asked me questions. How did I sneak goods into the States? I told him, but I think they decided I was too small an operation for what they wanted. I don’t ship watches in big enough quantities, I guess.”
“Have you seen either of them again since?” Now I put the instrument so close to his eye I could see the eyeball tremble, shake in its socket.
He didn’t answer right away and I jabbed the small blade into his palm. He gasped. A little blood welled up from his hand.
“Next the eye. I am serious, Gregor. You do not want to get in my way right now.”
“I haven’t seen Piet again. I had a beer with Nic two nights ago.”
“What’s Nic do?”
“He works with Piet—but I know him just through friends in the business, he does stuff with computers—he’s a bit of a geek. He runs Internet scams, you know, bank letters from Nigeria kind of stuff. I don’t know how he’s gotten involved in smuggling.” His face was tense under my hands. “He’s… he’s odd. I don’t really want to be friends with him, but he always has good e-mail lists for marketing.”
Oh, a spammer. True evil. “Where can I find Nic?” I touched the pointed end of the instrument to my tongue. Wet the metal.
Gregor shuddered under my grip. “He lives above a coffee shop over in the Jordaan neighborhood. But mostly hangs out at a bar. Called the Grijs Gander. It’s down near the Rosse Buurt. They know him there.”
I let him go. Slowly. “You tried to cut my throat,” I said. “If you want me to forget that bad idea of yours, you’ll forget we talked. You don’t mention me unless I need you as a reference with these guys. Then we’re buddies, got it?”
Gregor nodded. “You’re after Piet. Piet, I don’t like. Piet can fry in hell.” He clutched his hurt hand close to him, but carefully, so he didn’t besmirch his suit with the blood. He didn’t look at me. They’re always ashamed after they talk.
“If you tell anyone about our visit, I will be back, Gregor. I mean Nic no harm. I just want to talk to this Piet. But you narc on me to them and I’ll make a phone call and you’ll be on the next plane back to Prague.”
“I’ll say nothing.”
I tucked a little extra wad of euros in his pocket. He nearly sighed with relief. Then I extracted his cell phone and said: “What’s your wife’s name? Your stepdaughter’s?”
His eyes were bright with fear. “Leave them alone, Samson, please.”
“Their names.” I made the words sound limed with frost.
“My wife is Bibi. My stepdaughter is Bettina.”
“I hope you and Bibi are happy, Gregor. Tell Bettina I said happy birthday.” I gave him a long look and said, “If they ever make a film about Peter Lorre, you have a lock on the lead.” I turned and walked out.
I was not used to terrorizing people, and if Gregor hadn’t tried to cut me I would have been a lot gentler. But a scared Gregor was a useful Gregor.
On the street I checked the call log on Gregor’s fancy smartphone. Two days ago, a call from a Nic, late in the afternoon. Probably the invitation to have the beer at the Grijs Gander. I checked the other phone records. Nothing of interest that jumped out. Many calls to Bibi, a few to Bettina. Nothing else.
I checked the voice mails. One from Bibi, in rapid-fire Dutch, reminding him to pick up the party decorations for Bettina. Bibi sounded impatient and drunk, and she told Gregor twice in the voice mail that he was a useless piece of crap, but it was not up to me to question Gregor’s choices. True love was blind, I thought, with a sudden and sharp sting in my chest, thinking of Lucy.
The other voice mail, from a week before, was from Nic: and, bonus, there was a picture of Nic next to the voice mail. Thick-necked, red hair gathered in a short ponytail, no smile. “Grijs Gander, tonight, if you can slip from Bibi’s chain. See you there at six. I want you to meet a friend of mine,” Nic said in the unerased voice mail.
Said friend being Piet. Gregor was good at slipping all sorts across borders, under the authorities’ noses.
What did Piet want smuggled into the States?
30
THE GRIJS GANDER WAS NOT as nice as the Rode Prins. It wasn’t as nice as a broken urinal.
It sat on