Hard Rain

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  "So where were you? You know that the commissaris has been temporarily relieved of his duties and that I'm in charge of the brigade?"

  "You?" Cardozo asked, drying his face with his handkerchief and huddling further down in his threadbare raincoat. "Terrible weather, don't you think? Why you?"

  "Why not me, Constable?"

  Cardozo shrugged. "Oh, well, it's logical, perhaps, with the way things are going. I'm not on duty, I don't have to report anywhere."

  Halba gaped.

  "Holidays," Cardozo said. "I had a lot of overtime saved up, and this is my brother's bicycle—the one you had issued to me fell apart. I left it with the other garbage in the Headquarters yard. 'Bye now."

  "Wait!" Halba shouted.

  "Yes?" Cardozo put his foot on the ground again.

  "Until when are you on holiday?"

  "Until our case is cracked," Cardozo said. "And you with it. I don't work under you."

  "Constable," Halba said slowly, "I don't accept your insolence. I'll be applying for your transfer to the Traffic Department."

  Cardozo shook raindrops off his unruly hair. "No, I'll resign first. My uncle Ezra wants me to take over his market stall."

  Cardozo pedaled off. A Citroen drew up next to Halba's BMW. The commissaris got out. "Ah. Morning, Chief Inspector. How're my men doing?"

  "Market stall," Halba sneered. "He'll need a license for that. It'll be withheld. Insurrection of the slaves, indeed. Won't have it, you know."

  "Who's the slave?" the commissaris asked.

  Halba pointed to Cardozo, bicycling through the hospital's gate. "He's planning to work a stall in the street market, says he won't serve under me. I tell you, that case is closed."

  "Cardozo's case?" the commissaris said, putting up an umbrella. "Isn't this rain a bother?"

  "IJsbreker's," Halba snarled. "You're all working on IJsbreker still. You're defying orders."

  "Let's go into the building," the commissaris said. "Or have you come out just now? How are Grijpstra and de Gier doing?"

  "Hah," Halba said as they entered the hospital. "How do you know they're here? They're not supposed to leave their beds."

  "Birdies," the commissaris said, "do fly by my ear, transmitting information. Have you ever noticed, Chief Inspector, how many birds there are in this city? At any given location you can count at least nine species. Crows, seagulls, herons ..."

  Halba asked for the room number at the counter. They got into the elevator together. "... sparrows, starlings, terns ..."

  "Please," the chief inspector said.

  "... thrushes . . ."

  "You'll lose out on this caper."

  ". . . goldfinches . . ."

  "You may think you're a wily old bird yourself."

  ". . . and canaries," the commissaris said. "They sing, you know. Lovely songs. Meaningful, too. What would we ever do without canaries, eh, Halba?"

  Halba steamed behind the commissaris as the old man limped along, swinging a silver-knobbed bamboo cane. "Here we are."

  "Sir," Grijpstra said, "you shouldn't have put yourself out. It's just a scratch."

  "I looked into his head," de Gier said. "He's got a lot of meat in there. Never thought I'd see the meat in the adjutant's head."

  "And you, Sergeant?"

  "I can walk," de Gier said. "I tried just now. I smoked in the lavatory. I'm quite comfortable, thank you, sin"

  "Morning," Chief Inspector Halba said.

  Grijpstra nodded, holding on to his bandaged head. "We can't have visitors," de Gier said. "Just family. We're seriously wounded."

  "Glad to hear that," Halba said. "I'll be brief. You, Adjutant, will be on extended sick leave from now on. Your accident was discussed this morning with this hospital's surgeon and the chief constable. In view of your age and general condition, aggravated by your present wounds, you're ordered to stay away from Headquarters for at least a month."

  "That's nice," Grijpstra said. "Thank you."

  "You're very welcome." Halba turned to de Gier. "And you, Sergeant, are suspended. You have a record of dangerous driving and the State Police officers who investigated your accident yesterday say that you failed to grant the right-of-way to an oncoming vehicle."

  "Without pay?" de Gier asked.

  "I've suggested that, Sergeant. You will be staying home to reflect on your reckless attitude. When you're readmitted to the force, you will be on probation for a year."

  "Heheh," de Gier said. He held on to his chest. "Ouch."

  The commissaris pointed to the door. " 'Bye, Chief Inspector."

  "He would bang the door," Grijpstra said, holding his head.

