Dutch Coffee Shop

By Jay Scully

Dutch Coffee Shop
A Synopsis

Welcome to the world of Amsterdam . . . coffee shops and red-light districts . . . murder and intrigue . . . a heist . . . an American who saw it for what it was . . . an opportunity.

This American, Jimmy Dempsey, long ago is accused of a murder he did not commit. A good-ole-boy from south Mississippi . . . he decides to fake his death and flee to Holland rather than face prosecution. Years later, Hunt, as he is now known by the locals, finds himself in the employ of gangsters, selling weed out of a Dutch coffee shop. When Hunt finds out that he is a free man, exonerated for the murder of his former girlfriend, he decides to return to America. Before returning home, Hunt attempts one last score, which puts him and his friends in peril. When Hunt disappears without a trace, his family is alerted, and the roller coaster ride begins.

William Dempsey, eighteen, embarks on a trip to the Netherlands in search of his long-lost brother. He finds himself in the underground world of prostitutes, mob bosses, and weed-tenders. From Amsterdam his journey takes him to South Holland, in a small city called Terneuzen. Really, it’s more like the Wild-West of Cannabis. A wholesaler’s paradise. The Sam’s Club for Amsterdam. A world that he knows nothing about . . . where hippies and junkies run rampant and gangsters patrol the town. William encounters them all. Quickly he finds himself on the trail of his elusive older brother, where a path of lies and deceit lead him along his way.

Constantijn van der Pol, the most powerful mob boss in South Holland, is also looking for the man known as Hunt. A Sicilian by blood . . . Van der Pol and his brood will stop at nothing to find the American who betrayed them all. . . .
A deep, dark novel about redemption . . . striking a chord within the soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jay Scully
• Release date: Jun 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311380326

Jay Scully

Jay ScullyJay Scully was born in “Katrina Country” on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. Following college at the University of Southern Mississippi, where he obtained a Bachelor of Science in International Business, Scully traveled to Holland, where he lived for the next three years, forming the basis for what would be his first novel, Dutch Coffee Shop.

Book preview

(The Future)

A month after the heist started, the American fugitive sat in the Bulldog No. 90, a coffee shop deep in the heart of Amsterdam’s Red Light District. With one of the weed-tenders, he smoked a joint of Super Skunk and held a quiet conversation. On his mind were the last nine years of his life, as well as the money in the Gucci messenger bag between his legs. This money would give him a new start. Nine bloody years, he said to himself. It was a long time. He wondered if the people at home would accept him, welcome him back with open arms, or if they would say, Oh, here comes old Jimmy Dempsey, back from the dead. Look at him, he’s got that long hair, and he’s been doing all those drugs.

Regardless, he’d find out soon. To him, it didn’t matter though, one way or the other. He was going home, he had the money, and he would just build a house in the country and say the hell with everybody if it came to that.

Surely Hannah had gotten the letter. Surely she was on her way to meet him. Surely she was going to fly off into the sunset with him. Or maybe it was just a fantasy, he thought dourly. Maybe he was kidding himself. Was he delusional to think that she still loved him? Would she show up at the last minute? Or would he lose the love of his life forever?

So, the weed-tender said, you are on the way to Denmark, then?

In nearly flawless Dutch, the elusive American replied, Yeah, I have some business up there, and then I’m heading back to the States. He looked down at his Gucci messenger bag, making doubly sure it was safe.

The weed-tender wondered how the American had learned to speak Dutch so well. He said, Do you have business in Amsterdam?

Something like that, came the reticent reply. Nine years, he reminded himself. Was she going to show, or would he continue on to Denmark without her?

What’s your name? the Bulldog employee asked.

They call me Hunt.

So Hunt, you gonna tell me what you do?

Let’s just say I trade. I’m supposed to be meeting someone here today, and I thought: what better place than the legendary Bulldog coffee shop? Where the hell was she? He’d mailed the letter on time; he was sure of it.

Yes, many Americans come here to see the famous coffee shop. The Bulldog employee, like he’d done a thousand times, went on to explain the history of coffee shops and how they started in Amsterdam.

Hunt took the last drag of the Super Skunk joint and stubbed it out into the ashtray. He said, So your boss, Henk de Vries, he’s the one who started it all?

Not exactly, replied the Dutchman, who was accustomed to telling the story. "In 1972, the Mellow Yellow on Wesperzijde opened. Back then the coffee shops were called tea-houses, you see, places where hippies met to smoke and trade their dope."

What about the cops?

