The Streetbird (7 page)

\\\\ 7 ////

"Would simple good taste, refined by grandeur, make Obrian smart?" de Gier asked.

Grijpstra strolled about, his hands on his back, his half-glasses on the tip of his nose. He interrupted his walk to look at a painting. The narrow silver frame held a dancing black couple; the man with his arms raised, jiggling his tight waist, the delicate woman tripping around her imposing lover. The figures weren't ornate and consisted merely of colored segments—bright red, tropical blue, white, and dark brown. The dance moved about the yard of a quickly sketched house, shadowed by trees with slightly bent trunks and joyfully waving leaves. "Good," Grijpstra said. "I always add too many details, but this fellow has learned how to avoid the spurious. To catch the essence only, not so easy."

"How long did Obrian," De Gier asked, "owner of this extraordinary but tastefully arranged environment, live in our country?"

"Five years."

"And how much is the house and contents worth? Now add the Porsche, with all the options. A great wealth, don't you agree?"

"I do, and collected without labor."

"The labor of weak women," de Gier said. "If intelligence is the ability to react to ever-changing circumstances in such a way that the manipulator obtains optimal profit, I would say that Luku Obrian was a very clever fellow."

Grijpstra had found the couch and rested both his head and his feet. "But he was shot and killed, which was kind of stupid."

"A moment of unawareness?"

"An unlucky moment," Grijpstra said. "Moments like that occur from time to time. Let's see. A criminal crosses our border five years ago, without a cent to his name. But he knows the language and has friends. The friends take him to a bar, the company becomes drunk and is disorderly in public. Patrolling cops arrest the merrymakers, and Obrian meets with his oppo- site, our Sergeant Jurriaans. Jurriaans represents the law and order of the fatherland, Obrian the rebellious chaos of the colony. We're on Jurriaans' side. What does Luku tell us? That he is about to
disconcert
us. He does, too. How?"

De Gier's long arms swung, indicating all parts of the spacious room. "Theft," the sergeant said. "Everything here is stolen. We are disconcerted, because we have been robbed. He even took our women, enslaved the poor creatures we cherish." Grijpstra swung himself off the couch and faced the sergeant solidly, immovable on his heavy shoes sunk in the carpet. "I do not believe that colonials are stupid, but I do think that Obrian was lucky. And as luck has to originate somewhere, I would like to know where it came from. What else can we study in this house?"

"Here," de Gier said, and opened an upstairs door. "What do we have here?"

Together the detectives, hands in pockets, observed odd objects displayed on a trestle table of rough-sawn boards.

"Rats' skulls," Grijpstra said. He counted. "Thirteen of them, in a half-circle of seven and a concentric half-circle of six. Both numbers and the way they are arranged should have meaning. And those are colored rags, also placed for a purpose. I mean, he wasn't showing samples of textiles, was he, now?"

"And that little statue represents J. Christ," de Gier said. "Couldn't be anybody else, even if he is dressed in a skirt and his face painted pink."

"A drum," Grijpstra said. The drum had been made out of flattened cans, tightly covered with skin. The adjutant hit it with his knuckles. "Don't," de Gier said. "Please."

"Penetrating sound," the adjutant said, replacing the drum gingerly. "Bit high." He waved a finger to the right side of the table. "How would you describe that conglomeration?"

De Gier stepped back. "Picture of a naked woman, obtaining sensuous pleasure by embracing a large bottle of tomato ketchup. Glued to a bit of driftwood found in a canal and framed with shells stuck into the edge. An altar, it seems to me, because what it all sits on is a slab of marble that looks like rubble taken out of a wrecked church. That penis and balls is a root, grown accidentally and now pointed at the performing woman. The bones came off a bird and form a complete skeleton, once holding up a vulture of the species known to us by now. That copper bowl filled with sand is an incense burner."

"Religious?"

"Sure," de Gier said. "Spiritual symbols, combined in a meaningful way, also tastefully arranged; the entire table would be a prime exhibit in a museum of modern art."

Grijpstra picked the drum up again. "Don't," de Gier said. "I don't like the vibrations, they pierce my lump."

"I won't hit it hard." Grijpstra scratched the skin. "Can you imagine how this room worked? Obrian, in ritual dress, at daybreak or sundown, or maybe at midnight with candles burning? His body swaying, enveloped in incense clouds? Evoking ..."

