by Tin Larrick
The girl followed me in and closed the door. I turned to her, smiling. She returned the smile and held out a hand.
“My name is Nancy.”
“How do you do?” I replied, holding out my hand. It was all-so-very-polite. She took it, and looked shocked.
“My, you are so cold!” She rubbed my hand with both of hers. “Is it raining outside?”
“It has been.”
“I don't like the rain. I don't like the cold either, unless of course it snows. But it never snows in Amsterdam. You are British?”
“Yes.”
“I like the British. They are all gentlemen. Does it snow in Britain?”
“Sometimes.”
“I went to Switzerland last year. I love the mountains. I had snowball fights with my sister. She is seven.” She took out a condom from the chest of drawers.
“You must pay me in advance.”
In a kind of trance, I took out my wallet and handed her a hundred. She smiled thanks and slipped it into a purse in the bottom drawer of the chest.
“Please take off your clothes and put them on the chair,” she said, and removed the aquamarine bra.
The sight of her naked body snapped me out of it. Embarrassed, I held my hands up in front of me and looked away.
“Look, I’m sorry. Please put your clothes back on.”
She sat down on the bed, having presumably seen all manner of reactions during her time in this box. No doubt mine qualified as seriously middle-of-the-road.
“The important thing is that you must relax,” she said. “Don't worry.” Her tone was soothing. “Would you like to lie down?”
I shook my head.
“No, it isn’t like that. I…”
“Then what?”
“Will you please put something on?”
She frowned, but obliged. She didn’t put the bra back on, but fished out a plain white T-shirt from the chest of drawers. It almost went to her knees. She looked at me patiently.
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to pay to have sex with her; what I wanted to do was ask her out for a drink. My social training in just where that particular line lay was a little basic, however, and that was without the added complication of her being Mr Solitaire’s woman.
“Look, I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to waste your time.”
“It’s okay,” she said, with a smile that seemed sincere. “But I am keeping the money.”
“That’s fine. Fine,” I said, a little too quickly. Truth was, I’d have paid a thousand euros to just take her for a ten-minute espresso. “Sorry to waste your time.”
She stood up.
“You are here long?”
“Just the weekend.”
“On business or pleasure?”
“Bit of both, to be honest.”
“Business for me, pleasure for you.”
“Isn't that the way of the world?”
“I hope you enjoy your stay. Do you like nightclubs? For the house music?”
“Nah, not really. I like jazz.”
“Oh, really? I am surprised. I love jazz. None of my friends like jazz. I have trouble finding time to go and enjoy it, because whenever I do, I am always approached by awful men. Wherever I go.”
I imagined that was probably an occupational hazard.
“If you like jazz, the Amstel is best. You can also try The Cotton Club down by the marketplace. It is small, and not as nice as the Amstel. Amsterdam is not great for jazz. New York is the best place to go for jazz.”
“Have you been?”
“Only once. You should go if you like jazz.”
“I’d love to take you.” The words were out before I could stop myself.
She smiled, like I imagined a teacher would smile if a pupil had declared their undying love. Not encouraging, but aware of the fragility of the heart.
She held out a hand. I took it.
“Enjoy Amsterdam,” she said. “Do not take drugs. They are bad for you. Especially the spacecakes. You have one and feel nothing, so you have two more and then you are gone.”
“Thank you for the advice. Please… what’s your name?”
“Nancy,” she said, after a beat.
“Thank you, Nancy. Goodbye.”
She walked me to the door, held it open for me. The outside chill blasted me in the face. I had almost forgotten everything else, forgotten any notion of talking to her about Mr Solitaire. She shook my hand again.
“Goodbye.”
I trotted down the steps and, when I got to the canal, looked back at Nancy’s window. She was talking on a mobile phone, and although she seemed to be looking in my direction, she was not looking at me. I wondered if she could see anything at all out here in the murk, or whether the neon that surrounded her had the effect of one-way glass.
