speakers in the minivan's four corners. It died away briefly.
The announcer spoke gendy: 'Remember now, never wager your wad.'
The commissaris thought he would like to wager his wad now. Go for broke. All or nothing. As there was little or nothing he would be able to do with All now, victory would amount to nothing anyway. He would solve the case, retire and be forgotten. All = Zero. He thought of the reptile oracle in his Queens Avenue garden, back in Amsterdam. Turtle would agree with such radical thinking. The commissaris, feeling he was on the verge of true insight, smiled happily. Euphoric feelings floated on the lovely Albeniz composition. But he might just be ill. Flu was going around, especially within the enclosed air circulation of airplanes. He was probably infected. An oncoming fever would alter his perception.
The commissaris, shivering, paged through the police convention brochure while he laid out his plans. He would spend the rest of today in his Cavendish suite, looking down on the magnificent trees of Central Park for comfort and entertainment. Tomorrow he would attend a lecture on modes of death by Dr. Steve Russo, pathologist and assistant chief of the NYPD's Crime Laboratory, and make an appointment to meet with Detective-Sergeant Hurrell of the Central Park Precinct. For now all he had to do was lean back and listen to the music.
The driver, when he came back, herding two thirty-year-old businesswomen in suits and lace blouses, talked golf while he drove his catch into town. The commissaris watched the Manhattan skyline against an expanse of glistening blue marked by just a few little white clouds. The music was Bach now, the Italian Concerto. The announcer mentioned Gillette again.
'Make a bundle, play golf in Florida for the rest of your life,' the driver was saying. He had done that for some years: long fairway shots between unusual water hazards, lagoons filled with alligators, Key West. Those were the days. But the trick was not to listen to the jokers interrupting the classical music. The driver nodded disdainfully toward his door's speaker, where the announcer had just made a suggestion.
'What does he know? Shit-eating wiseass… Oh dear, ladies present. Sorry, ladies.'
The ladies were talking. They might not have heard.
'No more golf, eh?' the commissaris said.
The driver said no more golf. A bad investment on margin, lost his wad, back to a leased van, back to the merry-go-round of collecting fares to make the payments, I-owe-I-owe-ofF-to-the-airport-I-go, Kennedy- Manhattan-Kennedy forever.
The commissaris rembered that Katrien had mentioned a golf ball. He didn't know about sports. Of all the balls he could visualize, only the golf ball might be a weapon.
'So are you a good golf player?'
He wasn't bad, the driver said. He missed winning money and drinks at the club house. There were golf courses around New York too, but play on them was not so relaxed as in Key West, and-except for the few crowded public courses-a lot more expensive.
'Public? In parks?'
The driver, bad-tempered now, reflecting on his greed and stupidity, turned nasty although he didn't show it. He smiled at his client. 'Sure, sir. In some parks.'
'Now,' the commissaris said, 'suppose I were to be in a park, not paying attention, and I got hit with a golf ball, a good long fairway shot, as you said just now, Would there be some force there? Say I got hit in the chest, for instance?'
'Kill you stone dead,' the burly driver said.
So far, not so good. The commissaris felt worse when he was taken to his hotel suite. He telephoned Room Service for a pot of tea and plain cookies. He arranged his medicines: aspirins and codeine pain pills. His thermometer showed he had a fever, not too high yet. His rheumatism was definitely acting up; red-hot worms crawled about in his hipbones. The shower relaxed his body somewhat but he ended up dizzy. His throat was sore. There seemed to be crushed glass in his lungs, moving slowly every time he breathed.
He took multiple medications. While he wandered about his spacious sitting room in a cotton bathrobe, nicely ironed by Katrien, the codeine took effect. Generic acetaminophen might lower his temperature and also give pain relief. He sucked an antiseptic lozenge to reduce the sandpaper feeling in his throat, while he looked down on the tops of ash and maple and chestnut trees, admiring their full foliage. He followed birds in flight, bending sideways so he could peek at the roof of the Metropolitan Museum. He planned to visit there. De Gier had been talking about the Rockefeller wing, with its Papuan artifacts imported from New Guinea. The commissaris himself was interested in New Guinea, mainly because it seemed to be the furthest place on earth, an enormous, hardly inhabited island surrounded by exotic archipelagos.
Papua New Guinea is an island second in size only to Greenland. Much of the interior is still a vast unknown. De Gier wanted to go there 'to experience primitive insights.' The commissaris wouldn't mind joining the sergeant's quest. He also fantasized about trying the other side of things, even engaging in soul-testing head hunting, or ritual cannibalism perhaps. Too old, too feeble now, he dreamed about using de Gier's effort as a projection. Get the dear boy to report regularly, to write from his mystical summer camp, to provide vicarious entertainment for sickly stay- at-homes.
His phone rang. 'Had a good flight, sir?'
'Yes?' the commissaris asked. 'Who is this?'
'Hugh O'Neill. We're down in the lobby. Can we come up and talk about your Central Park case? I have Sergeant Hurrell with me.'
The commissaris said he wasn't dressed, bit if his colleagues didn't mind…
They didn't, the hearty American voice said. But if the commissaris preferred to rest first, they could come back later.
'No, please come up.'
The New York policemen seemed impressed by the luxury of the commissaris's quarters. The commissaris tried to explain. His wife was paying. He hadn't been feeling well. A present.
'But doesn't the convention take care of hotel expenses for all invitees?' Hurrell asked.
'They wouldn't pay for this,' O'Neill said, noting crystal chandeliers, satin drapes, an Oriental rug on the floor, large-screen TVs and VCRs in both rooms. 'Nice present. Your wife must love you.' He harrumphed. 'How do you want to be addressed? By rank? As Mister?' He smiled. 'I'm afraid I won't be able to do your last name justice.'
'Use my first name,' the commissaris said. 'J-a-n.'
'You pronounce that as 'Yan'?'
'Any way you like. May I call you Hugh?'
'Please,' O'Neill said. 'First names are easy. Hurrell here is…' He seemed puzzled. 'Is what?'
'Earl,' Hurrell said. 'Funny name. Hardly ever use it.'
'Hurrell has brought his reports with him,' O'Neill said.
Hurrell was a nondescript man, except for blotched cheeks and a heavily veined nose. A skin condition, the commissaris thought, or alcoholism. O'Neill was boisterous, handsome, with a full head of cropped curly auburn hair. The chief looked athletic. An American football player, the commissaris thought. Better give him the ball when he wants it before he tears you to pieces.
Both visitors were in their forties. Hurrell seemed quiet, moody, unhappy. He needed a shave. He wore a khaki windbreaker over baggy pants, with a faded red T-shirt under his jacket. O'Neill wore a good-quality suit, with the jacket unbuttoned. As the chief moved about, a holstered pistol under his armpit showed. O'Neill seemed efficient and powerful, in charge of himself, ready to take control of whatever was going on around him.
'We won't be long, Yan,' O'Neill said. 'You need to rest up, but the convention starts tomorrow so you might want to get your problem out of the way now. I believe the dead man is an uncle to one of your people?' He looked at his sergeant and put out a hand. Hurrell handed over a large manila envelope. O'Neill broke the seal.
The contents were shaken out on to the large coffee table. There were photographs that O'Neill sorted quickly. A map and reports were clipped together inside a plastic file.
The commissaris invited his guests to sit down. The effect of the codeine seemed to have worn off already. He felt dizzy again, O'Neill's words waving around him.
'Our dead man-Termeer, Bert-was known as a kind of an exhibitionist, maybe suffering from some compulsive disorder. Tourette's, perhaps? But he didn't expose himself, no nakedness or any such extreme behavior.