For a few years, there was much resistance from law enforcement, but eventually they realized that their real problem lay with hard-drugs like heroin and cocaine sold by the Chinese and the Turkish mafia.

Hunt nodded.

"Then my boss, Henk de Vries, opened the first Bulldog coffee shop, in 1975. Now, he was arrested many times. But he persevered. And maybe because his customers were common folk—just like you and me—they ultimately left him alone. From there, the narcotics force turned a blind eye to places like the Mellow Yellow and the Bulldog. My boss was a pioneer, and the coffee shops of today in Amsterdam owe a great debt to Henk."

Does Mr. De Vries come around sometimes?

Sometimes, yes.

Man, Hunt said, drawing out the word, "I’d love to meet him."

Perhaps he’ll come by today; you never know.

Hunt thought back to his own country—the good-old U.S.A; he knew that America’s Henk de Vries was still generations away.

You gotta give this a try, the weed-tender said, lighting up another joint. It’s called Silver Haze.

The Super Skunk—a strain actually engineered in America—had been strong, but when Hunt took his first toke of the Silver Haze he was overtaken by its potency. He worked on the joint as long as his lungs would allow and then proffered it back to its owner.

It was then that Hunt’s ear caught a familiar tune, R.E.M.’s It’s the End of the World as We Know It, which sent him back in time.

++++

To nine years precisely … nine years earlier at three in the morning on April 1, 1988, on the humid Mississippi Gulf Coast, where Jimmy Dempsey, as they knew him then, drove his pear-green VW Camper van west down Highway 90. In the rear-view mirror he noticed a single set of headlights. Otherwise, a pitch-black night stared back at him. In front of him: the four-mile Bay Bridge, connecting Pass Christian to Bay St. Louis. Perfect, just that one car, he thought. If there was ever a time, it was now. Not a boat in sight, not a car anywhere.

While driving, Jimmy thought about the ill-fated events that had brought him to this lonely bridge on this lonely night. He remembered the detectives questioning him hours upon hours, and he remembered seeing their reactions of disbelief. No matter what Jimmy said, the detectives kept saying … sure, we understand! . . . We know you’re not the kind of guy who would do this . . . this unspeakable crime! They consoled him. They gave him food and a Coke. They even doled out cigarettes one by one, letting him smoke during their interrogation. His father, a criminal defense lawyer, had explained to him long ago about the cops’ techniques of extracting confessions. Warm ‘em up and then reel ‘em in," his father used to say. Jimmy wasn’t having any of it; after all, he was innocent. When it was apparent that they weren’t buying his story, he asked for a lawyer. Jimmy recalled how this infuriated them and how he knew at some point in the near future that he would be charged with the murder of his neighbor and former girlfriend, Mary Cay Dotson.

It was ridiculous! Why hadn’t they believed him?

As Jimmy neared the half-way point of the bridge, he slowed the van to a crawl and edged to the shoulder. The unmistakable woof of the German engine muffled in the air. It was the 1976 Westphalia model, which converted into several arrangements—including an extra bed in the pop-up compartment which slept two comfortably. Jimmy could remember the times when he and the boys would take trips to Fort Walton Beach, Florida in the van. At the conclusion of those weekends, he recalled the foul stench of four guys who’d been drinking, smoking, farting, and throwing up for three days straight.

The headlights behind him were upon him now. Keep your cool, he said to himself. Don’t panic! Everything’ll be all right! He looked back once again . . . then forward . . . and turned on the hazard lights. With a shaky hand he grabbed an envelope from the glove-box, stuck it on the dashboard, and slipped out of the van. The cool breeze of the bay sent a shiver down his spine. Jimmy saw that the other vehicle, a red Mercury Cougar, had stopped, pulled up right behind his own vehicle, waiting for his next move. What should he do? he wondered. Casually walk over, or run toward the other car? Deciding on the latter, taking one last look around to make sure the coast was clear, he took off in a sprint, raced for the passenger side of the Cougar, flung open the door, and was happily greeted by the love of his life.

++++

Later that day, when the morning cleared and the afternoon came, Jimmy and the pretty lady found themselves on the same stretch of road, approaching the same bridge, but under a different set of circumstances. This time they had other plans—they were driving to New Orleans to catch a flight. It was strange, he thought, because it was April Fool’s Day and it was raining yet the sun shone brightly. He remembered back to his youth, hanging out with his father, who, at times like these, would say, Look, son! The Devil’s beating his wife. When you see that, boy, it means something.

