The Perfidious Parrot (21 page)

“And if you had?”

“But don’t you have live women out there?” de Gier asked.

“Big babes,” the captain said. “The frightening kind. Three sizes only. Regular big. Big big. Oh-my-God-it-is-coming-at-me big.”

“I see,” de Gier said.

He also saw dancers performing a parroty show, in feather costumes that were being unzipped. The dancers confronted the audience, they came down to touch clients. De Gier was danced on by the Syrian girl. When the music stopped she drank a Coca Cola. De Gier was served with more papaya juice, waved his way by the doorman.

De Gier made conversation. “What do you do when you’re not working here?”

The Syrian studied at the University of Miami, spending her days off in Key West. She was about to take final exams. She was going to be a legal secretary. She said that the tall blond girl who had just come in attended medical school. “She is almost done too. We make good money here. The waitress will be a lawyer.” Captain Noah invited the blonde girl over. She wore an evening dress, adorned with small oval mirrors for buttons that the Syrian undid. The blonde girl recognized de Gier’s accent. She had Dutch parents who spoke American now, like herself, but she was born in Holland and remembered some words. “You like it here, darling?” she asked in Dutch.

De Gier said he did in Dutch.

She sat on his knee. She pulled his head down so that her bare breast brushed his cheek.

“You will be a general practitioner?” de Gier asked.

The blonde stripper didn’t think so. She wanted to be a surgeon. Perhaps she could help now that breast cancer was becoming common. De Gier, nose in cleavage, shivered. He handed over a banknote. She thanked him. She also excused herself, it was her turn to perform on stage. She remembered more Dutch, wishing him a happy stay in the country, asking him to take greetings to her parents’ hometown,
Schoonrewoerd
, meaning “beautiful land between dikes.”

“All doctors and lawyers?” de Gier asked, pointing his nose at the moving display of firm flesh.

Some, Noah said, but most of the lapdancers just worked for the doorman, wasting their youth before a future of giving blowjobs for crack. Nick the Pimp drove a Ferrari and shared his penthouse with the employee of the week. The others lived in his ghetto-motel, with malfunctioning air conditioning. He insisted on collecting most of their money.

De Gier told the Sudanese Jewish woman, active on his lap, that he enjoyed his blissful situation. If only it would last.

The Sudanese comforted her client. “It will last as long as you can hold it.”

Bouncing breasts made de Gier thirsty. Papaya juice kept flowing. De Gier got sleepy. The dancers kept coming, kneeling, separating his knees, pushing, touching.

“You do have quite a supply of twenty dollar bills,” Captain Noah said. “You want to hear about your former Special Forces man?”

“My former what?” de Gier yawned. He wondered whether he was allergic to papaya.

“You phoned,” the captain said. “Ex-military types. Well funded. Where they lose their loot. That’s here, Old Buddy.”

Right, right, de Gier remembered. He said he was looking for an ex-military man who looked like he did. “Mickey,” the girl on de Gier’s lap said. “Has to be Mickey. I did think you were he for a moment but that couldn’t be for Nasty Nick just threw Mickey out.” She nuzzled de Gier’s cheek. “You are cuter.”

“You looking for Mickey, Buddy Boy?” the captain asked. “How come you didn’t say so?”

De Gier forced his mouth to talk. “Please tell me all about Mickey.”

“A lush who comes here often,” Captain Noah said. “Used to be a Green Beret. Squats in a camper in the William Street trailer-park. Drives a rusted-out open Chevy convertible. Just got his license back, police took it away for drunk driving, next time they’ll keep it.” Captain Noah pointed at an empty bar stool. “He was sitting right there, just before you came in. Squeezed the nipples of your medical countrywoman, got shown out by the skinheads.”

Captain Noah’s voice seemed to be coming from quite close.
“Hey, buddy boy, are you feeling okay down there?”

De Gier saw how Nasty Nick hit Captain Noah and dragged him toward the exit. De Gier wanted to help the captain but couldn’t get off the floor where he was resting. The music sounded much different and then suddenly dropped off, except for the drumbeat that throbbed on relentlessly. The women
were tearing off their skins. They were only skeletons underneath. Nasty Nick was a giant parrot whose hollow voice, within de Gier’s skull, shouted threats. The parrot hopped closer, bent down and peeled de Gier out of his skin. Other parrots picked up de Gier’s raw carcass, dragged it outside and ground it into the crushed oyster shell parking lot. “You really need to do this?” de Gier wanted to ask but a parrot squeezed de Gier’s throat between its crooked toes and tore it to pieces with its sharp beak.

