'Looking good, Simon, looking good.'
Grijpstra grabbed the check. He paid. He tipped.
'You're all right?' Cardozo asked.
'I'm teaching you something.' Grijpstra laid a protective hand on Cardozo's shoulder. 'You figure out what.'
Cardozo knew what. 'Not to rely on…'
'Shsshshsh, my dear Simon.'
Grijpstra and Cardozo strolled into the hair salon and confronted Peter.
Peter, who met de Gier's description of being 'a slender, active, intelligent forty-year-old black male, fashionably dressed,' was busy. He had two clients in chairs, more waiting. Peter came over, scissors in one hand, comb in the other. 'Can I help you, gentlemen?'
Grijpstra showed his ID. 'We would like to see Jo Termeer.' Cardozo said hello.
'My partner?' Peter looked at Cardozo. 'You were on the phone just now, yes? I told you already. Jo isn't here.' He pointed at the waiting clients. 'He should be. What can I do?'
'Sick leave?' Grijpstra asked.
Peter sighed. 'More like personal leave, I would say.'
'Problems?' Grijpstra asked.
Peter nodded. 'It's your investigation, I think. About that American uncle. The delay is driving Jo crazy. He wants to know what's going on but he knows he should be patient. I've told him to do his police job, the reserve thing, but I think he prefers cruising.' Peter laughed.
'Being naughty.'
Clients clamored loudly.
'Anything else I can do for you?' Peter asked, glancing over his shoulder. 'I'm coming, dears.'
'The Road Warrior,' Cardozo said. 'Would you have that movie? We would like to see it.'
The request didn't seem to surprise Peter. He gave them his keys to the upstairs apartment that he and Jo shared and told them to help themselves. Videos were on the shelf, alphabetically arranged. Coffee and cookies were in the kitchen. The remote was on the TV. 'I'll be up in about an hour.'
The detectives watched the movie in the apartment's living room, furnished mostly with glass and leather. A large painting above the fake fireplace showed slim cowboys in tight jeans and leather vests leaning across a counter. The videotape was worn out in parts. Halfway through the movie a young man let himself into the apartment. 'Hello?'
Grijpstra put the VCR on pause. 'Hello. Who are you?
'Eugene,' the long-haired semi-Oriental-looking young man said. He showed Grijpstra his perfect profile as he turned towards Cardozo. 'And who, may I ask, the fuck are you two?'
The detectives got up and showed their IDs.
'Peter let us in,' Cardozo said. 'He'll be up in a minute. You live here too?'
Eugene lived elsewhere but he was a friend of the family, 'so to speak.' He waved at the TV. 'Couldn't you find something else to watch? Every time I come here Jo has The Road Warrior going. I know every scene backwards.'
Grijpstra pressed the remote's power button. 'You don't like Australian futuristic bizarre action films?' He muted the sound of roaring engines as Mel Gibson, by suddenly accelerating his racing car, tricked the skinheads on their powerful motorcycles. The bad guys attacking the lone avenger from either side now shot little arrows into each other. Or so it seemed. Wide wavy bands cut through the images and made events hard to follow.
'It's okay,' Eugene said, pouring himself coffee, 'but after a dozen times or so you kind of know how Good conquers Evil and after two dozen times or so you sort of start wondering what's so good about Good.'
'Jo's favorite movie, right?' Cardozo asked.
Eugene sighed. 'Isn't it ever.'
The movie had ended when Peter came in. Eugene and Peter embraced tenderly, then kissed.
'Busy day,' Peter said, still hugging his friend. 'How did you like Jo's alter ego? Do you know Jo had made himself a Road Warrior outfit? And that he has a car just like that thing in the movie? A hot-rod horror?'
Grijpstra and Cardozo got up, thanking Peter for his hospitality. 'It was nothing,' Peter said. 'You're welcome. Anything else perhaps?'
Now that Peter mentioned it, Grijpstra said, there were just two more things. Could Peter tell him where Jo was on June the fourth and could he perhaps show them Jo Termeer's passport?
'Really…,' Eugene said. 'What are you guys after? Isn't a passport personal? Is this The Return of the Gestapo? Why…'
Cardozo moved forward. 'We can come back with a warrant. Now if-'
Peter stepped between the belligerent parties. His voice was soothing. His gestures were mild. 'Now, now… now, now…sit down, my dears. Listen. Hear the thrush singing in the park?'
Everyone listened. A thrush, indeed, was singing.
'Adjutant,' Peter asked, 'would you care to pour more coffee? A slice of cake, anyone? Baked this myself. Won't take no for an answer.' He presented the tray. 'Okay? Can I get the passport from between Jo's clean shirts without you two starting another war here? I can? That's nice.'
Jo Termeer's passport showed two sets of entry and departure stamps applied at Kennedy Airport. One entry dated two years back. The other was recent. June 7 through 10.
'So,' Grijpstra said, 'Peter, tell me, was Jo here June fourth? Working with you downstairs in the salon, living here in the apartment?'
'Sure,' Peter said.
'Did you see those perverts kiss?' Cardozo asked when he and Grijpstra were waiting at the bus stop. 'Aren't Jo and Peter supposed to be a couple?' He snorted. 'I would call that adultery, those guys are no good.'
'Well now,' Grijpstra said, 'adultery, adultery…I'm afraid that idea is extinct now, Simon.'
Cardozo disagreed vehemently. He referred to acceptable social mores, to behavioral limits, to love being related to trust, to there being such a thing as decency 'even in sick relationships, I'll have you know.'
The bus arrived. Grijpstra pushed Cardozo ahead of him. 'You're a dear boy,' Grijpstra said after they were seated. 'Old-fashioned, behind the times, limited, I'm not saying 'retarded,' mind you, restricted perhaps, well meaning in a kind of useless way '
Chapter 21
The commissaris, that evening, unable to sleep after the long-legged tram-driving demon once again tried to get him to do something he didn't understand, and that, he felt sure, he wouldn't want to do if he did understand, used his ivory bedside phone to wake Katrien.
Katrien, blinking at early sunlight pouring into the bedroom's windows on Queens Avenue, Amsterdam, said she would make coffee and return the call, once she was washed up somewhat and settled on the veranda.
It took her twenty minutes. The commissaris had dozed off. The Number Two streetcar was pushing through traffic, clanging its bells which became the telephone on the night table, ringing.
It took him a while to accept the change from streetcar to phone.
Katrien was unhappy. 'Jan, what kept you?'
'I couldn't pick up a streetcar, dear.'
'Your dream again? You feel better now?'
He did now that he heard his wife's mothering voice. He sketched, briefly, succinctly, the reasoning that had made him and de Gier decide there was another suspect and how he had devised and applied a trick to try and shock Charles Gilbert Perrin into opening up.
'A ripped-off penis,' Katrien said. 'Isn't that the worst that can happen to those who have one? Doesn't that make ripping it off a heinous crime? How did the suspect take your sudden outburst?' She watched a row of tulips that hadn't been pushed over by Turtle yet. 'Tell me everything, Jan.'
