With the nothing that the Lord created things from and that still shines through.”

  “I don’t really get it,” de Gier admitted.

  They also liked to make music together, in a jazz cellar at the Endless Prayer Alley, Grijpstra on drums, de Gier behind his mini-trumpet. Leisurely. “Leisure” was the key. Cool. Relaxed.

  We won’t be busy.

  The one who agreed to join de Gier “in doing by not doing,” after finding the second Blood Alley treasure, was Free Grijpstra. There were, however, other Grijpstras.

  Busy Grijpstra, run to earth by oil-tanker-charterer Carl Ambagt, noted Free Grijpstra’s objection to Carl’s proposal. There was a conflict there. Continue daily relaxation or dip into some exciting action maybe?

  Piracy near the Netherlands Antilles? Busy Grijpstra liked that.

  Free Grijpstra was fading. Busy Grijpstra took over. Busy Grijpstra regressed to a modus operandi learned during some twenty years of daily police work. Busy Grijpstra noted that the client, albeit unsympathetic, appeared to be energetic and intelligent. Carl, although short, had wide shoulders and, inside the blazer’s sleeves, bulging muscles. Sporting type? A gymnast? Weightlifting maybe. Ambagt’s flannel trousers had been neatly pressed. His shirt was made to measure, out of bleached linen. Its collar, in keeping with the current fashion, was buttoned down. The silk necktie, printed or maybe handpainted with—Grijpstra put on his glasses—the image of a nude woman, glowed under a massive golden pin shaped like an erect penis. Unsympathetic, intelligent, energetic, short, flashy fellow in his early forties.

  While showing the complainant in, Grijpstra had noted Ambagt’s pigskin half boots, and while shaking hands he’d noticed a platinum bangle and a watch decorated with jewels. Rich little fellow. Powerful little fellow.

  Complainant was still being emotional. “Poor sailor Michiel, riddled with bullets.” Ambagt wrung his small childlike hands. “That’s what you get when assholes use arms.” Ambagt’s gold fillings sparkled. He spoke easily, forgot to use his Rotterdam accent, added fewer question marks, toned down his arrogance.

  “Action movie. There’s something for you, Mr. Detective. Last time we talked to Captain Souza he gave the tanker’s position as just south of Saba. After that we lost contact. Got us all worried, started up the old chopper-top, flew off, nosed about everywhere. Me and Dad in the chopper. Went back twice to refuel. Helicopters don’t fly far you know. Looked about for hours we did, checked out all the islands, starting at St. Maarten, all the way down to Barbuda, then Antigua; we counted off the French, the British, the Dutch Antilles, choppered back north again, right up to Anguilla. At last, there she was, the old hulk. Drifted away from Saba, got herself tucked between Nevis and St. Kitts. You have to be careful there, lots of reefs and rocks and what have you. Had to put down the chopper on that little rear deck. You should have seen me and Dad, sliding about on the Sibylle. A real situation. Had to get that huge unwieldy tanker away from the reefs; steering all that bulk isn’t easy you know, even if I do have captain’s papers. There was a stretch where we didn’t have half a fathom under her keel. Fortunately the old cow was empty. High as a church tower and last time we’d seen her she was up to her chin in water. So where, for fuck’s sake, was her cargo?” Ambagt dried off his forehead with a silk handkerchief that he had unfolded angrily. “Nothing moved on boa
rd except two cats racing about like crazy. We heard them yowl as soon as we switched off the chopper’s engine.”

  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.

  2

  A WISE-ASS THREATENED

  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.