Hard Rain

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In the club's largest room, where half a dozen comfortable couches, upholstered in different materials but all in striking shades of a bright orangy red, were grouped around a roulette table that attracted an enthusiastic crowd, de Gier sat stiffly next to a small gentleman in an old-fashioned but dapper summer suit. The commissaris, hard to recognize under his shock of false white hair, had crossed his legs and was contemplating his highly polished boot. A small hand stroked his full beard, and his pale blue eyes peered at the sergeant through a sparkling lorgnette that he had just, with a delicate gesture, pushed up to the bridge of his thin nose. "Excellent," the commissaris said, tapping de Gier's knee. "That's what I like about working with you, Rinus, you always do so much better than can be expected. So Celine's with us now? You 'turned' her, so to speak?" He glanced at Celine, standing next to Ryder, chattering brightly to the big man, who looked shabby in spite of his white linen jacket and loud checkered pants. Ryder's bulging cheeks dripped with sweat and his bulging eyes stared hungrily at a cluster of thousand-guilder notes, pushed toward him by the croupier's little rake. Ryder's pudgy hands rearranged the money, quickly finding numbered squares. A shiny pendant, a combination of precious stones set in massive gold, dangled from a silk ribbon hung around his neck, as he corrected a choice while the croupier and the crowd waited.

"Rien ne va plus," the croupier sang out. The wheel turned. A small metal ball jumped musically in the sudden hush that pervaded the room. The crowd applauded. Ryder swept up his profits, impassively dispensed by the croupier's magical instrument. Ryder thanked the powers below with a clumsy bow and proposed a toast. Waiters came running with a silver tray.

"To me!" Ryder shouted. "To me!" his cronies shouted, grinning and waving. "To me and all!" Ryder's surprisingly high voice shrilled like a piercing whistle on a lopsided locomotive as he bent down to put an arm around Celine.

"To me and all!" The choir around the pair obediently echoed. The commissaris's and de Gier's glasses were raised too. "Hurrah," the commissaris said.

"Hey-ho," de Gier said softly. "Hey-ho."

"And Celine'll let us know?" the commissaris asked. "Splendid. You really have a way. How do you do it?"

"I was going to knock her out," de Gier said. "I didn't do well at all. There were some risks. She could have gotten away, but I'm not good at hitting women. If she had alarmed the waiters, we would have been in a pretty fix again."

"Not really," the commissaris said. "What can they do? This is a shadowy operation, Rinus. A small bubble. We can prick it, and when we succeed we run away from the foul smell." He touched his flowing beard. "Itchy. The glue prickles. My wife spent most of the afternoon attaching all this hair. I have to bring this off or she'll be most upset. Doesn't like to waste energy, Katrien doesn't."

De Gier had spotted the baron hovering at the other side of the room, and excused himself. Cardozo took his place. "And how did you fare?" the commissaris asked. "Have you picked your waiter?"

"Yes, sir." Cardozo reinserted his multicolored tie, which kept jumping out of his waistcoat. "Your waiter is the fellow with the red sash over there, carrying the smoked salmon. You should try some of that. Do you know they employ slaves here?"

The commissaris observed his waiter, a bowlegged individual with a barrel chest, a low brow, and shaggy tufts sprouting from malformed ears.

"Slaves, Simon?" The commissaris tried to raise his glued-on eyebrows.

"There," Cardozo said. "The Indian lady in the sari. Sayukta. She took me upstairs, we talked for a while."

"Talked?" The commissaris raised his hand, but dropped it again. "Shouldn't scratch. Bah."

"Sayukta's from Calcutta," Cardozo said. "She was born in a park. The rats in the park ate her baby brother, but she learned how to beat them off. Seems like a hard life. Everybody sleeps in the street there, but the parks are worse. And then she got sold to some organization that ships young girls out. The slaves get hired out to brothels, and since they never have proper papers, they're in the power of whoever exploits them. Sayukta's only nineteen. She seems to like me."

"Did you make any promises?" the commissaris asked.

"No, sir, I only said I might perhaps be able to help. She doesn't care for her present occupation."

The commissaris dug his fingers into his sideburns. "You might get her address"

"I have it, sir."

Grijpstra passed the couch, wishing the commissaris a good evening. The adjutant wore a wig too, combed down over his forehead so that the scar of his wound wouldn't show. A walrus mustache drooped down impressively. With his baggy tweed jacket, he could have been British. "Jones is the name," Grijpstra said, pausing briefly. "A parson by trade, representing the lunatic fringe of the Protestant faith. Would they provide attractive indecent minors here? Are we getting close to the kill?"

"Not yet," the commissaris said. "Celine will tell de Gier. Ryder is celebrating now. We want a lot of money on the table. Are our State detectives alert?"

"They're in the poker room now, sir, winning. Trying to get your investment back."

"Karate and Ketchup are gambling too," Cardozo said. "How much did you put in? A thousand for each of us?"

