The Hollow-Eyed Angel by Janwillem van de Wetering Page B
Authors: Janwillem van de Wetering
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was carrying his lunch in a foldable metal lunchbox, closed with a red band of elastic. The tram driver wanted to share his lunch, after asking him, via the tram's intercom, to come over and sit next to her "Little boy in the hand-me-down clothing, come and sit up here with me," hidden speakers in the car said. It was embarrassing. It also made him jealous. He didn't want to share the tram driver's wonderful presence with his fellow passengers.
The commissaris remembered that, in the dream, the tram driver's voice was deep and husky. He wondered what this could mean. Was he feeding a demon or a goddess? The sharing of his cheese sandwiches and apple with the long-legged creature had been erotically interesting, despite the fact — or maybe because — his dream companion stared at him with empty eye sockets. The commissaris remembered that, as a young boy, adult women, when they displayed their legs, often drove him mad with desire.
What could the symbol of the blond tram driver's legs have to do with his present quest?
Cats were passing the restaurant's windows and the three musicians behind the counter were harmonizing their song, much encouraged by the cafe's clients.
The commissaris concentrated on the painting of the youthful and naked Mamere and her tongue-lolling dog under the palm tree of her native Haiti.
"You like?" the real Mamere asked when she finally served the eggs. He nodded. She pointed at the huge painting. "That was dreamtime when I got my sons." She named the men behind the cafe's counter. "Dieudonne, Zazeu and FilsTrois," Mamere said proudly. "I very fertile then."
"Beautiful voices Dieudonne, Zazeu and FilsTrois have," the commissaris said.
"You better accent in French than in English,"
Mamere said. "What you do for profession?"
The commissaris said that he was a policeman from Amsterdam, investigating the recent death of a countryman, another Hollandais, near Central Park West.
"Ah," Mamere said noncommittally, then rushed off to pour more coffee.
Back in his suite the commissaris still had a few minutes before he was to be picked up. He looked down at the park. There were benches there where people kept sitting down and getting up. Young men on roller skates whizzed around at high speed. The commissaris noticed a system in the complicated movements, a well-organized activity. He concluded that, possibly, drugs were being dealt. He watched a young woman, dressed in a neat suit with a tailored blouse: an office worker, a secretary maybe. She made signs at one of the roller skaters. She raised her left hand, made a fist, then made her thumb pop up. Then she got up and sat down on another bench. The roller skater sped by the vacated bench and scooped up a green piece of paper. Another roller skater passed the waiting woman and dropped something in her lap.
There was a knock at the door. Chief O'Neill came in. "How're you doing, Yan?"
Yan was doing fine. He showed O'Neill 'what was going on below.
O'Neill nodded. "The roller skaters are members of Trevor's gang. Small stuff. Dime bags. Retail bullshit. We're after Trevor for the murder of Maggotmaid. Or, rather, Hurrell is after Trevor." The chief smiled. "We all have our hang-ups."
O'Neill talked about Trevor while he drove the commissaris to the lecture. Traffic was congested, but they had ample time. The commissaris learned why Hurrell was particularly interested in Trevor E. Lee, an oil heir from Houston who had wasted his fortune and was now going all out to make up for his losses.
"It's kind of personal," O'Neill said. "Hurrell has just got to get Trevor. I don't like that much but I think we better give in a bit, for the sergeant's peace of mind." O'Neill grinned. "If there is such a thing. A contradiction in terms. How can something as essentially restless as a mind be peaceful?"
"Just before falling asleep," the commissaris said.
O'Neill laughed. "Or when it isn't working." He tapped the commissaris's arm. "Here is the deal with
The commissaris remembered that, in the dream, the tram driver's voice was deep and husky. He wondered what this could mean. Was he feeding a demon or a goddess? The sharing of his cheese sandwiches and apple with the long-legged creature had been erotically interesting, despite the fact — or maybe because — his dream companion stared at him with empty eye sockets. The commissaris remembered that, as a young boy, adult women, when they displayed their legs, often drove him mad with desire.
What could the symbol of the blond tram driver's legs have to do with his present quest?
Cats were passing the restaurant's windows and the three musicians behind the counter were harmonizing their song, much encouraged by the cafe's clients.
The commissaris concentrated on the painting of the youthful and naked Mamere and her tongue-lolling dog under the palm tree of her native Haiti.
"You like?" the real Mamere asked when she finally served the eggs. He nodded. She pointed at the huge painting. "That was dreamtime when I got my sons." She named the men behind the cafe's counter. "Dieudonne, Zazeu and FilsTrois," Mamere said proudly. "I very fertile then."
"Beautiful voices Dieudonne, Zazeu and FilsTrois have," the commissaris said.
"You better accent in French than in English,"
Mamere said. "What you do for profession?"
The commissaris said that he was a policeman from Amsterdam, investigating the recent death of a countryman, another Hollandais, near Central Park West.
"Ah," Mamere said noncommittally, then rushed off to pour more coffee.
Back in his suite the commissaris still had a few minutes before he was to be picked up. He looked down at the park. There were benches there where people kept sitting down and getting up. Young men on roller skates whizzed around at high speed. The commissaris noticed a system in the complicated movements, a well-organized activity. He concluded that, possibly, drugs were being dealt. He watched a young woman, dressed in a neat suit with a tailored blouse: an office worker, a secretary maybe. She made signs at one of the roller skaters. She raised her left hand, made a fist, then made her thumb pop up. Then she got up and sat down on another bench. The roller skater sped by the vacated bench and scooped up a green piece of paper. Another roller skater passed the waiting woman and dropped something in her lap.
There was a knock at the door. Chief O'Neill came in. "How're you doing, Yan?"
Yan was doing fine. He showed O'Neill 'what was going on below.
O'Neill nodded. "The roller skaters are members of Trevor's gang. Small stuff. Dime bags. Retail bullshit. We're after Trevor for the murder of Maggotmaid. Or, rather, Hurrell is after Trevor." The chief smiled. "We all have our hang-ups."
O'Neill talked about Trevor while he drove the commissaris to the lecture. Traffic was congested, but they had ample time. The commissaris learned why Hurrell was particularly interested in Trevor E. Lee, an oil heir from Houston who had wasted his fortune and was now going all out to make up for his losses.
"It's kind of personal," O'Neill said. "Hurrell has just got to get Trevor. I don't like that much but I think we better give in a bit, for the sergeant's peace of mind." O'Neill grinned. "If there is such a thing. A contradiction in terms. How can something as essentially restless as a mind be peaceful?"
"Just before falling asleep," the commissaris said.
O'Neill laughed. "Or when it isn't working." He tapped the commissaris's arm. "Here is the deal with
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