The Streetbird (15 page)

The waiter leaned on Grijpstra's shoulder. He put up a finger and waved it in front of the adjutant's face.
"Aqui no. La senora no lo permite."

"The waiter only speaks Spanish," Karate said, "and what you were reading was Portugese. He doesn't understand Portuguese."

"Que no, que no, que no,"
the waiter shouted in Grijpstra's ear.

"The poor fellow is having a fit," de Gier said. "There's enough going on already. Why don't you put out that cigar?"

Grijpstra screwed his cigar into the ashtray.

"Thank you," Karate said.

Grijpstra pointed at Karate's cigarette. "What are you complaining about? That's pretty strong tobacco you're burning there."

"It's cigars Mrs. Hadde objects to," Karate said. "And if you hadn't done as you were told, we would have been out on our ear. In which case my wig would have come off and I would have been shown up as an idiot again."

"And who would have thrown us out?" Cardozo asked. "The hunchbacked dwarf?"

"Mr. Hadde."

Grijpstra peered through the smoke in the room. "All I see is a painted skeleton with frayed rope ends on her moldy skull'

"That's Mrs. Hadde," Karate said. "Mr. Hadde is resting."

"So how can he throw out customers while he rests?"

"Mr. Hadde is quite gifted."

"Are they making trouble at the bar?" Grijpstra asked. "Hey, watch where you're going."

A bald man whose leather suit was decorated with chains crashed into their table, pushed by surging combatants and tripped up by the leg of a little old drunk dressed in an outmoded worn coat and whose head, hidden under a wide-brimmed felt hat, rested on his chest. A small metal flag, consisting of a red-white-and-blue tin plate attached to rusted wire, fell on the floor. The intruder stumbled back. Grijpstra bent down and picked up the flag, pressing it back into shape with his thumb. "Shouldn't trample the flag, you know."

"Want to be bashed?" the man asked.

De Gier raised his lanky body. "We are terribly sorry, sir, that you crashed into our table. It won't happen again."

The intruder shook shaky fists.

Cardozo was getting up too. Karate pushed him back and smiled. "Flower power," he said to the man. "Love. Ban the bomb. Let's surrender to communism. Kill the Americans."

The intruder patted Karate's wig. "That's my boy." He staggered back to the bar.

"The pimps are a bit nervous," Karate said. "The prince of the quarter is no more, and they're trying not to die with him. Identification with the victim."

The order around the bar decreased further. Karate indicated the yelling mob. "Why don't you all watch Mrs. Hadde now. Can you see her?"

"She's growing," Grijpstra said.

"She's climbing steps so that she can reach the little doors behind the bar. She knocks on the doors, see?"

"They must hide a built-in bedstead," de Gier said.

"And a built-in baboon," said Cardozo.

"In pajamas," Grijpstra said, "striped flannels. You don't see that type of pajamas much these days."

"That's no baboon," de Gier said, "that's a gorilla. Hairy all over. A gorilla with a cudgel in his fetid fists."

"That's Mr. Hadde," Karate said.

Mr. Hadde veered down and up again, with one hand on the counter. He hopped over the bar. Mrs. Hadde pointed at customers. Mr. Hadde raised his stick.

"He isn't going to kill them, is he?" Grijpstra asked.

"No," Karate said. "They haven't paid yet."

The clients put notes into Mrs. Hadde's hand. It was quiet in the room and the silence became eerier. The clients had frozen in uncomfortable attitudes. The waiter leaned against the bar, chewing a match.

"Out," Mr. Hadde said softly.

The clients selected by the raised cudgel tiptoed to the door.

"Hop," whispered Mr. Hadde.

The pimps sneaked faster. The door banged behind them. Mr. Hadde scaled the bar again, extended an arm to the edge of the bedstead, swung himself inside, and closed the doors behind him.

A clock without hands hung under the bedstead. Mrs. Hadde's bony hand ticked against its cracked glass. She shrieked, "Time to leave."

"See you tomorrow," Karate said.

"I'm going to bed," Cardozo said. "I've thought much today and understood little. I'm very tired."

"I would rather go for a walk," Grijpstra said. "Care to join me, sergeant?"

"I'd rather turn in too," de Gier said. "Can I walk with you, Simon, or are you still upset?"