"Luck?" de Gier asked.

"Exactly. He manufactured his luck himself. A strong variety, but not quite bulletproof." Grijpstra put the drum down again. "And now I want to see his corpse."

"I saw it already. In the alley."

"There was too much going on then. Quiet-like, I mean, but you don't have to come along."

The car got itself stuck behind a furniture van being unloaded. A new Mercedes was stuck too, between the truck and the detectives' Volkswagen. De Gier pulled the microphone from under the dashboard. "Headquarters? Car three-fourteen."

"I'm listening, three-fourteen," a female voice said.

"Could you find me the highest available member of the Drug Squad, please?"

"I'll do my best. Is that you, Rinus?"

"It is. I'm waiting."

"Car three-fourteen? Ober here."

"Mr. Ober," de Gier said. "A dark blue automatic fuel-injected Mercedes, I'll give you the registration number."

"Got it."

"A black man at the wheel, in his forties, wide-shouldered, Afro hair, gold earring on the left, accompanied by a young blonde woman, dyed hair, fur coat, jaguar."

"I got that too."

"Do we know them?"

"Just a moment."

"We'll be here awhile," Grijpstra said. "They've only just started. I would say there are just under ten thousand objects in that van, and they'll all have to be carried up several sets of stairs."

"We don't know them," the radio said. "Do you want to arrest them?"

"I'd rather not, sir. We're on a job."

"I'll send out a car."

"Emperor's Canal, sir, corner Bearstreet. The suspicious car is caught between us and a van."

"Understood."

The driver of the Mercedes got out and walked toward the Volkswagen. De Gier wound down his window and smiled. "Could you reverse, please?" the man asked. "Then you can get away too. If we wait here, it'll be forever."

"No."

The man raised his eyebrows. "Why not?"

"I'm not good at reversing."

"You want a fight?" the man asked.

De Gier closed his window. The man knocked against the glass. De Gier stared straight ahead. The man tried to turn the Volkswagen's door handle. The door was locked. The man walked to the waterside, looked about, and picked up a brick. He showed de Gier the brick. De Gier got out.

"Either you reverse," the man said, "or I wreck your car."

Two young men dressed in faded jeans and leather jackets walked toward the man. "What's going on here?"

"This gentleman," de Gier said, "is threatening me with this brick. He wants me to reverse, but I'd rather wait here."

"You mind your own business," the man said.

The young men showed their police cards.

"So?" the man asked.

"You're under arrest."

"Watch it," de Gier said. "Sir is rather short tempered."

The young men stared at the man until he dropped his brick. They grabbed his arms, turned him around, and handcuffed his wrists.

"Watch it," de Gier said. "The lady is leaving us."

One of the policemen ran after the woman and brought her back.

"She dropped something," De Gier said. "I'll get it for you." He returned with a plastic envelope filled with white powder. The policeman weighed it on his hand. "Ten grams." He addressed the black man. "You're arrested because I suspect you of harassment of a civilian and trafficking in drugs." He looked at the woman. "You're also under arrest."

The other policeman frisked the man. He showed his colleague a stiletto. "One more charge. We can confiscate his car." "Your car is confiscated. I'll drive it to headquarters. The key is in the ignition?"

The man didn't answer.

"All set?" de Gier asked.

"Yes, sir. Thank you for your cooperation."

De Gier reversed. "Do you know," Grijpstra asked, "that what you just did is discrimination? Since when do we suspect a black man, unknown to us, and driving a new Mercedes?"

"I was jealous," de Gier said. "You see, that bum got here a few years ago, without a penny to his name, flown out of his hellhole in a government plane financed with my tax money, and look at him now, driving a brand new supercar and with a bit of juicy flesh leaning against his pock-marked skin. I mean, isn't it
terrible?'

"Exactly," Grijpstra said. "A textbook example of low-class discrimination. If the suspect had been white, he would still be free."

"But he's no good, adjutant."

"No, no, you can't reason that way."

"No?" de Gier asked.

"No."

"And if I tell you that what I just said consisted of platitudes specially formulated to see if you'd go for it and that I saw that same suspect leave a house in the Fishhead-alley two days ago and that that house is known as a meeting place for junkies? And if I tell you too that the same suspect was dressed poorly at the time and riding a rusty bicycle?"