I didn’t imagine that I was the only one that had fallen instantly into some idle romantic fantasy involving Nancy, not by a long shot. But, I thought, smacking my forehead, all the others were probably under seventeen. Idiot.
I walked past a ground level window and looked in, just in time to see the back of a nun’s habit disappearing into the back bedroom.
The light went out as she left, dousing the red neon and UV light and leaving me with just my reflection.
I indulged myself with a heavy sigh as I contemplated the figure before me. Average height, average build, average looks, average fashion sense. The only things I seemed to have going for me were a just-above-average intellect, a sense of loyalty, not bad in a fight and a full head of hair that matched the leather sofa in my flat. At thirty-six I’d hoped to be a little further up the food chain than hustling dope deals for a living, but I kept reading that five-year plans were all in vogue for people my age. Forty-one, I was retired.
Unfortunately, my five-year plan had just had a Dutch blonde variable added to it.
I headed back towards my hotel. The streets were quiet, the air damp with the threat of midnight rain.
*
3
The plan was thus: Flight BA792 touched down at Gatwick around noon on Monday, two days after Dane and I met Mr Solitaire on the Friday.
Ex-euro baggage reclaim was at its quietest Monday afternoon, same story at Schiphol. Couple of customs officers at the gate, quick frisk, golden gateway, have a nice day. Yeah, they’ve got dogs, but not always. Dogs aren’t cheap, neither is an armed guard. I’d cased the rota system for the past three months, and was pretty sure I could lay my money on there being little hassle on Monday afternoon, term-time. Even if we did have a little canine intrusion, Natalie was going carry a box of those herbal fruit teabags with a dozen or so ‘accidentally’ torn open. Confuses the dogs.
Besides, the Dutch aren’t too concerned about the stuff leaving the country; it’s when you hit the tarmac on the island and try to bring it in that the trouble starts.
So, we swing in off the plane and make for baggage reclaim. First off: Vincent and Dane are the bait. Diversionary tactic. They swing out in wideboy garb, giving it mouth and swagger. Two young kids still high on a weekend in the Amstel – the knock officers would be queuing up to pull them over. They’d both have to endure the cold fingers of a full strip search by the UK Border Agency, but they weren’t actually going to be carrying anything, so at worst their pride would be dented for a few days.
So while they’re causing a ruckus in the green channel, Natalie and Henry would walk through at the same time with the pushchair, a happy young couple in love. As far as anyone in a uniform was concerned, they’d just come back from a blissful honeymoon in the Amstel. The kid in the pushchair was the real mule, a six-month-old bonny bugger, borrowed from a friend of Natalie’s who worked airside, who would have a pound of the stuff in the lining of his nappy.
Right behind Natalie and Henry, or Mr & Mrs Burns, as the passports showed, would be yours truly, fresh from a bona fide business conference that was going on in Amsterdam during our visit. Decked out in a double-breasted Savile Row pin
stripe number, I was going to have the bulk of the gear, taped in strips to my body. Pains had been taken to get a convincing effect, and I had sweated over accessories. I had the digital clasp briefcase containing important-looking papers from the conference, the Weekend FT and white bread sandwiches. I had my BlackBerry in my right inside jacket pocket, a breath freshener spray in the left, and an expensive looking watch with matching cufflinks. I had even added some grey streaks to my hair to get a more mature look. I was the perfect ponce. And with Vincent and Dane demanding all the spotlight, Natalie, Henry and I would saunter straight through. The final rendezvous was at midnight that night in a safe house in Kent. That was the plan. We had done it similarly twice before with no problems.
But there’s a first time for everything.
*
I met Dane for breakfast in a tiny place just off the Leidseplein. Red-and-white gingham tablecloths, candles in bottles covered in congealed wax, Dutch radio. We were the only ones in it. I ordered a couple of pancakes and some coffee, and we sat at the back. A radio squeaked tinny europop at us, and even the morning DJ sounded exhausted.
“Christ, it’s deserted.” Dane looked around him. He looked pale and tired, but at least he’d turned up.