  The commissaris sat down, taking out his tin of cigars. "I can't smoke here?" He looked at his watch. "It's a quarter after twelve already."

  The nurse came in. She glanced at the commissaris. "No smoking here."

  "We're fine, nurse," Grijpstra said. "We would like a half hour to discuss business with our chief."

  "No business," the nurse said.

  "Just chitchat." The commissaris smiled at the nurse. The nurse smiled back.

  "She's beautiful," the commissaris said when the nurse had left. "I shouldn't say this because it's a racial slur, but I privately think that beautiful black women are more beautiful than beautiful white women. Anyone care for a cigar?"

  "Please," Grijpstra said.

  "If you don't mind," de Gier said.

  They smoked peacefully for a while.

  "You were set up?" the commissaris asked. "Do you have a description of the other car?"

  "No number," de Gier said. "It was a green Daimler, 1976. Pretty silly to use an uncommon car. Maybe it was just an accident. The driver and his companion were young men, bearded types, they wore duckbilled caps."

  "Maybe it's fashionable for the enemy to use uncommon cars," Grijpstra said. "State Detection drives a Corvette."

  The commissaris got up and looked out the window. "The Corvette is in the yard here now. I spoke to the driver earlier on, introducing myself. If they're going to follow me about everywhere, we may as well get acquainted. The driver is a sergeant, made up to resemble a gay person, like his assisting constable-detective. He told me they like to drive confiscated cars supplied by the drug trade in The Hague. So a Daimler got you?" The commissaris closed his eyes. "A Daimler, eh?"

  "I'd like to check that intersection," de Gier said. "I never saw a stop sign painted on the road. I'm usually quite alert."

  "Heyho," the commissaris said. "Willem Fernandus was complaining that junkies break into his Daimler. Maybe Cardozo can find out the color of the Daimler that Fernandus drives. I saw Cardozo at the gate just now. How is he?"

  "Secretive," Grijpstra said. "I asked the nurse to phone Miss Antoinette. She must have told Cardozo we were here. He kindly looked us up but he still won't say what he is working on. Did you see Miss Antoinette this morning, sir?"

  "I certainly did," the commissaris said. He tried to blow a smoke ring. "Fernandus can blow smoke rings. I've never been able to do that. It's because Fernandus has a naturally pouting mouth, I suppose. An elderly cherub, damn the fellow. Miss Antoinette . . ."

  "Yes?" de Gier asked. "Yes?"

  The commissaris shook his head. "I don't know. I'll never understand women, Sergeant. Are they naturally promiscuous, as we are? Have I been misinformed? I always thought that women have a, uh, natural tendency to, uh, purity."

  "No," de Gier said.

  "Yes," the commissaris said, "but your opinion doesn't count, Sergeant. You have a, uh, natural charisma that seems to attract female favors."

  Grijpstra struggled into a sitting position, carefully holding on to his head. "So have you, sir."

  "No, no," the commissaris said.

  "I think the adjutant is right," de Gier said. "Perhaps you think along Victorian lines, sir. Grijpstra and I took that evening course on guilt. The pychologist postulated that older men have guilt feelings toward women, because they think they abuse female purity out of t
heir power position. Since the sexual revolution, guilt in men has considerably diminished, but that may have been too late for you."

  "I think," Grijpstra said, "that Miss Antoinette would just love to be promiscuous. She's lonely. She might even take me on, if I offered steady company, but first she'd have her fling with macho men."

  "Like me?" de Gier asked. "She won't fling with me."

  "You joke with her," Grijpstra said. "That's insulting. You've been getting into a flirtatious attitude that won't get you anywhere with refined types like Miss Antoinette."

  "Refined?" the commissaris asked. "If only you knew what she has been suggesting."

  "What?" de Gier asked. "What?"

  The commissaris sighed. "She wants to be our inside contact at the Society for Help Abroad's club."

  "Ah," Grijpstra said. "What's wrong with that? That'll be her fling."

  "But don't you see?" the commissaris asked. "That means that Fernandus . . ."

  Grijpstra puffed on his cigar. De Gier tried to wriggle into a more comfortable position.

  "You think I'm jealous?" the commissaris asked.

  "Maybe I could kill Fernandus," de Gier said. "He's a bad guy for sure, but he would be too easy to push over. Little old fat fellow, I hear. I need a matched type. A proper adversary."

  "Do you think I'm jealous?" the commissaris asked. "I probably am. Katrien says I am." He smiled shyly. "Katrien was engaged to Willem Fernandus. And now I want him to stay away from my secretary too?"