The red Cougar, a rental from Hertz, rounded Henderson Point. It was here that the sky opened to a blue tarp; where the rain had stopped. Hmm, he said to himself. The Devil’s wife is safe now. That he was comparing the weather to his present life made him uncomfortable; Jimmy couldn’t help wondering if he had done the right thing. Perhaps it was the Devil leading him along!

Only time would tell.

Jimmy passed the spot on the bridge where he had left his treasured van not twelve hours ago. He knew there would be an APB out on him and any vehicle that he owned. He also thought about the old adage that his father had taught him: Criminals always return to the scene of the crime. As Jimmy peered over the bridge, he noticed several Coast Guard vessels. It appeared that they were dredging the waters. Jimmy knew that they were looking for his dead body. He gave them a little waive and whispered, Guess y’all opened up the envelope and found the note—good luck, boys! At that moment, Jimmy Dempsey realized that he may never see American soil again.

When they made it across the bridge, the road was uneven and rutty—the Mississippi Department of Transportation always had to repair it at some point along the coastline. Mother Nature simply didn’t want the damn road there. Cone-infested work-areas displayed signs that read: SPEEDING FINES DOUBLED WHILE MEN AT WORK. And they meant it.

With concern in his eyes, Jimmy looked over at his companion and said, We have to catch that plane!

You must not to vorry, the Dutch girl said in her weedy accent.

If we don’t, they’ll be red-flaggin’ me all over the country, and then I’m screwed, y’hear me—SCREWED!

The van was suddenly jerked to the right; an inundated drain had pulled them sideways. Jimmy instinctively countered to the left, something you knew you had to do if you grew up in South Mississippi driving on Highway 90. Above them and to the right, a pod of pelicans flew like the head of an arrow.

It is very interesting how these birds fly in the letter V.

Pelicans, yes, he told her. Supposedly they can go on flying like that for hundreds of miles. He saw the rear pelican move into the lead. See how they do that? That’s how they feed off of each other . . . with the drafts.

It is very lovely, said the girl taking him away from it all. The father from you, he vas good man, no?

The smartest I’ve ever known, Jimmy said, He had his enemies, though. Kinda goes with the territory . . . when you defend criminals for a living. Jimmy could feel tears welling in his eyes; he didn’t want to think about his father’s death. Not right now. He couldn’t stop himself though, so he found himself saying, softly: When Mama came and told me that Daddy had a heart-attack, the first thing I thought she was gonna say was that he was up at Gulfport Memorial Hospital hooked up to all those tubes. I thought he was gonna be all right. I did. I never thought she was gonna tell me that he didn’t make it. That he died. You know! But that’s the way it happened. And I wasn’t going to jail without my father here to defend me. You see, I was framed.

The Dutch girl shot him a quizzical look. Vat is this word, ‘framed’?

You know, the police blamed me for the crime. Next thing I know, I’m being arrested. Mama knew I wouldn’t do such a thing. Heck, everyone knew it—but the cops. Daddy could’ve shown ‘em I was innocent. Without him, though, I’d’ve been stuck with a Public Defender. Jimmy could tell that his response had confused the poor girl. "You know, the judge would’ve hired me one of those ‘free lawyers.’ Then the jury would’ve gone into the guilty room, and I’d be spending the rest of my life in the state pen at Parchman. Like my father always said, ‘You get what you pay for.’ Shit, those convicts woulda just loved me, if you know what I mean. Hell no. You know what would’ve happened? When Daddy’s old clients got wind that I was locked up with ‘em, they would’ve had a field day with my ass. Jimmy shook his head. That’s when I decided to get the hell outta here. That’s about the time I met you!"

I believe you haf made the right decision, the Dutch girl said. Hannah was her name, Hannah van den Berg—and in English it literally meant Hannah from the Mountains. Maybe she was his savior—he didn’t know—he couldn’t say for sure—the lady who came out of the mountains to save his soul.

I haf been through difficult times before, she told him. My father has arranged everything. He will be vaiting for us in Amsterdam. You will haf a new identity—a new life!

Jimmy Dempsey had the fake passport in his bag—a one Jimmy L. Hunt.

++++

Back in Amsterdam, Hunt was snapped back to reality by the weed-tender, who said, So, do you think your friend will show?

Doesn’t look like it, Hunt said, thinking: So long, Hannah; maybe we’ll meet again.

You must come back and visit sometime, the weed-tender said.

Hunt gave the Dutchman his hand. Maybe so, we’ll see—

Good luck, my friend!

Thanks, I’ll need it, said Hunt, as he placed a firm grip on his Gucci messenger bag and left the Bulldog No. 90.