De Gier parked. Grijpstra rang the bell.

"Nobody home," de Gier said.

The adjutant rang again. "They are home, but the trouble is they're dead." He looked about him. "That such a dainty-looking place, surrounded by blossoming bushes in which songbirds chant, can be a morgue is hard to believe."

The door opened. "Hello, Jacobs," de Gier said.

The old man pushed his skullcap to the back of his head and peered over his steamed-up glasses. "Ah, sergeant. Welcome. Hello, adjutant."

Jacobs shuffled ahead. He looked over his shoulder. You'd be after Obrian, I imagine."

"We are," Grijpstra said.

Jacobs pushed against a metal door. "Not a good corpse. Go ahead. Number eleven." The detectives shivered. "I know," Jacobs said. "Rather chilly in here, but with this heat they tend to smell and the cold slows their spooking."

De Gier yanked a drawer. "Sticks a bit," Jacobs said. "Here, I'll give you a hand. One, two . . . Hop." The tin box slipped free and Obrian moved about within it, head nodding, arms flapping. De Gier looked away. Grijpstra bowed down to the grinning head. He frowned. "Nothing to laugh about, friend."

De Gier touched Jacobs' arm. "Can I see what they took from his pockets?"

Jacobs brought a bright-yellow plastic tray. Under his gray linen coat his folded trouser legs were visible, tucked into his socks and fastened with nickel-plated clasps. One sock was brown, the other blotched red. "Cigarettes," de Gier said. "Gold lighter, clean handkerchief, wallet." He looked at Jacobs. "The money went to headquarters, I suppose. How much was it?"

"A lot. Big notes."

"So no robbery," de Gier said. "Why not? Corpses are always robbed, even by well-meaning murderers. No time, maybe."

Grijpstra pushed the drawer back into the wall. He felt his chin while he studied the tray. "Big notes? Still there? Curious."

"Big holes in the chest," Jacobs said. "Must have been big bullets. What was it? An army revolver?"

"A machine pistol. A Schmeisser. You know what that is?"

"Wouldn't I know what a Schmeisser is?" Jacobs asked. "Didn't the gentlemen of the SS have Schmeissers strapped around their chests? Didn't I see them a hundred times a day in Dachau? Liquidation tools. Specially designed to do away with the lower type of humanity."

Grijpstra shook his heavy head. "Can't say I approve of the term."

"Aren't Negroes part of the lower humanity too? Or used to be?"

"I wouldn't say that," de Gier said.

"I can say it," Jacobs said, "because I belong to a minority myself. Didn't you guys use to catch them in the jungle? And didn't you use to chain them to each other, in the smelly holds of slave ships?" He nodded. "You certainly did, and six out of ten croaked on the way, but what did that matter? The loss was calculated in the price. Am I right?"

"I think I'll be on my way," Grijpstra said. "You are thanked, Jacobs. Coming, sergeant?"

De Gier felt in his pocket and gave Grijpstra the car keys. "I'll be back shortly, adjutant. There's something I want to ask Mr. Jacobs."

The front door closed behind Grijpstra. De Gier smiled at Jacobs. "Don't look so worried, I just want to talk with you a little. We haven't seen each other in a while."

Jacobs smiled hesitantly. "Friendship?"

De Gier put an arm around Jacobs' shoulders. "Friendship it is."

\\\\ 8 ////

"Hashish?" a young man whose festering ears were covered with cola-bottle tops asked.

"Be my duck?" asked a small fat woman, balancing painfully on worn needle heels, pulling up her skirt in passing so that sickly white flesh was on view, restrained somewhat by fishnet underwear.

"Ramón?" asked a man who stopped and sought Cardozo's gaze mournfully. The man was brown-skinned, his long hair had matted, and his drooping mustache hardly hid his missing teeth. He wore no shoes. "Are you Ramon?"

"Not today," Cardozo said. The man pulled a rusty knife. "You pay the money?" Cardozo scratched his stomach. His gun-belt showed. The man walked on, hoisting his worn pants, belted with fraying rope. A loose-jointed black woman appeared, carrying a shopping bag. "I do believe I live over there," the woman said, and stepped off the sidewalk.