“Late town. No-one will be about till ten, maybe later. Only the weirdo tourists get up early. So what did you do last night?”
“Found Vincent, queued up for forty-five minutes to get into a nightclub, got turned away, went to a coffeeshop, smoked till two, went to bed.”
“Jesus, you still look miserable as sin. You didn't get in?”
“Members only.”
“That hurts.”
He didn’t say anything else.
We finished breakfast, then took a tram to Mr Solitaire’s showroom. He met us at the door, arms open, beaming smiles that didn’t reach his eyes. He made my skin crawl.
His nursery was in the basement of a house overlooking a canal. Typically Euro; tall, narrow, and Dane, probably on some sort of hallucinogenic comedown, was convinced the houses were leaning forward alarmingly. “They're falling! They're … fuck! … gonna fall on us!” Mr Solitaire said something I didn’t quite catch about the smallest house in the world, and then spat on the ground.
He took us into the house through the front door. Dane kept looking over his shoulder. I tried to reassure him that the whole deal was more or less legal until we touched down at Gatwick, but he just twitched.
Downstairs was a large garden like a tarpaulin railway tunnel, half inside, half out. The place reeked of cannabis. Tucked discreetly behind a row of budding plants was a pallet stacked high with polythene bags, each packed full of brown resin and bearing a small coloured label.
I motioned Dane to come over. Mr Solitaire cut a small lump from one of the bags; Dane held his hand out, but Mr Solitaire ignored him and gave the sample to me. I passed it to Dane – keeping my eyes on Mr Solitaire – Dane sniffed it, then flicked his Zippo and heated the lump. It crumbled between his fingers, and he smiled.
Mr Solitaire and I shook hands. “As we agreed,” I said.
“Of course, Mr K. Fifty ounces Ketama, fifty Super Polm, fifty Moroccan Blonde. I shall cut more for your artist to sample tonight.”
Dane positively beamed at the apparent lifting of the embargo.
“Well done. We'll be around Monday morning at seven to pick it up. Okay?”
“Yeah, this is okay.”
He cut three more lumps from different labelled bags, and handed them to Dane – directly this time – who tucked them into his cigarette packet. We shook hands again, and Mr Solitaire showed us out with the usual post-deal banter: damn weather, the euro, AFC Ajax’s recent home form.
He seemed edgy, nervous even. I wondered if that was just because the gorillas were otherwise engaged. Maybe I read it wrong; intended meanings often get lost in translation. But he walked us to the tram pick-up point, and even waved to us as we pulled away.
*
Midnight came around. Dane and I waited for the rest of the crew in Short's of London. We got there at quarter to and took a table by the window, looking out onto the semi-real neon java of the Rembrandtsplein.
I looked at the band. The chalkboard claimed it was jazz night, though the Dutch band's interpretation of the term was so broad it included a cover of YMCA. Dane sat still, concentrating on rolling a joint with the tasters.
The rest of them rolled in, bang on time for once. They got drinks, and joined us at the table. I thought Natalie looked flushed, even in the dark.
“So, what do we have?” I leaned forward and rested on my elbows. The banter petered out. Vincent spoke up first, disco lights bouncing off his newly-shaven head.
“I got the lock-up.” He lit a cigarette. “It’s ideal. Three miles south of the airport. On the main line from Centraal Station to the airport.”
“Cost?” I asked.
“Peanuts. Hundred euros for the week. All cash up front, the old guy renting it thought it was his birthday. I've got the key.” He held up a ring dangling two padlock keys.
“Chance of witnesses?”
“Zero. It's on a tiny industrial estate, but it looks like the last thing it was used for was building steam trains. Open land. Has to be, it's directly south of the airfield. The planes dump their fuel there. You can smell it.”
“Good stuff. Dane and I secured the deal on appro of the samples. How's it taste?”
Dane looked at me with half-closed eyes, and nodded slightly through a haze of smoke.