"Never mind mere money," the commissaris said. "It's such a pleasure not having to apply to the administration for funds."

Guests were drifting back into the room, and the croupier came to attention. "I'll play some blackjack," Grijpstra said. "They don't seem to like it when you just eat a lot. Have you sampled the little rolls with mushroom ragout yet? I've had a few, but they're too filling."

"So you sell luxury goods to the Russian elite?" the baron asked de Gier in the poker room. "I believe the more equal comrades do drugs a lot. You have a connection?"

De Gier sucked his cheroot. "I could use a better quality." He winked at the baron. "And some financing, perhaps. So you're a banker?"

De la Faille handed de Gier his card. "Give me a buzz tomorrow, perhaps we shouldn't meet at the bank. Come over to my apartment. Do you sell outboard engines, perhaps? I hear the communist lakes are good for sporty boating, but there's a better market now, with the Iranian army stuck in inundated swamps. Ever been to Iran? I could arrange a passport and a Japanese supply. Officially the trade is banned, but the demand is quite hectic. We could find a way." He touched de Gier's shoulder. "Did you find Celine? You seemed rather in a hurry."

"I had this urge," de Gier said.

"You had met her before?"

De Gier waved about vaguely. "Earlier this evening. I wasn't sure then, but the need suddenly arose."

"You must have found her. You look all relaxed."

"Yes," de Gier said. "So do you. I didn't quite get what you were telling me when we met at the mirror."

The baron shrugged. "Cocaine does that to me. Sudden insight, you know; it's still with me, but I took a downer later on. Drugs are fun, don't you think? Don't know what we ever did without them. To be able to inspire and control the mind at will. Manipulating others is easy enough, merely a matter of applying power at the right time, but the self can be quite silly, jumps around too much, all that intelligence wanting to go astray."

"You were inspired when we met just now?" de Gier asked. "What did you see?"

The baron's hand was still on de Gier's shoulder. "You must have seen it too. Physically, of course, we're very much alike, but I saw more. Mated souls?"

De Gier led the way to the couch. They sat down together.

The baron called a waiter over. "Champagne?"

"Thank you." De Gier took the glass. "No, not mated. Opposed. I think you and I should fight. That's what I saw." He grinned. "A duel to the death."

"But, my dear fellow…" The baron stared.

"Didn't you see that?" de Gier asked. "Drawn swords, and we're both riding horses, yours black, mine white, superb stallions. The fog on the field in the early morning. Gold braid on our chests, a single bright-colored feather in our bearskin hats? Going full out at each other. Swishing steel? One of us goes down."

"No…"

"Oh yes," de Gier said. "Any way you like it, of course. Choose your weapons. Til win anyway. I absolutely have to. I'm the white knight." He suddenly sat up. "Ouch." He felt his chest. "Handicapped, of course. The good always attacks from a weak position, but there should be a happy ending."

"You're on coke too?" the baron asked. "Shouldn't mix it with alcohol too much. What's the happy ending?"

De Gier smiled. "Your corpse."

A waiter came over. "Sir? Mr. Ryder wants to know if the Society can match his bet."

The baron nodded. "Be right with you." He turned to de Gier. "I still don't have your name."

"You'll know it tomorrow." De Gier stood up too.

The baron strode off. He even walks like me, de Gier thought, turning away from the satin woman, who, still unattached, roamed the room behind an all-embracing smile. Karate and Ketchup, dressed in inconspicuous gray suits, played poker. De Gier stumbled and grabbed Karate's shoulder. "Excuse me."

Karate dropped his cards. "I'll pass." He frowned at de Gier. "Get away from me. You drunk?"

"What's the matter?" Ketchup asked Karate. "You couldn't get the ace up your sleeve?"

"Sir?" Karate asked.

"I said," Ketchup said in a loud voice, "that maybe you don't have an ace up your cuff this time."

"Are you," Karate asked ominously, "accusing me of foul play?"

"Are you," de Gier asked Karate, "accusing me of intoxication?"

Two waiters hovered nearby. De Gier walked on.

"Watch those guys," he whispered to a waiter. "Sharpies, you know? Mouthy sharpies?"

The waiter, a small square man with a squint, fluttered an eyelid.

De Gier found Grijpstra in the next room, showing a piece of lobster to another waiter. He poked a finger at his plate, held close under the waiter's nose. "Feces. See? That green stuff inside the shell? That's, eh…" Grijpstra dropped his voice. "… shit. Lobster droppings. Yagh. Wah."

De Gier wandered on.

Celine stood in the hall. "Where were you? Ryder's going to put up everything he has. The manager is getting more money from the safe."

"Good," de Gier said. "Did you show Cardozo what to do?"

"Yes."

"I could love you," de Gier said.

The commissaris was talking to the roulette croupier. "Now, my man, I've been watching you. You keep tipping that wheel. Shouldn't, you know." The commissaris wagged a finger. "No." He called a waiter. "You there, bring my hat and stick, I'm leaving. I won't make any complaints, of course. In low-class joints like this, foul play can be expected. Thank you." The commissaris pounded his stick on the floor. "Disgusting."