"I'm not upset," Cardozo said to the sergeant walking next to him. "I'm mixed up." He caressed de Gier's arm. "Tell me all is in order Rinus."

De Gier admired ducks bobbing sleepily on the canal.

"Rinus?"

"All is
not
in order," de Gier said.

\\\\ 17 ////

He walked on, trying in vain to free himself from the memory of the hellish cave, but he kept seeing the skeleton behind the counter, and Mr. Hadde swinging his club. He also saw Karate; showing his female aspect, glancing at his superiors from amorous painted eyes, provoking them with pursed blood-red lips. The adjutant concentrated on the canal's hardly moving surface, reflecting wide elms, their freshly leaved branches calmly extended toward sedate silver gables. He looked at gulls, gliding down to the barely wrinkled water, and once afloat, changing into daintily arranged feather bundles.

Grijpstra tripped over a root and rearranged his balance by wildly waving his arms. His wheeling arms disturbed a rat eating from a torn garbage bag. The adjutant grabbed a car mirror that gave way under his weight. The rat stayed where he was, tearing at chicken bones.

"Away," Grijpstra said, but the rat didn't move his naked pink legs. The rat was of a good size but nevertheless considerably smaller than the cat approaching him from the rear, flattened in the shadow of a wrecked handcart. The cat, a fighting torn, wide-chested and with a square head on which its torn and crusted ears lay low, crept on.

The cat jumped, the rat yelled, Grijpstra shouted. He tried to kick the living tangle, but the cat dragged its prey out of reach. The rat died as it squeaked. The cat turned the rat over and studied its soft belly.

Grijpstra leaned against a parked car hood and felt the mirror that his grip had loosened. The car was new. The adjutant scribbled on his visiting card: "Excuse. Please mail the bill, which will be paid promptly." He mumbled while he inserted the card behind a windshield wiper. "Tanks in the south of the city. Cat kills rat." Firmly decided now to ignore all further violence, he turned to determine the cause of the tearing sound. The cat had activated the next stage of its program and operated on the rat, neatly, with a single sharp nail stuck into the throat of its fellow animal, which it yanked toward itself. Grijpstra saw blood spurting from the slit.

It shouldn't be, the adjutant thought. But that's the way it is, he also thought. It cannot always be denied that violence takes place.

Here I am, a peaceful man who should be enjoying the mystery of daybreak, the mystic moment when darkness turns into light, when creation renews itself under the endless splendor of heaven's pale-blue cupola. I partake in the position of God Himself, when He set the wheel into motion, and I should be able to affirm that all is well, which I can't because it is not.

He lifted his foot to kick the aggressor and send him back to his dish heaped with hygienically manufactured pet food, but the cat hissed furiously. In order not to waste his movement, the adjutant kicked a carton standing next to the garbage bag.

The cat ate.

"Enough," howled Grijpstra. The cat snarled and swished the tip of its misshapen tail through the dust.

The adjutant hissed too, bent down, and showed the cat his fist. The cat ran away.

Grijpstra removed the lid of the carton and pushed in the rat's remnants, using the side of his shoe. He put the lid back, took the box under his arm, and walked on to the Newmarket, where he got into a waiting cab. The driver started his engine and turned his head. "Everything to your satisfaction tonight, sir?"

Grijpstra gave his private address. The driver hooked a thumb at the box on the rear seat. "What's in it?"

"A useful souvenir."

The cab sped along the Rokin. The driver's eyes showed in the rear mirror. "Not too fast for you, sir?"

"What?" Grijpstra asked. "No."

"It's all right to race at night," the driver said. "No traffic anyway. I mentioned the box just now because I was supposed to. Regulations, right?"

Grijpstra grunted.

"It's the police, you see," the driver said. "It seems that bad people transport parts of corpses at night, and the police want to know, so we tell them via our radio."

"You do?" Grijpstra asked. "Isn't that dangerous?"

"After the client has left the cab," the driver said. "Here you are."

"Wait for me," Grijpstra said. "I have to get something and will be back at once."

"Where do you want to go?"

"Back to the quarter."

"Sir does have energy," the driver said.

Grijpstra got out. He fetched a fishnet from his closet and walked down the stairs again. He heard the cab drive away. The box stood on the sidewalk. He was picking it up when a squad car turned the corner. Two constables jumped out.