PART I

GOOD INTENTIONS

Chapter 1

(Five Weeks Earlier)

In a barn on a remote farm in South Holland, on Thursday, August 29, 1996, Jari Visser, right-hand-man to Constantijn van der Pol, had his victim shackled to a chair. The man’s name was Roosevelt, and Rosie had betrayed the family.

How could you be so fuggin stupid, you dupe? Visser pumped Roosevelt’s Adam’s apple as if it were an orthopedic handball. Fuggin dumb motherfugger, you are!

Roosevelt pleaded for clemency.

Begging will get you nowhere, the unruly gangster told the doomed man. What’s done is done. With that, Visser began his ritual de lo habitual, slipping into his famous brass-knuckles with the embedded point-cut diamonds protruding from the frame. Many have met a similar fate, he said, and went over to the window and cut multiple lines at once with the hard stones. And you thought you could just fuggin walk away. Not this time, my friend!

But, Jari . . . wait . . . no . . . please!

It’s no use, Visser said, I have my orders. The unruly gangster stood above Roosevelt and rotated his fist in the light.

The diamonds sparkled in Roosevelt’s eyes. Please, Jari! . . . You know me! Perhaps we can come to some kind of deal. I have money; I can pay you! He was frantic now, knowing what was about to come.

This is not about the fuggin money, Rosie. It’s about your lack of respect, Visser said calmly, all business. When I get done tenderizing you, you’re going to the boss’s villa. He wants to throw you to the fuggin piggies himself. Visser loved the reaction this got; it was well known that Constantijn van der Pol liked to feed evidence to his hogs. While the pigs did a fine job of devouring most of the proof, they were unable to digest the victims’ hair and teeth, which necessitated that the sites be thoroughly inspected a few days after a feeding.

With the deft strokes of a maestro, Visser criss-crossed the sharp stones up and down Roosevelt’s body, tearing through the poor man’s clothes and skin. Roosevelt, bleeding like a stuck pig, emitted low groans and made distorted misshapen expressions as his body was torn to shreds.

Jari Visser often wondered what it felt like . . . to be boss. To take orders from no one. That he was fed up with Constantijn’s bullshit was an understatement. I’m fuggin tired of having to administer the punishments, to bury the fuggin bodies, he told himself. There are plenty of other guys in the family who can do these jobs. Why does Constantijn always have to pawn the little shit off on me? It was no wonder that he often fantasized about taking out the chief—and there were a bunch of ways to do it, ideas he’d gotten from watching films like Scarface and The Godfather.

Visser thought back to the days of his youth; he was a skinny and uncoordinated lad, the boy that everyone teased, the one who got his lunch money heisted daily.

As the small Dutchman entered his teens, the skinny boy would have no more. Visser would never forget those days. Early in his career as a gangster, he had spent much of his time in the gym, weightlifting (shooting-up steroids) and training in mixed-martial arts with his younger brother Janny.

Now, at twenty-seven, Jari Visser was a wrecking machine—and one of the most feared men in South Holland.

Even Constantijn van der Pol, the Don of the family, was no match for him.

Visser took one more look around the barn and said to himself: Fug this shit! Motherfugger’s had about all he can take. He glanced at the gory mess strapped to the chair and said to his entourage, Take the fugger away!

++++

Ivar van Looy, a.k.a. The Expediter, was the man the family turned to when they needed something moved. And although the boss would never admit it, part of the reason Constantijn van der Pol had never liked him was the fact that he got all the ladies. Like most of the gangsters in Terneuzen, The Expediter’s hair was long. Maybe the longest of all the men in town. Like an extravagant debutante, he usually kept it wrapped in a bun. For Ivar van Looy, on a personal level, was clean and well-groomed, quite the lady’s man. Over a set of high cheekbones, the God-given trait of a pure-blooded Dutchman, brown eagle-shaped eyes stared at the world as if they came from the gaze of a male-stripper in a room full of hot women. He was six-foot two, built like a gymnast and could fight like Bruce Lee.

And one of the family’s best earners (yet unmade, which, in his eyes, was unfair). The boys looked up to him. He was the man that the men wanted to be and the man that the women wanted to be with. And when the boys were desperate for a solution, when all their leads had evaporated, Ivar van Looy was the one that they called. Hell, he moved everything—hashish, weed, cocaine, heroin—you name it! He even dabbled in stolen cars and merchandise. His specialty was in fact providing safe transportation for all types of contraband. Hence, his nickname: The Expediter.

