Janwillem De Wetering - Outsider in Amsterdam

De Gier didn't feel so powerful now. He was walking with some difficulty. The heat had made his feet swell and he hadn't been able to wear proper shoes for some days. He was wearing heavy leather slippers instead and he had to watch where he was walking. The slippers tended to stick on the heavy cobblestones.

Grijpstra, on the other hand, was enjoying himself. Anything rather than being home, he was thinking. He liked the architecture of the Prisengracht and he chuckled to himself when he saw some little boys playing in the canal on a homemade raft. But then his face clouded. He had remembered his own son, who used to play in the canals as well. His son was growing up now and he wasn't doing well at school. He also seemed to be spending more money than he should. Grijpstra was suspecting him of stealing motorized bicycles and selling their parts. He had warned the boy.

"Isn't that the house where we discovered a stock of stolen motorbike parts?" de Gier asked, pointing at an expensive corner house, an elegant structure belonging to one of the richest men in town."

"Yes," Grijpstra said grumpily.

"Why would that boy had gone to all that trouble?" de Gier asked. "Surely his father must have given him a lot of pocket money. Adventure, I suppose. Got bored, and saw a good film with plenty of action in it and thought he was missing something."

Grijpstra didn't answer.

"He won't have much action now," de Gier said. "The judge gave him a good stretch in the reform school."

"Yes," Grijpstra said grumpily.

"Hey," de Gier said.

Grijpstra looked.

The woman who had been cycling ahead of them wasn't overdressed. A pair of very short pants and a sort of scarf wound tightly around large springy breasts. Two men, working overtime, and offloading a truck, had noticed the wheeled goddess approaching and had staged a mock attack, rushing at the bicycle with outstretched hungry hands. The woman, suddenly startled, lost her balance when her front wheel struck a bad patch of cobblestones. The bicycle skidded and the woman fell off. The scarf came off and the men, overjoyed by their success, pretended to help her on her feet using the opportunity to squeeze her breasts and pat her bottom. The woman screamed. The. ever present passers-by circled the miniature stage and gave their comments. The woman scrambled onto her feet, covered her breasts with her hands, and began to cry.

A sporting gentleman understood what was expected of him and hit one of the bad men. It was a good straight punch and the bad man went down. The other bad man, irritated by the smile on the sporting gentleman's face, revenged his mate.

"Here we go again," Grijpstra said and the ran toward a public call box. An old lady had just opened the door of the call box to go inside and Grijpstra's sudden action nearly knocked her off her feet. She was a tough old lady and jabbed at Grijpstra with her umbrella.

"Police," Grijpstra said.

"They all say that," the old lady said, and nipped into the box. "You wait," she shouted and banged the door in his face.

Grijpstra waited. The old lady's conversation took two minutes. Meanwhile the fight spread. Two bad men against two sporting gentlemen.

Grijpstra finally made his call.

"Fistfight. Corner Prinsengracht Runstraat. One black eye so far and worse to come."

"Can't you manage by yourself?" a sharp voice answered.

Grijpstra grinned, they had recognized his voice.

"I am a detective, mate," he answered. "This is a little job for the uniformed police. They should do something too, once in a while."

"We are on our way," the sharp voice said.

Grijpstra joined the crowd. De Gier was close to the inner ring, not meaning to interfere. He was waiting for a police siren, but the city was quiet, and the fight continued. One of the bad men caught a punch on the nose, grunted and fell.

"Enough," de Gier shouted. "Police! Stop fighting."

He kicked off his slippers, moved close to one of the sporting gentlemen and put a hand on his shoulder.

"You want something?" the sporting gentleman shouted and kicked. Grijpstra jumped forward and grabbed the foot that had missed de Gier. He pulled it up and the sporting gentlemen crashed into the street. De Gier had gone very pale, he supported himself on a parked car. His spine had touched a lamp post with some force and he felt paralyzed.

"Are you all right?" a voice asked and a helping arm circled de Gier's shoulders from behind. De Gier turned his head and looked into a heavily bearded face, framed by a crash helmet.

"You stop that and come with us,^v another voice said. A uniformed policeman was looking at the bearded face as well.

"No no, constable," de Gier said, "this fellow is all right, he wanted to help me. You want those two chaps over there, and the fellow who is going to make a dash for it, there he is. And you can pick up the other one who is sitting against the wall over there, with the black eye. And that pink lady was the cause of it all, you can pick her up as a witness and give her a lecture on clothes. If she had worn some this wouldn't have happened."

"Right, sergeant," the constable said. "That's five people in all. I'll radio for a bus. Are you coming to the station to make a report?"

"In half an hour's time," de Grier said, and rubbed his back. Grijpstra had caught the sporting gentleman who had tried to get away and handed him over to the other constable.

"Are you all right?" he asked de Gier.

"Fine," de Gier said. "I broke my spine, that's all. There are too many lamp posts in Amsterdam."

"Did it rush you?" Grijpstra asked.

The bearded man in the crash helmet grinned. "Can I offer you a beer? I was just going to have one myself when I ran into all this."

"Sure," Grijpstra said.

They found a quiet pub and lined up at the bar.

"Three beers," the bearded man said and took off his crash helmet. "Excuse me a minute, will you? I put my motorcycle against a tree. I'd like to have her in a place where I can see her and put her on her standard."

They saw their newfound friend through the window, pushing a heavy motorcycle.

When he came into the pub again de Gier raised his beer.

"Your health! Nice motorbike you have there. That's a Harley, isn't it?"

"Yes," the bearded man said, "a beauty. I love her. But she is getting old, poor thing. She was built in 1943, you know, an old war machine. There are a lot of things wrong with her now and her sound is getting terrible. But I'll keep her, spend some money and time on her again. She'll be all right."

"Are you looking after her yourself?" de Gier asked.

"Yes," the man said.

"Another three beers," Grijpstra said, and sat down, smiling pleasantly.

"Must be heavy work," Grijpstra said.

"Yes," the man said. "First it's this and then it's that. I should really spend a thousand on her and do good thorough job but I haven't been saving lately. You know how it goes, wife wants a new dress, children go to holiday camps. I am working overtime as it is, almost every night."

"What's she worth now you think," de Gier asked.

The man smacked his lips. "A lot of money. You wouldn't think so but that model is antique. Even a wreck would cost you close to a thousand and then you have to spend a few thousand to get the wreck onto the road. A clever man would buy himself one of these small motorized bicycles, you can buy very good ones for just over a thousand and they'll be twice as fast in the city traffic. These Harleys are slow on the uptake. You can do over a hundred kilometers on the highroad of course but they are slow in town."

"That's a lot of money," de Gier said, "but suppose you wanted an old machine like this in top condition, how much would you have to spend?"

"Six thousand at least," the man said. "It would be worth the money. I have often thought about it. The dealers still have all the parts. For about four thousand you could buy a complete set, and then you'd have to pay a man another two thousand to put them together. I could do it myself perhaps, but I couldn't do all of it. You need a real expert."