The sea north of Cuba stayed rough, even though Skipper Peter said that that was unusual for the time of the year. No matter, said Ambagt Senior—all you had to do was drink more alcohol. The idea, like any idea by now, upset Grijpstra’s stomach. The skipper drank on, alone in the barroom. The commissaris and Carl Ambagt were tied to their chairs on the
Rodney
’s rear deck. The servant brought them beakers filled with coffee, with lids through which plastic straws pointed upward. “Otherwise we’ll have a mess here.” He frowned at Carl. “And who cleans up?”

“Sometimes the wise-asses drive me crazy,” Carl told the commissaris, while watching the servant departing abruptly. “They know exactly how far they can go, and that’s where they’re always going.”

“I wish you a lot of employees,” the commissaris said, winking, to show that he didn’t mean the malediction.

Right, Carl said, but what could one do on a luxury yacht
without staff to keep the luxury going? The more desires are created the more servants are needed to keep them fulfilled. A demonic circle. Carl blew angry bubbles through his straw. “Dad likes to be waited on.” He flicked his full coffee beaker across the railing. “I’d just as soon as get my coffee myself.” Carl’s voice squeaked. “It used to be Mom who never allowed Dad to leave the couch.”

“Your mother is a caring lady?” the commissaris asked.

“My mother belongs on a cookie can label,” Carl said. He raised eyebrows at motherly coziness. “Happy Ambagt family munches cookies in happy home. Happy Dad munches while he reads the paper. Happy Mom munches while she irons the laundry. Happy Carlie munches while he does his homework. Happy Dog begs for a cookie. Watch Stupido
sit
.”

Carl threw the commissaris’s coffee beaker into the Caribbean too. “Happy upstairs apartment at Bourgeois Alley in Rotterdam. Watch Ma cut rancid cheese with a blunt knife. Bend over dented cooking stove. Straighten plastic cover with Mondrian design on wobbly kitchen table.” Carl glared furiously. “Are you analyzing my character? Want to know what makes me jump?”

“You interest me,” the commissaris said. “Finding out about you saves me living your life.” He smiled. “So you don’t like Mondrian’s art?”

“It’s okay for decorating walls,” Carl said. “Dad used to have a Mondrian, hung it in the bar, but we sold it in St. Maarten. It brought a pretty penny.”

“All that money,” the commissaris said. “I’m surprised you haven’t hired some female company for your journey.”

“Dad doesn’t care for loose women,” Carl said. “When I bring them aboard the crew tries to get them.”

The commissaris seemed shocked. “You allow that?”

“I am the slave of slaves,” Carl said sadly.

“Your life must be complicated.”

Carl, touched by his interrogator’s kind voice, admitted to a longing for simplicity. Like it used to be in Rotterdam. Without Ma’s coziness of course. A simple Rotterdam upstairs flat, without a view. If he wanted a view he could read Carlos Fuentes or Mario Vargas Llosa—literature provided views no window could ever offer. In a simple two-room apartment Carl would have time to read again. On this damned ship there was never any. Not that he didn’t appreciate his high-quality yacht, the envy of all other users of the high seas, but there was always some little thing or other. Carl gestured widely. Jeezz. But then, what could one expect for thirty million, eh? And then there was the staff. Good people, his sailors knew their jobs, not lazy either but always at you for this or that.

Carl imitated the servant’s voice. “What would you require for dinner tonight, Master Carl?” All Carl ever wanted was simple soup, always simmering. Give it a stir once in a while maybe. Make it out of anything in season—carrots, potatoes—what did he care? Serve with noodles. Suck and gulp. Store-bought ice cream afterward. Catch a movie once a week. In a regular cinema, big screen. Who needs a mini screen at home, like they had on the
Rodney
here, with wraparound sound and whatnot? An ordinary ticket to look at a simple big screen. Who wants to fuss with expensive home equipment that breaks down once a month?

“Is there,” the commissaris asked, “room for a simple companion in your simple fantasy?”

Carl shrugged. “Nah.”

“No intimacy?” the commissaris asked.

“Please,” Carl said. He thought. “Well, maybe. If she spoke Spanish. On a rainy afternoon. I could do that.”

