The Hollow-Eyed Angel ac-13

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  There would be fish again, huge schools, unbothered by hunger at the top of the food chain. De Gier imagined fish swimming through his apartment.

  "Quite a place you have here," de Gier told the Trump Air stewardess. He read her the address of a bed and breakfast Antoinette had written down in his notebook. Antoinette and Karel had enjoyed the place. How to get there?

  "Horatio Street?" the stewardess asked. De Gier had his map out. She pointed the way. "A little bit complicated. The subway is cheap but I would advise a cab."

  He found coordinates for the Cavendish on his map and thought that he might contact the commissaris first. There was plenty of time. It wouldn't do to make things easy. If New York was to be his hunting ground for the next few days he should investigate on foot. A cab was too easy. He told the stewardess he would call on a friend first, proudly reciting the address: Eighty-third and Fifth.

  He only carried a leather shoulder bag holding three changes of linen, a CD player, six Miles Davis CDs and a novel by Alvaro Mutis, in the original Spanish. De Gier had been puzzling through the tale during the flight across the Adantic. His Spanish was poor and he hadn't brought a dictionary, so many words had to be guessed at. De Gier, a self-taught linguist, had managed to wade halfway through the first chapter. He had figured out what seemed to be a plot line. A writer of technical brochures on petrochemical subjects travels to Finland. It's cold in Helsinki. The protagonist goes to the harbor from where he can see the domes of St. Petersburg and watches a tramp steamer enter port. But now, to de Gier's delight, he is no longer in forty-degrees-below Finland but in ninety-degrees-above Honduras, where a woman in a bikini runs toward a yacht. In spite of her large feet she is attractive, due to good makeup. Her husband is shooting at seabirds with a. 45 automatic, but misses.

  "You're Spanish?" the stewardess asked, seeing the book in de Gier's hand. "You don't sound Spanish." She was smiling. The stewardess, like de Gier, was in her forties. De Gier had noticed that older women were now sending signals. De Gier, known at Amsterdam Headquarters as "Mr. B Movie," was tall, wide shouldered, athletic looking. Women liked his thick curly hair and huge cavalry-officer-style swept-up mustache. In potential sexual encounters he had been backing offlately, preferring the company of his cat. He had told Grijpstra, when the adjutant was about to be taken over by the hotel owner and former prostitute Nellie, "Animals have smaller brains but they use them better."

  "You dislike women now?"

  De Gier gestured ail-inclusively. "I dislike people."

  "You're people yourself."

  "Anyone," de Gier said. But he didn't see himself so much. Only in the mirror.

  "But you often look in mirrors," Grijpstra said. "You're very vain, you know. Combing your hair. Brushing up the old mustache."

  De Gier didn't like vain people either.

  The stewardess watched her passenger stride off, going west on Sixty-third Street. She liked the cut of his long linen breeches. The leather flight jacket looked good too. The fellow was probably gay, due to meet a clone on Horatio Street. The stewardess wished the pair luck as she picked up Dixie cups in the helicopter's cabin.

  It was a nice day. De Gier walked, map in hand, up Fifth Avenue, glancing at Central Park, the grisly scene of Uncle Bert Termeer's demise, but the park looked pleasant. He reached the Cavendish and happened to meet the commissaris in the lobby.

  "What?" the commissaris asked. "Is it you De Gier said he had always wanted to visit New York again, that his last visit had been too short, that he had taken a few days off. And as he knew the commissaris was in town too he had thought he might look him up.

  "How are you, sir?"

  "That last time you were trailing me too," the commissaris said. He took off his round spectacles and furiously blew on the glasses. "Who is paying for this nonsense?"

  "Yessir," de Gier said. "Nice day. I walked here from the river. I came in by chopper. Did you use the helicopter too? Beautiful, all those buildings. I have been reading this novel, sir, by a Colombian author, in Spanish. Do you have any idea what 'huevones' means? I didn't bring a dictionary, you see. It's more fun to guess but sometimes I get lost a bit. The meaning of huevones escapes me."

  The bellhop was a Latino who looked like a dwarfed Anthony Quinn. Thinking de Gier was a guest, he had come over to carry luggage. "Huevones," the bellhop said, "literally means 'balls,' but what is the context, sir? Could you show me the passage?"