Cardozo ran after her. A moped sped between him and the woman. "Careful, now," Cardozo shouted, taking her arm.

The woman scowled. "Get away."

He bent down and talked into her ear. "It's dangerous here." He smiled helpfully. "Let me guide you, ma'am."

"Morons," the woman said solemnly. "All of them. Crash right into you and think nothing of it. They've hit me before, and my daughter too." She fumbled in her coat.

"Shall I hold the bag, ma'am?"

She showed her teeth and wrinkled her nose. "Keep your dirty hands to yourself. Grab my stuff and make a run for it, hey? Filch my expensive genever?" She shook the bag. Bottles clanged.

"But, ma'am, I'm your new neighbor. Neighbors never steal from each other, do they now?"

She put the bag down. "And a liar too. You think I don't know my own neighbor? That's Kavel, and Kavel is in jail."

"So now
I'm
your neighbor, and I saw you come from your house a while back and now you're back again." Cardozo patted the woman's thin arm. "Me and my mates took over Kavel's apartment."

"Show me."

"What do you want to see?"

She pointed. "That's your door. Let's see your key."

Cardozo produced the key, opened the door, and closed it again.

"I never," the woman said softly. "And I didn't believe you. That's not nice, is it, now? Care to have a drink with me, neighbor?"

"Right," Cardozo said.

He waited patiently until she had dislodged her own key from a pocket stuffed with her change purse and a crumpled scarf and followed her into a narrow corridor. The living room was small and stuffy. "We'll need glasses," the woman said. Cardozo walked with her into the tiny kitchen and saw a row of pots hung above the sink. The pots were all yellow and one hook had been left open. The missing pot sat in the sink with some spaghetti baked into its bottom. The woman stumbled about and lost her footing. He caught her before she fell. "Easy, now, ma'am."

"I'm drunk," the woman said. "But I'll have another drink to steady myself. Your health, neighbor."

"Your health, ma'am."

She smacked and put the glass down. "So you're a friend of Kavel's,hey?"

"No, ma'am."

"So how did you get the apartment?"

"From the owner."

"You live up there but not by yourself?"

"No, ma'am, I have two mates."

"And you work?"

"Sometimes, but there isn't any now, so we're on the dole."

"Doesn't know Kavel," the woman told herself, as if the conclusion surprised her. Her eyes suddenly glared. "Kavel is bad."

"He is, ma'am?"

"Oh, yes," she sang, "Oh yes . . . oh yes." She squinted and her hand danced toward her glass.

"So why is Kavel bad, ma'am?"

"Because he made my daughter pregnant and then kicked her. Now she's in the hospital, and I think she'll die." The woman began to cry.

Cardozo got up and gave her his handkerchief. She grinned through her tears. "I got him today, yes sir. On his head, with my pot."

"But isn't Kavel in jail, ma'am?"

The woman drank, put the glass down again, closed her eyes, and shook her head.

Cardozo had sat down again. "You had the key, your daughter gave it to you, and today you went upstairs to see how he was doing and Kavel was asleep, so you hit him, right?"

"I hit him?"

"Because he was asleep. If he'd been awake, you would have given him some good spaghetti."

"Yes?"

"I think so," Cardozo said.

She opened her eyes. "That's right. I went to feed him, but then I got angry. Because he kicked my daughter."

"And you were drunk."

"Yes," the woman said. "I was drunk yesterday, too. Uncle Wisi doesn't like that. I went to visit him this morning, but he wouldn't talk to me, because I was drunk."

"Uncle Wisi?"

"Holy holy," the woman sang. Her eyes tried to focus. "Uncle Wisi
knows."

"Knows what?"

"You name it, or don't name it. Uncle Wisi still
knows."
She drained her glass. "And now you better go. You're too white for an honest women like me, and if you don't go, I'll call the lukuman."

She followed him to the door. "And when I'm sober again, I'll bring some obeah, for your mate."

"What's obeah, ma'am?"

She giggled. "Medicine. Medicine for the sleepy man with the lump on his head." She pinched Cardozo's arm. "Or did I kill him?"

"No, ma'am."

"Fine," the woman said, "because once you're dead, obeah is no good."

"And the lukuman?"

"He's dead too," the woman said.