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 program. "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."