Two tall men, barechested under their leather jackets, with rattling chains on their naked chests, were watching the roulette table, grinning inanely.

The manager came in, escorted by the baron. The manager carried an armful of cash. He put it on the table. "Ronnie," the baron said, "we're ready for you. You sure you want to do this?"

"This is my night," Ryder said, raising his hands. The room had filled up. "Are all of you with me?"

"Yes!" the crowd shouted.

De Gier walked up to Ryder and placed a finger on the big man's nose. "You."

Waiters came closer. There was a clamor elsewhere in the building. The waiters looked over their shoulders. Some shouting penetrated the room.

"You," de Gier said to Ryder. "You, sir, with your loud mouth, you've been irritating me."

The waiters surged forward. The first one, a heavy-set man with no neck, fell over the commissaris's stick. "I'm leaving," the commissaris shrieked. "Foul play."

The lights went out.

A flashlight came on. Four hands, extended from leather sleeves, swept money into linen bags. De Gier hit Ryder on the side of his chin. Ryder fell against a waiter. The shouting in the poker room increased. Cardozo's necktie made a small show of clashing color as the beam of the flashlight touched it. "Where is my waiter?" Cardozo mumbled. "On the floor," the commissaris mumbled. "Pick another."

"Green feces!" Grijpstra shouted. "Yaahg!" A body fell and a tray clanged on the floor. There was another crash in the hall, and a scream.

The lights came on again. "After them," the baron yelled, picking up waiters. De Gier, supporting the commissaris's elbow, reached the hall. The stone angel lay on the floor, without its head. Karate was showing the head to Ketchup. The revolving glass doors still turned. The doorman lay next to the angel's body.

"A doctor!" Grijpstra shouted. "This man is hurt!"

"Phone the police!" Cardozo screamed. "Where's the phone? Can I use the phone?"

"I'm leaving!" the commissaris shouted. Waiters were running toward the revolving doors. De Gier stopped the doors, with two waiters stuck inside.

"Let go of that door!" the manager yelled. De Gier stepped back. The waiters, pushing furiously inside, tumbled out, one into the street, one back into the hallway.

"What's the number?" Cardozo shouted, holding up the phone. "I've forgotten the number."

The baron wrung the telephone from Cardozo's hands and smashed it down.

"You don't want to phone the police?" Cardozo asked. "This is a robbery. Those fellows got away with the loot. I saw them. Black jackets. Chains. Didn't you see them?"

Karate tried to give the angel's head to the manager. The manager shook his head. "As you like," Karate said, "I'm only trying to be helpful." He dropped the head. The manager danced away.

"Clumsy," Ketchup said. "Look what you did. You got him on the toe."

"Sir?" Grijpstra asked the dancing manager. "Your kitchen is serving lobster feces. Do you know that? Yagh."

"After you," de Gier said to the commissaris.

The black doorman staggered away, holding his stomach.

There was a bellow from the roulette room. Ryder came into the hallway, rubbing his chin. "Where's my money?"

"Lost it, old boy," the baron said. "We lost ours too."

"Oh no," Ryder squeaked. "You're responsible for this place. You pay me back, double, I might have won."

"We'll discuss it, old boy."

"And where's the guy who hit me?" Ryder asked.

Guests were leaving the club. Cardozo left with them. "Where's the bathroom?" Grijpstra asked a waiter. "I've got lobster crap all over my hands."

"Miss?" Ketchup asked the satin woman. "Can I have some time with you now?"

Karate stood in front of a group of hostesses, pointing at them in turn. "Eenie, meenie, minie, mo…"

"We're closing," the baron shouted. "Sorry, everybody out, please. We'll be closed for the rest of the week, due to refurbishing. 'Bye now. Thank you."

"But we haven't been upstairs yet," Karate protested. "Please? We were gambling all night." He tugged the baron's arm. "We won. Can we copulate some of our winnings away?"

"Out," the baron said.

Guests were shooed to the door. The waiters who had pursued the robbers came back, shaking their heads.

Grijpstra reappeared in the empty hallway, drying his hands with his handkerchief. "Where's the chief cook? I have a complaint."

"Goodbye," the baron said.

Two uniformed policemen came in. "Any trouble?"

"No trouble," the baron said. "Thank you. Closing early tonight."

"What do you mean, no trouble?" Grijpstra asked. "Listen, officers, I'm making a complaint, about the lobster I tried to eat here."

"Please take this man out," the baron said.

"Sir?" the cops said, pointing at the door.

"Oh, very well," Grijpstra said, and left.

When Grijpstra arrived, the commissaris's wife opened the door. "There you are, Adjutant, we were worried about you."

"I'll never eat lobster again," Grijpstra said. "Good evening, ma'am. I'm sorry, I couldn't find a cab, and the night bus was slow. Is everybody here?"