precise. 'Uncle Bert rented both his work and living space; Charlie was his landlord as well as his neighbor. Charlie had Uncle's keys. There were only the two of them in the whole big building. They needed each other. Uncle ran a mail-order business and Charlie sometimes helped him. Uncle Bert sold books. The building is on Watts Street, Tribeca, New York City.'
'They weren't roommates?'
Termeer shook his head. 'Charlie lives on the top floor. Uncle had the rest of the building. Separate households.'
The commissaris switched tactics. He wanted to get to know complainant. 'You flew out straightaway. Expensive?'
The ticket was cheap enough, Jo said, even at short notice. It pays to have friends.
'Friends?'
Termeer meant Marilijn, from the travel agency. Whoever was in with Marilijn traveled practically for free. He and Peter knew her.
'A personal friend?'
'Business. My partner, Peter, gives her free haircuts.'
Marilijn threw in a New York hotel room too, with a view of an airshaft, but hey, sixty dollars.
'One moment,' the commissaris said. His tape recorder's red eye no longer gleamed between milk jug and sugar bowl. He changed the battery. 'Continue, dear boy. What did you do on arrival?'
'Found the police precinct that dealt with the incident, right there in the park, sir. I made inquiries, first of the desk-sergeant, then of a detective-sergeant, a man called Hurrell. Hurrell knew all about the case but wasn't sharing his information.' Jo growled. 'Goddamn asshole.'
He was taken aback by his own profanity.
'I beg your pardon, sir.'
Termeer blushed as he looked straight ahead, over the commissaris's shoulder.
Jo's features were flawless, the commissaris thought. Termeer would do well as an actor in commercials. A hero. The driver who stops for an old lady at a crossing. He who returns lost valuables. The magazine mannequin who brushes his teeth with the latest fresh-tasting soda and salt toothpaste.
Straight nose, firm mouth, nicely rounded chin, the commissaris thought grimly. The large sea blue eyes would be clearer if Termeer wasn't suffering, or, perhaps, frustrated. There might be some shyness here too, because he was a mere reserve constable who had penetrated police headquarters' superspheres. There might also be regret, after the use of bad language just now.
'You will inherit everything?' the commissaris asked pleasantly.
Termeer shrugged. 'I'm the only relative but I'm not in need of money. Me and Peter own the hair-care. The shop generates piles of cash.'
'Tax free?'
Termeer winked. 'Right, sir. Me and Peter used to be socialists until we saw that we were supporting the silly people.'
'You refer to the unemployed?'
'You know the big sign on the East Highway Homeless Shelter?' Termeer asked, worried that the commissaris might misunderstand. 'Ever see that sign on your way home, sir? After working all day?'
The commissaris knew the sign well. It had been made and put up by the shelter's inmates.
'HEY SUCKERS!' the sign shouted. 'DID YOU HAVE A NICE DAY ON THE JOB?'
Sixty percent of the Amsterdam population collected national assistance.
'You're no socialist, are you, sir?' Termeer was asking.
The commissaris reminded himself that he was in charge. Not to be distracted. One dead uncle. Was he dealing with a serious complaint here?
'What party do you vote for, Jo?'
'I don't vote, sir.'
'Gave up hope?'
Since Year Zero. Jo explained the term. The year he realized that ever-multiplying humanity would strip the planet's surface was when he started rethinking his attitudes. He had come to see that 'this will not get any better,' that 'hope leads to disappointment.' Jo explained that he hadn't come to Year Zero on his own; he had to thank his partner. Peter was the wise one. Nature people were, by nature, wise. Peter, back in the former Dutch South American colony of Surinam, had seen the rain forest being cut down. It had to be cut down to feed the desire of a relendessly growing world population.
'Give up all hope,' nature person Peter would say wisely. 'Enjoy what is still left. Practice detachment!'
The commissaris smiled.
Jo Termeer looked hurt. 'You don't agree, sir?'
'Dear boy,' the commissaris said, 'what's so detached about demanding justice? Aren't you here to avenge your uncle's murder?'
His uncle was a free soaring spirit brought down by self-serving desire. Jo tried to formulate that insight. How the detached should defend the detached. Make an exception. Idealism, pure and clear. 'The last hurrah, sir.'
'More nature people wisdom? You're quoting your partner, Peter?'
When two men live together the spark of illumination could jump across. 'Wouldn't you say so, sir?'
The commissaris thought about being illuminated by sparks coming from Katrien or Turtle. He nodded. 'You and Peter live together?'
'Above the shop, sir. In Outfield, in a large apart-t ment. The mortgage is paid off.'
'Gay?'
'Yessir,' Termeer said clearly.
'Quite,' the commissaris said. Being gay was hardly a delicate matter these days, even in his own generation, now mostly out of commission, due to advanced age. Consenting adults, of course. Even so, the police are reactionary. Outmoded rules tend to be maintained. Within the police the Reserve was most old-fashioned. Volunteers were screened. Gay candidates, if they made a point of mentioning their preference, would not be admitted, not because of their homosexuality but for some other reason. The committee was manned by older dignitaries, retired staff officers, of the same useless type he-the commissaris looked grim-would soon belong to: conservative, senile…
He mumbled. 'Old fogeys.'
'Beg pardon, sir?' Termeer asked.
Nothing, the commissaris was just thinking. A Police Reserve screening would mean coffee, offering of cigarettes, a word of welcome. Candidates enter one by one. The chief fogey asks why the volunteer feels he has to 'serve and protect' on his own time, without pay.
Any fascist inclination?
A power problem? A need to arrest prostitutes and feel them up in the cop car?
No?
Well, that's just fine then.
'Fellow committee members-I, as chairman, propose that this fine fellow be allowed to study at police school, evenings only, as he has a job to do during the day.
'I say let's have him learn how to fire a handgun. Let's put him in uniform. Let him pass all the required exams.
'He may wear the police shield pinned to his chest if he passes all hurdles. He will help guard the Olympic soccer games, prevent racists from throwing bananas at nonwhite opposition players, forestall Neo-Nazis from making hissing sounds to imitate gas faucets when Jewish players score. At Christmas time he can take care that no youngsters are trampled when St. Nick rides into the city.
'Haha. Right you are, son, you can go, you have been accepted. You're a Patriot. With the big P of pooplah. We thank you for wanting to serve the state. Please tell the next peon to step right up, will you?'
The commissaris didn't imagine that the Reserve Screening Committee would pass effeminate types, with earrings or embroidered waistcoats, but this Johan Termeer showed none of those symptoms.
The commissaris himself did not particularly dislike gay people. He did not particularly like them either. 'Just like liking goldfish,' he had said once, during happy hour. He had wanted to impress some high-ranking colleagues.