“Good.” I turned to Henry. “Tomorrow, you and Natalie get hold of a car. Buy a cheap one. Steal one if you have to, but don’t get caught. Don’t rent one. Meet Dane, Vincent and me at this address tomorrow at nine.” I handed Henry a slip of paper, which he eyeballed, then tucked away. He didn't speak much. He used to spar with my brother, but hit the bottle after his signature haymaker had killed an opponent in an amateur bout. He carried it around with him like a Catholic millstone, but it had made a good man out of him. He was eager to please, sometimes excessively so.
“We'll ship the stuff straight to Vincent's lock-up, and make plans for return when we get there.”
“Bring coats – it's fucking freezing in there,” Vincent added, stubbing out his cigarette.
“Well,” I spread my hands, “that's it. Be on time. Stay safe. That's all I have to say.”
I got up and went to the bar while they dispersed. I didn't see them go. I returned to the table with a scotch. Natalie was sitting where I had been. It was a dark corner – I didn't see her till I was about to sit down. She startled me, and I nearly dropped the drink.
“You didn't buy me one?”
“I thought you'd gone.”
I went back to the bar and returned with a G&T. She smiled thanks. I sat opposite her, and she moved round the circular table so she was sitting next to me.
“You know, Kenley, you conducted the whole of that very moving speech without once looking at me.” I could smell her hair, her skin, her Charlie roll-on. It warmed something in me, something I wasn't sure I liked. She pressed one of her long, tapering legs against mine.
“Like I said before, you and Henry don't really come into play until we get to Schiphol.” I tried to keep it professional.
“Is that a reason to ignore me?”
“This is business.”
“You said I could enjoy myself discreetly.”
I sipped my drink and gazed at the band, now roaring their way through a Grease medley.
“How’s Henry? You two getting on?"
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you mean professionally, or socially.” She tucked a strand of the pageboy behind her ear.
“You tell me what I mean.”
“As a colleague? He's meticulous, focused and hard-working.”
“And socially?” I croaked.
“He's hung like a carthorse.” She threw her head back and roared with laughter, doubling up when she s
aw the look on my face that I was trying – and failing – to hide. Slowly the laughter subsided, and she rested her chin on my shoulder, looking up at me with a smirk. She had got to me. I grinned at her. She moved closer.
“This is unprofessional, Nat. You're supposed to be married to Henry.”
“We're in Amsterdam, Kenley. I did some background research on my character. She's a serial adulterer.”
She placed her mouth on mine, and the warmth melted that something inside. I pulled her to me, and she whispered something I didn't catch.
Then she stood up, and held out her hand. I took it, and we walked out of the bar. She caught one of her heels on the cobbles outside, and lost her balance. I grabbed her arm and pulled her up, and we stood looking at each other outside in the square, jazz riffs and house beats merging in the air.
“We … we can't stay at the same hotel,” I said.
“Yes, we can,” she whispered.
We checked into a hotel under two Dutch names. We paid cash for a room overlooking the River Amstel, and made love until the breaking dawn blitzed the red neon motel sign buzzing on the wall outside.
*
4
We rose the following morning, and shared a comfortable silence. She wanted to get breakfast, but I refused, saying we were already taking too many risks. She fed off that, and made another move on me. Gentle but firm, I pushed her away, showered, and left the motel, telling her to check out an hour after I’d gone.
I spent the daylight hours wandering around the city, questioning what I was doing far more than was healthy. The moral centre was bigger and pinker than it usually was, and harder to ignore as a consequence. I strolled round the market, took in a canal ride, killed bullshit time until the dusk fell and I was comfortable.
Maybe it was time to pack up and go home. I was making a living, but not enough to make the constant paranoia worthwhile. That ever-present backdrop feeling that, at any minute, your door could be smashed in, or you could be pincered while shopping, or your car could be rammed off the road by armed cops pointing nasty things at your head. In fact, I wasn’t sure it would ever be worth it, even if I did ever get up to the Premier League. At that level, the cash was flashed as easily as lives were spent.