  De Gier opened his book and found the relevant sentence. "Si me Megan a dejar se mueren de hambre, huevones."

  "And the context?" the bellhop asked.

  De Gier had figured out that a bikini-clad woman was yelling at men on a boat, sailors who were about to take off without her, and that she wanted to go along, for she was the cook. She was yelling at the men that 'without her they would die of hunger.

  "Ah," the bellhop said. "Then 'huevones' should be taken as 'assholes,' as a derogatory term, sir. Where did you put your luggage?"

  "You're not staying here," the commissaris told de Gier.

  "I'm not staying here," de Gier told the bellhop.

  "Jack of all trades," the bellhop said, pointing at his chest. "Teach Spanish, offer referrals for analysis of dreams." He handed over cards to the commissaris and de Gier. "Ignacio is the name, a sus ordenes, senores. Journeys can be arranged. Voodoo is an expensive option."

  "Journeys?" de Gier asked.

  "A Native American shortcut," the bellhop explained, "to the realm of collective subconscious spirits. We Mexicans are part Indian. But it may be that voodoo will explain your dreams better. My favorite black voodoo lady can guide you through all the netherworlds."

  Netherlandic de Gier wanted to be clever. "I've just come from there."

  Ignacio saluted. The reception clerk had rung her bell. The bellhop turned and ran.

  "My golf blunder," the commissaris told de Gier while they ate in a nearby sushi restaurant, "alarmed you."

  He peered at the sergeant. "Katrien thinks I am ill and you and Grijpstra think I am silly." His chopstick pointed between his eyes. "Daft in the head. I now need an attendant."

  The chopstick pointed at de Gier's forehead. "Do you know that I attended a hit and run lecture this afternoon and that I couldn't concentrate on skid marks?"

  "Well now…," de Gier soothed.

  The commissaris spat urchin meat into his napkin. "You like raw fish, Rinus? Yes? That's good." He pushed his plate away. "Could be I'm stressed out. Or depressed maybe. Last puzzle of my career and I feel obliged to solve it. But so far it's all nonsense, and I have this damned flu, and there are all these lectures. Trying to pay attention. For what? You tell me." The comrnissaris's faded blue eyes stared through de Gier's head. "Improve my knowledge when I'm just about out?"

  De Gier smiled. "Oh, but you will be with the police academy soon, and at Interpol and whatnot," de Gier said. "Policemen everywhere will benefit from your teaching."

  "On deadly golf balls," the commissaris said. "Well, I know that much now. No golf in Central Park."

  "You've seen the NYPD, sir?"

  The commissaris, in between sneezing and coughing, reported on his conversations with Chief O'Neill and Detective-Sergeant Hurrell.

  "A noncase," the commissaris concluded, "about to be closed. You type up a report and fax it home. Grijpstra, in due course, informs complainant that Uncle just fell over. Such things happen. Can't be helped." The commissaris felt his throat. "There is folded sandpaper in here, Rinus. It grinds together when I swallow." His next sneeze made his spectacles fall off. De Gier caught them.

  "Thank you, Sergeant. Case about to be closed. Even so…," the commissaris shivered, "…I feel we might look further. Try to do a good job. Just for the record. Or for no reason at all. For the hell of it, Sergeant. See the mounted policewoman. Call on Bert Termeer's landlord and neighbor, Charlie. Maybe we will do that tomorrow."

  "You don't have a lecture tomorrow, sir?"

  The commissaris checked his progra
m. "On trace evidence, in the afternoon." He put the paper away. "Reminds me of the Maggotmaid case, which you should know about, Sergeant. Let me tell you why."

  De Gier ate his raw octopus and boiled rice rolls while the commissaris related the story, featuring Detective-Sergeant Hurrell, as told by Chief O'Neill.

  "Crawling maggots, eh?" de Gier asked.

  The commissaris's teeth chattered.

  "I'll take you to the hotel, sir."

  The commissaris grimaced courageously. "An early night, a hot bath, try again tomorrow, Sergeant."

  "Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow," bellhop Ignacio said. "I thought millionaires like you guys wouldn't use that expression. I thought it was just us. I thought it was because of tomorrowism that guys like us will be hundredaires forever."

  Ignacio, out of the Cavendish Hotel uniform, wearing a black silk suit, an open white shirt and high-heeled boots, seemed a different being.

