The Perfidious Parrot by Janwillem van de Wetering Page B

times,” the commissaris said, “don’t exaggerate, dear Katrien.”
    Katrien swore, while sweeping her hands about furiously and raising her voice, that, on the contrary, she had been minimizing the situation. Grijpstra and de Gier had, during their lengthy police training by her husband, changed into the commissaris’s efficient projections. A triumphant triad had scoured the Amsterdam underworld. Grijpstra/de Gier, marionetted by their chief. Tweedle Dee/Tweedle Dum, and the Holy Ghost on top. Now that G&G (Katrien smiled disdainfully) were working in their own so-called business, was she to understand that the situation had changed?
    “But they are
not
working, dear,” the commissaris said. The commissaris cut himself a large slice of honeycake, buttered it thickly, ate the slice quickly. “So-called or otherwise. Grijpstra keeps Nellie happy by shopping with her and watching TV, de Gier has his plantation of weeds and Nietzsche if he isn’t reading in Spanish.”
    The commissaris reached for the Gouda cheese. His wife slapped his hand.
    “All that fat,” his wife said. “Better go for your walk, dear.” She pleaded. “You know what is going on here, don’t you? I happened to see Nellie yesterday. The woman is right. Ketchup and Karate recommended
you
to those yachting people. ThatAntillean business is well beyond G&G’s powers. Those Rotterdam folks definitely need you in charge of their project. Those are bad guys, Jan. They lost their illegal goods and they are poor losers. They’ll do anything to even things out.”
    “Nellie and you?” The commissaris shook his head. “Tarot cards again?”
    Katrien ate her diet biscuits with sugar-free imitation fruit spread. “Nothing to do with you.”
    “Nothing is good,” the commissaris said.
    “All my effort for nothing,” Katrien said. “The cards say you will have a nice time with this case.” She bit her lip. “And I have to baby-sit. I am jealous I suppose.”
    “So what you are saying,” the commissaris summarized professionally, “is that our potential client, Ambagt & Son, while wandering about the fun Caribbean island of St. Maarten in between sailing their royal cruiser, happened to run into Ketchup and Karate who like to spend their time off in the Netherlands Antilles. Ambagt & Son are in the crude oil business, K&K are in the corrupt police business, in Amsterdam of all places, hub of the criminal universe these days. Skipper Peter and young Carl knew at once that K&K are bad. There is a discrepancy of lifestyle. The Amsterdam Municipal Police pays real wages but even when two constables first class, both childless, combine their salaries the happy couple cannot afford a summer cottage in well-heeled Philipsburg, St. Maarten. Mortgage free. Like their superb apartment in Amsterdam, overlooking the river. And they fly across the ocean like evil-faced gadflies. On what kind of money? Could I have one of those biscuits, do you think?”
    “Never,” his wife said.
    She gave him one anyway.
    “Tastes like fax paper,” the commissaris said. “No. Tastes like unprinted E-mail.” He thought. “Some combination, Katrien. Two policemen serving Lucifer in our magic city here, connecting to St. Maarten, owned by Dutch and Italian gangsters. Can you see that meeting? A tropical bar? Striptease performed by selected beauties from, didn’t I read that somewhere, Santo Domingo, home of the western hemisphere’s most luscious …”
    “Yes,” Katrien said. “I see it. So do you. Wouldn’t you like to do the selecting?”
    “Bongos,” the commissaris said. “You can hear good bongos in Amsterdam now but real bongos, no. And out there, there’ll be Mexicans on trumpets and black drummers out of New York, taught by Tony Williams or even,” the commissaris smiled dreamily, “or even by Jack de Johnette, Katrien.”
    “How nice.” His wife began to clear the table.
    “I am only sketching in the circumstances,” the commissaris said.