Janwillem De Wetering - Just a Corpse at Twilight

"Then what?"

"More loss of self-esteem in the homeless shelter. Drunken driving in stolen cars. The judge will make them watch bad news in jail."

"Can that boat be repaired?"

"No," Ishmael said, "but money could buy them something better."

"Plenty of cash around here," Grijpstra said.

"All they have to do is find it," Ishmael said.

Now that the quest for corpse-eating birds had led nowhere Ishmael steered further out. Macho Bandido was sailing a few miles offshore, close to the wind, looking good and trim. So was the captain, a dapper little man in a blue blazer and white slacks, and a hat with a gold-braided visor.

"Bildah Farnsworth," Ishmael said, making the Tai-lorcraft dip its wings. Bildah waved. Hairy Harry's bald pointed skull shone in the bright sunlight. Obscenely, Grijpstra thought.

"Rubbed himself with sun-blocking oil," Ishmael said. "All that bald skin might burn badly in this weather."

The sheriff, reading the commentary in the sky, flashed a glimmering fist. The Tailorcraft, startled, veered back to the coast.

"Not so friendly now," Grijpstra said, looking back at the white sailboat, dainty now in the distance. He shook his head. "That sheriff is bad."

"Badly blissful at times," Ishmael said.

Grijpstra thought that was a contradiction in terms. A crime is a violation of a social law, aiming to diminish the common good. A criminal, damaging the well-being of the tribe to which he belongs, especially when he is chosen to protect the tribe's good, feels guilty. Guilt and happiness are opposite feelings and cannot go together. He explained as much.

Ishmael explained differently. Bad bliss comes about by outsmarting tribal pressure. "Bildah Farnsworth and Hairy Harry are good at that."

Grijpstra grunted.

"I'm surprised you're small-minded," Ishmael said.

"There's good," Grijpstra said, "there's bad."

Ishmael shook his head. "We made that up ourselves. How about supposing there's neither? There's having a good time, though, but who dares to have it? Maybe Hairy Harry does." Ishmael narrowed his eyes wishfully while he poked Grijpstra's chest. "Let me tell you. There's a lake here, inland a bit. Few people can find it but its easy to spot from the sky. A perfectly round lake, great for racing. There was a big marijuana plantation close by owned by out-of-county folks who Harry busted. One of the spoils was an antique speedboat with a racing engine.

"There she is," Ishmael said.

The Tailorcraft had reached the inland lake. The speedboat was still there, wrecked on rocks. "Silly Billy Boy did that," Ishmael said. "Billy Boy isn't very good with boats. Billy Boy isn't good at being happy. Hairy Harry is better. Hairy Harry is also a better boater. That day when I was flying across the lake he was zipping about at full speed, one happy sheriff in the smoothest of antique glorious speedboats, and behind him, water skiing, was…"

Ishmael turned to Grijpstra. "Can you hear me, Krip?"

"Yes."

"Engine not too noisy?"

"No."

"… was a goddess, a naked goddess. The goddess was happy too."

"Good," Grijpstra said.

Ishmael's smile was crafty. "Kripstra, would you like to know who that honey-skinned long-legged raven-haired tumbly-titted goddess might have been?"

"Not Aki," Grijpstra said. "Not even when you say so. Okay?"

Ishmael patted Grijpstra's shoulder. "Just trying to make a point, Krip." He winked. "To myself maybe. I don't like to take sides. There aren't any, you know."

They flew home, Ishmael quietly, Grijpstra pensively for a while. To cheer himself Grijpstra watched for gasoline bubbles on the windscreen but the fuel pump worked fine now. They saw Ishmael's home on the way to Jameson's airstrip: the four-storied canning factory, no longer working, close to the Point at the tip of the peninsula. They also saw Kathy Two, stuffing around a small weathered cabin on Bar Island.

"Looking for Lorraine," Ishmael said. The dog was standing up against the cabin's door.

"You know what twirling is?" Ishmael asked. He demonstrated the term, first making the plane gain height, then switching off the engine and twisting the Tailorcraft down. "Like a leaf in autumn?" Ishmael asked. "You like that?"

Grijpstra's eyes were closed but he heard Kathy Two bark furiously.

"It's like Lorraine is still alive," Ishmael said. "Like Kathy Two is disappointed that her friend isn't home."

Grijpstra groaned from an increasing depth of bottomless fear.

"If Lorraine," Ishmael was saying from a considerable distance, "were not alive, as you seem to think-since who were we looking for all morning, eh, Mister Detective?- Mrs. Farnsworth wouldn't bark, no sir, that dog would howl "

Grijpstra howled. The Tailorcraft was close to the water when Ishmael started the engine up again. The little plane straightened out easily and skimmed waves. "It's okay when there are waves," Ishmael said. "With waves you can see the surface. I lost a plane once when the water was still. You're supposed to buzz the water with your propeller, to see where it is so you won't hit it, but I hadn't learned that yet. The plane broke up when it dived and turned over.

"And you?"

"I broke my neck," Ishmael said, "but they can fix that now. They couldn't fix the plane, though."

"No," Nellie said, half awake. "You've got his number? Shall I give it to you? Or are you out of quarters again? Shall I ask him to phone you? I don't want to do this anymore. I keep forgetting the questions. Are you all right? HenkieLuwie, come back quickly now, stay away from that woman."

Grijpstra, leaning against Beth's Diner's wall, next to the pay phone, looked at Jameson Harbor. The fishing fleet was out. Macho Bandido, impeccable again, sails twirled and sheathed, tugged gently at its mooring. Bildah Farnsworth was on board, tipping back a shot glass, smacking his lips, swallowing, shivering, smiling. Hairy Harry, naked down to his gleaming bare belly button, was tearing off the top of another beer fresh from the cooler, watching rivulets of condensation run down the can's sides, pouring down foamy frothy cold

… outdoing the commercials, Grijpstra thought. Grijpstra wanted to join Hairy Harry, have a beer himself, merge good and evil, go boating on the bay, tell jokes, laugh with his new friend, take Aki along, two charming and intelligent Akis-or three, one for Bildah too. Why all this animosity? Share a lovely planet in an unlimited universe, enjoy the short stay.

The pay phone rang. "Yessir," Grijpstra said, "did you just go to bed? Sorry to wake you up, sir."

"Adjutant," the commissaris said sleepily. "Oh, I beg your pardon, Henk, I mean, uh…"

"It's okay, sir," Grijpstra said. "You've been directing the case, I gather. How are your legs? I could have asked Nellie to phone you later but she hung up. Your legs bothering you, sir?"

"No," the commissaris said, "in fact, I'm planning to have a look at the Maine coast myself, but… no, please, Katrien, go back to bed. Sorry, Adjutant…"

"Yessir. Any suggestions, sir?"

"Well, I'm sure you're doing an excellent job. I wish I could.. . no, please, Katrien, nobody is going anywhere yet… Oh dear, now what have I done? Suggestions, Adjutant?"

"Yessir. Questions. Anything I should be doing now since I still can't find the body?"

"You're looking for the grave?"

"Maybe there isn't a grave," Grijpstra said. "Flash and Bad George don't strike me as too efficient."

"They did save your life, though."

"That was the dog."

"The famous dog." The commissaris chuckled. "Yes, I heard that."

"You had me taped, didn't you, sir?"

"Uh… yes… Katrien bought the machine, a recording gadget that clips to Nellie's phone. Very clear, Ad-Henk, wonderful what this new audio equipment can do. So, you think Flash and friend threw Lorraine's body overboard?"