  The commissaris tried to smile between coughs. "Ignacio? From the hotel?"

  "Happened to see you sitting here at the window," Ignacio said. "I often stop in here. I know one of the cooks. He gives me discount dinners."

  "Care to join us?" the commissaris asked approvingly.

  Ignacio declined with thanks. He pointed at the sushi. "Don't care for the Cavendish nouvelle cuisine undefinables, do you? Grind up and color, serve with a leaf of purple cabbage at fifty bucks a plate."

  "It's all right," the commissaris said.

  "Our breakfast is all right," Ignacio said, "but you like to eat that out too, don't you? With Mamere, the naked doggie lady?"

  The commissaris looked surprised. "How do you know?"

  "Bellhops," Ignacio said solemnly, "know everything." "There is always an explanation," de Gier said.

  "For the thinker and the seer." Ignacio looked at the commissaris. "Le Chat Complet is across the street. I saw you there yesterday. I know Mamere. After you left, Mamere said you'd had bad dreams lately. That's why I gave you the voodoo spiel earlier. She thinks you should see her."

  The bell hop wished them a pleasant evening, then walked to the sushi bar to talk to the cook.

  Chapter 11

  De Gier, using the subway map Antoinette had lent him, figured out a quick way to get to Bleecker Street. After the ride he walked down Christopher and up Hudson and got to his bed and breakfast on Horatio by 8:00P.M. After the loud bars and New Age display windows of the neighborhood's main streets Horatio looked neat. There were trees, the quaint houses were in excellent repair, cool fresh air wafted down from the Hudson River. The house he wanted had an imposing front door of varnished oak, decorated with a brass knocker. The establishment's owner, a small balding man in his fifties who introduced himself as Freddie, was happy to show his guest a well-equipped and tastefully furnished apartment. The bedroom viewed treetops. Freddie and his live-in friend, Antonio, a hospital nurse, a heavyset man with a big black beard, remembered Antoinette and her husband, Karel.

  "Lovely couple," Freddie said. "I showed Karel around some of the galleries in SoHo. Admirable fellow, a spastic stutterer and yet in such good command of himself. Good artist. Showed me photos of his sculptures. So Karel and his wife recommended you? That's nice. And you are a policeman? You're here on business? Antoinette telephoned. She told us to be of use. Care to tell us about your mission?"

  Antonio was enthusiastic too. He liked to read true crime stories and occasionally indulged in mystery fiction.

  "We both like puzzles," Freddie said. "You have pieces we can fit together?"

  The drinks, served on the tiny lawn, between hedges of wild roses, were all juices. Freddie and Antonio admitted to being recovering alcoholics.

  "You mind?" Freddie asked.

  De Gier said he had been thinking of cutting his own habit.

  "Cutting down?"

  "Cutting out."

  "The only way," Antonio said. "And your case?"

  De Gier explained.

  Antonio was interested. He knew Central Park well. He sailed his model sailboat on the Model Boat Pond, kept it there in Kerb's Model Boat House. Being around Central Park on weekends he had seen most of what he called 'the crazies.' "An exhibitionist, you say? Could you let us have some details?"

  De Gier provided the details he remembered from Reserve Constable Jo Termeer's description and the Lakmakers' report.

  "I think I know the guy," Antonio said. "He stopped me once. Very nicely. Told me to 'watch it.'"

  "Watch what?"

  Antonio shrugged. "Just 'it,' I guess. To be aware, you know? To pay attention?"

  "Like in the Boy Scouts," Freddie said. "Awareness is the key. Lord Baden Powell thought of that. Noble-looking old codger. What ever happened to the Boy Scouts?"

  "Watch the bullshit going on," Antonio said. "I think your guy was telling me to watch all the bullshit."

  "Like your own?" Freddie asked, winking at de Gier.

  "Right." Antonio, ignoring Freddie's wink, nodded pleasantly. "Watch my own bullshit. Might save me some trouble. Think for myself."

  De Gier, after restating his facts briefly again, proffered a theory that might interest his hosts. The theory aimed at explaining why Termeer might have been murdered. De Gier's hypothesis proposed that there were sexual overtones here. Even though Chief O'Neill claimed Termeer wasn't into nudity the man was obviously a performer. Also possibly demented. Standing still for hours, in some contorted attitude, and then dashing off, frolicking."