“You would work?”

“What
is
this?” Carl shouted. “You’re Dr. Jan Freud?”

The commissaris said he liked to know who he was dealing with.

“Not who,” Carl said in his normal voice. “
What
you are dealing with.” He grimaced. “We’re dealing with oil here.”

The commissaris looked serious. “But what are we really dealing with here? You want your oil back and you will get your oil back, and I want a million for getting you your oil back and I will get that million, just to show some legal income for G&G, but what do you think we’re really after, Mr. Ambagt?”

“What?” Carl asked tonelessly.

The commissaris looked expectant.

“Profit,” Carl said. “Got to make profits. Got to make damn profits forever.”

The silence grew. The wind had died down. The
Rodney
’s engines murmured quietly. “Something to do with Spanish.” Carl said, “I could work in something to do with Spanish.”

The commissaris didn’t react.

“When I’m back in Rotterdam?” Carl asked. “You ever read Manuel Vazquez Montalban? Or Pablo Ignacio Taibo Dos?” He shook his head in wonder. “What those fellows can do with the language. That is beau-ti-ful, sir.”

“Will you have a pet?” the commissaris asked.

“A crow,” Carl answered promptly. “I’ll find it in the Harbor Park.”

The commissaris laughed. “What makes you long for a crow, Carl?”

Carl had a connection with crows. They pointed the way. He dreamed about them.

“The way to where, Mr. Ambagt?”

Carl described the path the dream crows showed him. The path was in a forest, sun-dappled, pine needles glowing. It led to a glade, with silver moss on weathered rocks, and golden lichens.

“Do you reach that goal?”

Carl sighed. He had only seen it. From afar. He would like to reach it.

The commissaris pointed at the helicopter that was clamped to the deck, at the solid golden ashtray, the aft deck’s teak floor, the spotless white uniforms of the sailors on the
Rodney
’s bridge, the marble nude woman holding up the glass tabletop, the Liberian flag flying about the azure sea. “You could do without this?”

“This was mostly Dad’s idea,” Carl said.

“Wealth doesn’t really concern you?”

“Sure it does,” Carl gestured. “If only to show off.” He wiggled a convincing finger. “Do you have any idea of how many people live like me and Dad? How many can actually make use of the vicissitudes of life? Do you know the ratio of those who do to and those who are done to?”

A sailor reported that something was wrong with the plumbing. “Meaning what?” Carl asked.

“Meaning no drinking water for awhile, Master Carl.” The sailor, already on his way back, turned around and smiled.

The water problem brought another problem to mind. Carl asked the commissaris how the enquiry was going. “Any progress?”

The ship changed direction and was hit sideways by swell. A wave broke and water splashed on the commissaris’s glasses. He rubbed them dry. “Which enquiry, Mr. Ambagt?”

Carl pushed his face close to that of the commissaris. “What was that?”

They both got splashed now. The commissaris dried his glasses again.

“We are expecting to be recompensed for our lost cargo,” Carl shouted. “You were in Aruba. You said so. You must have talked to Captain Guzberto Souza.

The commissaris shook his head.

Carl seemed outraged. “No? So what were you doing there? And what does your fat friend do except puke all the time?” Carl almost wrung his hands. “You have two experienced detectives on the job. I want you to catch the pirates, force them to repay us. Why did you leave de Gier in Key West? What has
he
come up with?”

“Nobody plans to come up with anything,” the commissaris said. “As you haven’t paid us we’re in our vacation mode now. We’re waiting, Mr. Ambagt.”

Carl, holding on to the helicopter’s side, faced the commissaris. “What about the hundred thousand we paid up front?”

The commissaris spread his hands. “We haven’t seen your money, Mr. Ambagt.”

Carl let go of the helicopter, slid across the deck, disappeared
down the stairs, was back in his chair within minutes, ballpoint and notebook at the ready. “Could I have the number of your bank account please?” The commissaris checked a card in his wallet, recited the figures. Carl disappeared again, returned promptly. “Dad is transmitting your hundred thou as we speak, sir.”

“He forgot?” the commissaris asked.

Carl said that Skipper Peter tended to be slow in paying out moneys.

“Aha.” The commissaris studied the Liberian flag fluttering just beyond his outstretched legs.

“So what are you staring at?” Carl asked. “Phone your bank. The money should be there by now.”