"What's in the box?" One constable squatted; the other reached for his gun.

"If you don't touch anything," Grijpstra said, "you can have a little look."

"Flesh," the constable said, "and blood."

"Disgusting, isn't it?"

The other constable touched Grijpstra's net. "What do you want with that?"

"Three guesses," Grijpstra said.

The cop holding the gun spoke compassionately. "Now, sir, just turn around and hold your hands over your head." He felt the adjutant's pockets. "What's under your armpit?"

"My pistol," Grijpstra told the wall. "And there's a wallet in my inside pocket. You'll find my police card in the wallet. Don't touch the pistol or you'll tear my jacket."

The constable read the card. "Henk Grijpstra is the name, and adjutant the rank." He replaced the wallet.

"Sorry, adjutant. May I ask what you are up to tonight?"

Grijpstra dropped his arms and turned around. "You may ask. And because you've bothered me, you may take me to the Newmarket."

The patrol car stopped next to the waiting cab. Grijpstra walked away, box under one arm and fishnet under the other. The cabdriver left his car and walked over to the cruiser. "That's the man I was radioing about. You're releasing him again?"

"Yes," said the constable behind the wheel.

"But there was a bleeding mess in that box, didn't you look?"

"A dead rat, dissected."

"And he takes that to whores. He's just been to the whores. I picked him up there. What does he want with the net?"

"I don't believe I know," said the cop.

The driver watched Grijpstra's diminishing shape. "Pleasant looking gent, too, but what he's doing should be forbidden. I get others of his type. A few days ago I had one, carrying an inflatable doll, also in a box. About the same time as now. My fare inflated the doll in my cab. You know the type of doll I mean?

Like they sell in sex stores?"

"Yes?" asked the constable.

"And where did he want to go?" asked the other.

"To the southern park. Naughty, in a way. But this fellow is worse. The doll wasn't bleeding. Now, why is he coming back?"

"Driver?" Grijpstra asked.

The driver shrank back against the squad car.

"What's with you?" Grijpstra asked. "Have you forgotten that I didn't pay you?"

"That's fine, sir," the driver said. "Never mind. Go away."

Grijpstra swept his net.

"Are you catching something?" Cardozo got out of his bed. "Can I help?"

"No," Grijpstra said.

"Going fishing, are you?"

"No," Grijpstra said.

Cardozo followed Grijpstra. "What's in the attic?"

"I don't care much. I'm going to the roof."

"What's in the box?"

"Hold the trapdoor," Grijpstra said. He turned the box over. "That was a rat, which I'm putting out to catch a vulture, see? With the net. From this staircase, while hiding under the trap- door. Step aside now, because I have to get into position, to be ready when the vulture comes down."

"There are no vultures in Amsterdam, adjutant."

"We've been here for half an hour now," said Cardozo, "and it's close to five o'clock. Aren't you tired?"

"I'm not. There are no vultures in Amsterdam? So what's that flapping about?"

The vulture lowered itself carefully, shuffled around the rat's parts, and hacked its beak into the meat. "Aha," Grijpstra said. Cardozo pushed the trapdoor up. The net came down over the bird. "Got you!" Grijpstra shouted.

The adjutant stepped onto the roof, flattened the carton and pushed it under the net. "Give me a hand, Simon. Make sure the carton doesn't slip away.''

"And if the vulture rips the net?"

"Then you grab his head."

"What's all this fuss?" de Gier called from the trapdoor. "I can't sleep when you stamp on the roof."

"We caught a vulture, sergeant."

De Gier looked at the bird caught in the net. "So you did. A bit smaller than I thought. What's the next step?"

"To the kitchen?" Grijpstra asked. "Put him in the garbage can? Sit on the lid?"

Cardozo sat on the lid. "What's a vulture doing in Amsterdam, adjutant?"

"I don't know," Grijpstra said. "But I want to find out. That's why I caught him. He flew over the Olofs-alley last night."

"You saw him too?" Cardozo asked de Gier.

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

De Gier listened to the scratching of claws within the garbage can. "I prefer to keep my insanity to myself."

"Would the commissaris have seen the vulture?"

"Yes," de Gier said. "Very likely he did. Maybe that's why he took off for the healing baths."