  "Maybe Miss Antoinette can make a deal," Grijpstra said. "Try the club out for a few evenings and take on only who she likes. We do want information. We can't just bluster into the joint and take potluck. Halba might be there and warn the others off. Those places usually have bodyguards serving as waiters. We could be thrown out before we're properly in."

  "You think I'm too much involved in this case?" the commissaris asked. "Admittedly, I know the enemy personally, but Willem does run a bad show, to the detriment of the city. It's my duty to stamp him out."

  De Gier chuckled and clutched his chest again. "Halba has no idea that he's doing me the ultimate favor. I'm no longer a cop. I could beat him up now without the slightest qualm, but then he isn't the right opponent, either. A lazy lout on the judo mat, always claiming some injury to get out of a good fight. The chief inspector's not a very good shot, either. Do I really want his scalp?"

  The nurse came in. She glared at the commissaris. "What is this?" She waved at the smoke and opened all the windows. "You'll have to leave." She snatched the cigars out of Grijpstra's and de Gier's mouths.

  "Nurse?" the commissaris asked.

  "Yes? You have to leave at once."

  "Nurse?" the commissaris asked. "Please. I have a serious problem. About women, I mean. Can I ask you a question?"

  She looked down at him, impeccable in her starched spotless uniform. "Ask away."

  "Are you married, nurse? Betrothed, perhaps?"

  "I'm free."

  "Now," the commissaris said, "if you had the opportunity to dally with wealthy and handsome men— different ones, I mean, a few evenings, for no more than a week, and, please excuse me, this is a theoretical question, it's that I don't understand the female mind very well, you see—would you accept such an offer?"

  "I'm available," the nurse said.

  "Available," the commissaris said. "I see."

  "Our chief means," Grijpstra said, "would you work in an elegant sex club for a little while, for a good cause."

  "What good cause? Money?"

  "More than that," de Gier said. "You'd get paid, but you'd help do away with some nasty stuff that has been bothering the city."

  "Sure," the nurse said, "but I work nights this week. How about next week?"

  "We already have an applicant," the commissaris said, "but I'm not sure we should accept her services. The unfortunate idea seems rather immoral to me."

  "Sex is not immoral," the nurse said. "Now, if you please, I've got to air this room."

  The commissaris left, shaking his head, tapping the linoleum floor with his cane.

  "You're Murder Brigade detectives, aren't you?" the nurse asked. "That young fellow who was here just now told me. Aren't you supposed to be special?"

  "The sergeant is." Grijpstra raised an accusing hand. "He drives lone vehicles through the wasteland. He sits in dead trees and eats catfood from rusted cans. If you ever get raped, and then killed by a dart from a crossbow, he'll avenge your disheveled corpse."

  "I will," de Gier said, showing his strong teeth, arranging his thick curls, brushing up his full mustache, breathing in to show the smooth curves of his pectoral muscles. "Ouch."

  "Poor thing," the nurse said. "And you drive through a stop sign." She tucked in de Gier's sheets. "Rest now. Gather strength. Let me know when you're ready, and I'll get myself raped. I saw that movie too." She tucked Grypstra in next. "You should both have a nap now. Shall I sing you to sleep?"

  "Dear nurse," de Gier whispered. "Chant to me, let me fade away into your voice."

  The nurse hummed a lilting little song.

  "Dear nurse," Grijpstra whispered.

  She sang on; the lullaby, in the melodious language of the Surinam blacks, filled the room with soft, deep-throated tones that reached around the patients' painful bodies, smoothed their worn nerves, caressed their minds.

  The nurse tiptoed out of the room. The adjutant and the sergeant smiled in their sleep.

  \\ 17 /////

  MRS. CARDOZO, A SHORT, WIDE WOMAN WITH THE same curly hair as her son Simon, but rather more tidily arranged, pressed the polished brass bell on an imposing iron gate. The gate guarded a raked pebble path leading to a low building adorned with turrets at each corner. Each turret carried a spire, and each spire supported a Star of David. A camera attached to one of the gateposts began to whir and swivel while a metallic voice spoke from the other post.

  "Yes?"

  "Sarah Cardozo to see the consul," Mrs. Cardozo said briskly.

  "It's the Sabbath," the metallic voice said. "Sarah Sarah go away. Do come back some other day."