  Freddie and Antonio laughed. "Like Snoopy…Snoopy likes to frolic in parks."

  Right, de Gier said, but there could be more to the need to frolic. There were many cases in Amsterdam's Vondel Park where women danced around and, once they had attracted an audience, slipped out of their fur coats or cloaks and pranced about naked, and there were men who pretended to amuse little girls, by means of games or dolls, and then suddenly exposed themselves.

  "So what do you cops do?" Antonio asked.

  Nothing much, de Gier said. Take the foolish folks home maybe. Be kind and forgiving. Keep tensions down. Amsterdam is known for permissiveness, the city welcomes alternative lifestyles, but the American East Coast is known for more Puritan values. De Gier became enthusiastic. Now what if old Termeer had dared to point his pecker at a female cop, a mounted female cop, a dominatrix on a high horse? Wouldn't that get him in trouble? Get him kicked in the chest by the officer's horse? The perpetrator gallops off. Doesn't tell anyone what happened. Victim dies in the bushes. The NYPD covers up. Perhaps there was repressed anger in the policewoman's subconscious. Maybe she was of Puritan stock?

  De Gier got up and walked excitedly around the small Horatio Street garden, acting out the scene. Imagine this extreme case of a supposedly neat old gent, in tweeds, with a lovely white beard, a St. Nick figure, dropping his mask by opening his fly, being utterly disgusting, provoking an impeccably uniformed law enforcement officer by waving his dick at the goddamn woman?

  De Gier's audience was amused but not impressed. "No Puritans in New York," Freddie said.

  Antonio agreed. "You're thinking of Massachusetts. Massachusetts was setded by hypocrites in hats. You guys, the Dutch, settled Manhattan. Flamboyant folks. 'New Amsterdam,' remember? And then, after you guys, it was the British. The Brits were merchants and aristocrats. They're not after dicks, they're after money." He laughed. "Money buys the good life, eh, Fred?"

  Freddie told de Gier that he specialized in trading furniture and art objects from those early days. Through his dealings he had absorbed some of the distinctive atmosphere of that historical period. Neither the Dutch not the British had been concerned about prescribing restrictive behavior in order to impress a forbidding Father.

  "Show him that picture of the cross-dressing governor, Freddie."

  Freddie knew of a portrait of one of the Tory governors, a well-known transvestite. He went inside and came back with an art book. There was a full-page reproduction of an oil painting showing a powerful figure in an extravagant satin dr
ess. "Here," Freddie said. "Mark the shaven jowls. His ladyship. An early J. Edgar Hoover."

  "And the governor held court here" Antonio said, "in New York City. Nobody minded much."

  De Gier's theory crumbled while Freddie and Antonio, taking turns, being careful not to interrupt each other, like TV anchormen, lectured him on the history of New York City. The sergeant was told that the city had been on the British side during the American Revolution and had spent the Civil War sympathizing with the southern slavery states.

  "Bah!" Freddie concluded.

  "Sin and corruption," Antonio said. "We have a bad name here; the rest of the country hates us. We like that. You think you guys are way-out in Holland? Go to Central Park, watch out-of-state wannabe-shockers try to be naughty in spandex shorts, in bare-bottom thongs, even…" Antonio grinned. "There was a bare-top guy on the Promontory in a kind of lampshade that he wore as a skirt. The shade folded up if he pulled a string, and then he'd pull another string and erect something that could be a Day-Glo-velvet-upholstered cucumber and waggle that"-Antonio looked at de Gier triumphantly-"and still nobody looked."

  Freddie smiled. "We all know what Amsterdam is like today, but New York has long been there."

  "More apricot juice?" Antonio asked.

  "Some hazelnut latte with fat-free topping?" Freddie asked.

  De Gier had both.

  "Sorry to disappoint you," Antonio said. "But you've got to get real."

  "You can't shock a New York policewoman," Freddie said. "That's Real for you." He cleared his throat. "Eh, Rainus? That how you pronounce your name? Just one question. I should have asked you before. We don't tolerate smoking in this building. You don't use nicotine, do you? If you do we can easily find you other lodging."

  De Gier claimed to have given up smoking some months before.

  "And you didn't gain weight?" Antonio asked, looking down at his own protruding belly. "I gained forty pounds. It's two years now and I still haven't lost it."