You understand, I see the situation in a different light, now that the cops have come and gone.
You’re my sweet revenge. You’re my secret weapon.
See, Miriam’s always sort of been a mystery to me. A woman like that, a woman of the world, so... smart, so well spoken, and beautiful too, even though she’s just past forty, I never met nobody like her in my life. We might have come from different planets. You see where I’m going with this?
Is it possible the detectives showed up at her door before they came to mine? Like maybe yesterday, so she already knew about the mess in the dumpster before we got together last night? She lives practically right around the corner from the Mercury, she’s a steady customer, I drop off an order of chow mein like two, three times a week. The detectives must know that if they’re halfway decent at their jobs.
They go around the neighborhood door-to-door asking questions, don’t they?
Meanwhile, I never once noticed my key to the Mercury was missing, so maybe Miriam made the whole thing up. I mean, maybe she’s gotta fantasize shit like that to keep her frustration from driving her nuts, what do I know? Her husband’s rich, but money don’t make nobody happy. Status, neither. I know that much by now. And her whole story could have come straight out of a bad episode of Midsomer Murders. Mom watches that show every Wednesday night.
I get it, Miriam wanted the bitch out of her life, but even if she did decide to waste her, even then, she would have just run her down with her MINI, wouldn’t she, or gotten a gun and blew her brains out? Wouldn’t she? I mean, I just don’t see Miriam going to town with a fucking chain saw. I don’t think she’d even know how something like that works.
I know what you’re thinking: Why don’t you just go ask her? Ask her what’s the real deal and, boom, case closed. But see, here’s the thing: we don’t have that kind of a relationship. I never ask her nothing. I just listen.
I mean — and I’m not talking about my relationship with the Chink here, that was pretty clear-cut, no surprises — I mean, it sucks the old guy got chopped into mincemeat and all, but that’s the chance you take when you get in with the tongs, he knew the risk — but the idea that I dumped myself into this rich-people’s soap opera, what does that say about me?
I love Miriam and all, but what about my self-respect? What about my pride?
Maybe this whole thing’s some kind of a sign. Whatever really happened, my job at the Mercury Snackbar is gone. I am now footloose and fancy-free. I could just hang out for a while, see which way the wind blows. Nothing’s stopping me from trying something completely new, stepping out on my own. Maybe computers? Or I could take over the Mercury and run it myself. Get rid of those shitty plastic stools, put in some decent ventilation, turn it into a hip new takeout place. Snackbar Armin, something like that, everything 100 percent halal. I bet there’s a market for that in Tuindorp Oostzaan, especially if I hire a couple of kids with scooters to make deliveries all over Amsterdam-North. Why not?
I got all that hush money from the Chink saved up. Plus the tips Miriam always gave me — not just for the chow mein, but after we screwed too, now that I think of it.
Every cloud has a silver lining, right?
Am I right?
On the other hand, there’s no way I’ll ever hook up with a woman like Miriam again, that’s for sure.
And what we have, that has to be love. I mean, the sex, the way she trusts me...
We’re soul mates, aren’t we?
I mean, aren’t we?
This story was inspired by an actual Amsterdam murder case.
Part III
Touch of Evil
Devil’s Island
by Mensje van Keulen
Duivelseiland
Amsterdam has changed so much since smoking was banned from bars, restaurants, and public spaces. Walk, bike, drive, or take the tram or bus across the city and you’ll see knots of people out on the sidewalks, clouds of smoke billowing above their heads. Cold weather, heavy wind, gloomy surroundings, the blare of traffic — nothing seems to bother them, especially not when a bunch of them are clustered together. I guess misery does love company, after all.
I am mildly asthmatic, so not a smoker, but after Jacob — who’s one of my oldest pals — was deserted by his girlfriend for a stage director, I’ve sometimes found myself part of such a group. See, it turned out not to be such a great idea to have Jacob over to my place to unburden himself of his woes: the walls of my apartment are thin, and the later it got the louder he wailed... not to mention what his damn chain-smoking did to my air. Going out on the town with him wasn’t an ideal solution either, because I have to get up early for my job, but I couldn’t just tell the poor schmuck to deal with it, because, I mean, he was truly hurting.
The last time he turned up at my door was three days ago. I was exhausted, and I’d just fished a package of soup out of the freezer — comfort food, right? — when the bell rang and there he was, unshaven, face pale as a ghost. When I asked him if he’d eaten, he told me food was the last thing on his mind, and I stashed my soup back where it had come from.
“Let’s go,” I said, pulling on a jacket and leading him outside.
“Thirst never sleeps,” he muttered.
“Hey, we’re not gonna spend the whole night drinking. I’ve woken up with enough hangovers, thanks to you.”
“Pain never sleeps either, but you’re better off with an aching head than a rat gnawing at your heart.”
“You’ll get over it, Jake.”
“You say that every time I see you, but the rat just keeps on gnawing.”