"Peculiar," Cardozo said. "A black vulture flying above a black corpse."

"I know what species that bird belongs to," Grijpstra said. "We've got some in the zoo. They're from Surinam, but according to the legend on the cage, other South American countries have them too. Protected eaters of carrion, keep the roads clean."

The vulture squeaked. "Poor thing," Cardozo said. "Shouldn't he eat? He never got a chance to get at the dead rat. There's some salami in the refrigerator."

De Gier closed the kitchen door. "Let him out, let's see what he does."

The vulture hopped out of the can and shuffled about on the floor.

"He's tame," Grijpstra said. Cardozo cut slices off the salami and put them on the linoleum. The bird, bowing politely, hopped toward the food.

"A house vulture," Grijpstra said. "Knows how to behave himself. He belongs to somebody."

The vulture picked at Cardozo's trousers. Cardozo jumped back. "Ouch."

Grijpstra squatted. "He never harmed you, just pushed a little. Would the nice bird care for another helping?"

"But what fool would own a vulture?" de Gier asked. "Why don't we let the bird go and watch where he goes?"

"I can't fly," Grijpstra said, "and I don't want to walk about with a vulture on a leash. If that cabdriver sees me, he'll lose his mind. First a box full of dead rat and now . . . No."

"Rat?" de Gier asked.

"I tried to save a nice rat from a nice pussy, but the pussy killed the rat anyway, and as I was in need of carrion to catch a vulture, it all turned out well in the end."

The vulture jumped on the sink and looked out of the window. "He's not really bad looking." Cardozo said. "Eh? Vulture?"

The bird flapped its wings and looked around.

"Wildlife is protected," Cardozo said. "And rightfully so. This vulture should be free. Can we let him go, adjutant?"

Grijpstra felt in his pocket and put the little metal flag taken from Hotel Hadde on the table. He looked at the bird's legs.

"You want to mark him?" Cardozo said. "So that he can be differentiated from other vultures? I don't think there are too many vultures about."

Grijpstra folded the metal flag around the tough yellow skin and squeezed it closed while he stroked the bird with his other hand. The vulture squeaked softly. "Nice bird. Cardozo?"

"Adjutant?"

"Pick our pet up. We'll take him back to the roof."

Cardozo threw the bird into the air. The vulture fluttered away, came back and landed next to Grijpstra.

"Wants more salami," de Gier said. "Come on. Hop. You're free. Fly away." The bird hopped about undecidedly. The sergeant picked it up again. "One, two . . .
three."

"He does fly high," Cardozo said. "I can hardly see him now."

"I can't see him at all," Grijpstra said. "You? Rinus?"

"Just about," de Gier said. "No, I've lost him too."

"I see him," Cardozo said. "He's circling, over there, this side of the Montelbaan's Tower, a little to the right. Now he's going down."

"Let's see," Grijpstra said. "What street is that? Old Waal? No, that would be more to the left."

"Straight-Tree-Ditch," de Gier said. "That's where he must have landed. Well-known area. Doesn't that Nellie of yours live there?"

"Yes," Cardozo said. "Your girlfriend, adjutant."

Grijpstra observed Cardozo pensively.

"She is your girlfriend, right?" asked Cardozo. "That lady who used to run her own private bar and now owns a small hotel?"

"Hmm," Grijpstra said.

"Listen," de Gier said. "I've got to hunt pimps today, and Cardozo should have another sniff at the immediate area. Why don't you have a good time with Nellie? Have breakfast at your leisure and then maybe ask her if there might be a vulture living in the neighborhood."

"Yes," Cardozo said. "A vulture is a rare sight, or would he only be about in the very early morning? If he keeps early hours, your girlfriend might not know him."

"Breakfast," Grijpstra said. "And what about you two?"

"We'll all be right," de Gier said.

"Can I go with you?" Cardozo asked.

"No. You can go to bed. You're tired and you talk too much."

"Now what did I say wrong?" Cardozo asked when the adjutant was shaving in the bathroom. "She
is
his girlfriend, isn't she?"

"The wise hide their knowledge," de Gier said. "That overeagerness of yours, you've got to get rid of it. We've discussed that before. First one collects facts, then one ponders and considers, and then one may express a tentative opinion in a modest and hesitating manner."