  Mrs. Cardozo rang the bell again.

  "You don't speak Yiddish?" the gatepost asked.

  "Shabbish the shabbash," Mrs. Cardozo said, "let me in or I'll climb the gate."

  "You'll be electrocuted," the voice said. "Who are your bodyguards?"

  The camera whirred more energetically and increased its arc so that it could take in Mrs. Cardozo's companions. She pointed to her right. "My son Simon, Mr. Rosenblatt." She pointed to her left. "My houseguest, Izzy Sanders, an Israeli like yourself. Now let us in." She shook her umbrella at the camera. "I don't like today's climate."

  "How do you know my name?" the little loudspeaker asked.

  "We met before," Mrs. Cardozo said. "I gave you money. I'm the chairperson of the Committee for Trees in the Desert."

  The gate clicked open. Mrs. Cardozo pushed it with the point of her umbrella and marched in. Two swarthy young men bounded from the building's front door at the end of the path and blocked the way. They said Shalom and ordered Simon and Izzy to raise their hands and turn around.

  "Shalom," Mrs. Cardozo said. "It means 'peace,' so be peaceful with us."

  "What do you have under your arm?" asked the young man who was frisking Cardozo.

  "My gun," Cardozo said. "You can take it out. I'm a policeman, my card is in the breast pocket of my jacket. You can take the card out too."

  The young man read the card and put it back. "You can have the gun again when you leave."

  "You won't feel me," Mrs. Cardozo said, "but you can look in my bag." She snapped the bag closed again. "We come in peace, on a matter of life."

  "Or death," said an elderly man with an unkempt beard. He walked down the steps leading to the front door. "Some visitors wish us death. We take precautions. I'm sorry they're rude." Mr. Rosenblatt's wide shoulders slumped and his long spine curved forward, but the sadness of his physical bearing was belied by a spar
kle in his slanting Slavic eyes above strong cheekbones. He offered Mrs. Cardozo his arm.

  Cardozo bounced up the steps, Izzy slouching behind him. The consul spoke to Izzy in Hebrew. Izzy had trouble formulating his hesitant answer.

  "A deserter?" Rosenblatt asked in Dutch.

  "I'll explain everything," Mrs. Cardozo said. "I remember there's a room in this building, with chairs to sit on. It's time for a glass of beet juice, it seems to me. All in good time."

  "Time," the consul said, as he guided his visitors into a large back room, mostly furnished with computer gear, placed haphazardly on plastic-topped tables, "I don't really have, due to being at war forever."

  "No!" Izzy tore at his tousled hair with both hands. "No more war, please," he shouted. "Stop it. At once."

  "We are a little crazy today?" the consul asked.

  Izzy glanced at a computer screen, then covered his eyes. His shoulders shook.

  "Izzy is a good boy," Mrs. Cardozo said. "He went to school with my son Samuel. I knew him well. Izzy is an idealist and became an Israeli and fought in your wars."

  "Our wars," the consul said.

  "No," Mrs. Cardozo said. "Maybe the first few, but you can't go on exchanging eyes for eyes, teeth for teeth. Exchange hearts instead."

  "They have none, Mrs. Cardozo."

  "Maybe we tore them out?"

  "You preach love at me?" the consul asked. "Let's hear about love. Where is this love?"

  "Here," Mrs. Cardozo said, touching her breast, "I brought you some today, you can plant it in your desert."

  "What do I give in return?" the consul asked. "Thank you for your love. Now what do you want?"

  "A letter," Mrs. Cardozo said. "For Izzy here. He needs papers. He can't hide forever. He works a lousy job and lives in a hole in the wall. Stop chasing him. Izzy stays in my house now, but he needs more than chicken soup and noodles. Give him back his identity."

  "Talk to me, Izzy," the consul said. "Tell me what happened. You gave up the good fight?"

  "It wasn't a good fight," Izzy said. "In the beginning, maybe it was. They shot at me first, so I wanted to shoot back and the colonel leaped ahead, shouting, 'Follow me.' The sand was all around us, the biblical sand, and I saw Moses and Aaron leading us on, to the Promised Land for us Chosen People. All the bullets whining past us and into the colonel were fired by the wicked Pharaoh, who had whipped us because we couldn't build the pyramids fast enough. I placed my machine on the colonel and his body sheltered me, and my bullets brought the charging SS men down, and the guard who sprinkled gasoline on my grandfather's beard and then struck a match."