Truthfully, Ivar van Looy felt cheated; he didn’t feel like he’d gotten his due. Every fucking time, you get the finger. Not that he wasn’t taken care of—he’d secured his position in the family years ago—but an unmade guy was an unmade guy, no bones about it. You had restrictions, you had limitations, and you never got a real piece of the pie.

Only the crumbs.

This time around The Expediter had planned to shoot the moon; he had decided to take matters into his own hands. He had a plan, let’s just say. As he approached the boss, he reminded himself: Fuck, nobody’ll ever know, feeling his body tense up before he said to Constantijn:

I gotta guy outta Luxembourg. Says he’s looking to move a hundred keys of our prime shit.

The Nepalese hashish? Constantijn inquired.

A hundred kilos at fifty-thousand guilders each. The Expediter twitched his head to the side, raised his brows and added: It’s quite a sum.

Constantijn did the math. Five million guilders, actually! And you trust the source?

Looks legit to me, The Expediter said.

What’s our cut?

We got in for ten a key.

Four million. Constantijn subtracted Ivar’s finder’s fee. That’s forty-thousand guilders to you, he said with a smile.

The Expediter thought about his measly one-percent. Not a bad day’s pay! he said, feigning cheerfulness, thinking: Greedy fuckin’ bastard! Fucking lousy one-percent! What the fuck is that? Oh well, it doesn’t matter; I’m gonna get mine.

The Zeeland boss asked: When will this deal take place?

Soon, The Expediter said. The guy says he wants to move the shit quick.

++++

Sophie du Bois was one of the most beautiful women in Terneuzen. Sophie Strange, as she was known throughout the town, was twenty-two-years-old, had the legs of a baby giraffe, and an ass like a plucot. To a man her exotic looks and sweet demeanor performed like a tractor-beam of seduction. Her hair was a golden blond, straight, with natural honey highlights. A Jennifer Anniston in her heyday. While soft layers framed her face, a heavy fringe parted her forehead to the side, falling across almond-shaped eyes. That she was one of the more popular town prostitutes should come as no surprise.

On this particular day she had been thinking that her pimp, Jari Visser, was due back at the flat any minute; he’d been gone longer than usual. She sat on the couch and thought about this when—speak of the Devil!—he pulled up in the driveway. She heard him getting out of his BMW, blurting obscenities into his cell phone. Sophie du Bois would remember this day because it was the last Thursday in August; her pimp barreled into the room looking like he’d just gotten back from a job. Coagulated blood covered his knuckles; dark-maroon spots dotted his clothing. She didn’t want to think about how the other guy looked.

Visser found his whore, as usual, high on cocaine; like two orbs her eyes were glued to the television. He took one look around the room and said, Don’t you ever clean up this fuggin pigsty?

Sophie Strange gave him a glance that said fuck you for saying it, and then went back to watching Baywatch, making a subtle attempt to avoid a confrontation.

"You rent Scarface like I told you?"

It’s over on the table, she said indignantly.

The unruly gangster threw his cell phone on the counter. As he put the video cassette in the VCR—to Sophie’s chagrin—his phone rang. The prostitute, at arm’s length, answered. Before she got the chance to say hello, Visser flew across the room and jerked the phone out of her hand. What the fug you doing answering my phone? he said. Don’t you ever fuggin do that again! He brought the receiver up to his ear. Oh, sorry, boss . . . yeah . . . no, no . . . I had a little fuggin problem with the bitch.

After a few quaint pleasantries, the boss said to him: How’d that thing go?

It’s no problem, Visser told him. The boys’ll see you later.

Constantijn van der Pol understood this as confirmation; Roosevelt’s mangled body was in transit to the farm as they spoke. Good, then, the Zeeland boss said, and then added, Will you be coming for dinner?

Visser knew that Constantijn was asking him if he’d be there for the feeding. No, the unruly gangster chimed, I gotta do that thing in Prague. And I’m bringing a lady-friend, so you won’t be able to reach me.

Just come back in one piece, Constantijn told him.

Visser laughed. See you in a few days, then.

After Visser concluded his conversation with the boss, he turned back to Sophie and gave it half-a-minute’s thought how to deal with her; he’d be gone for several days and he didn’t want her straying because she had suddenly found some higher conscience.

Sophie Strange was coming down off the coke, and she hated the feeling that it gave her. The prostitute was curled up on the sofa in a lavender nightgown, with no panties and a swollen vagina. Even with the two pots of coffee that she’d drunk throughout the day, her plane was still on a crash course.

Badly in need of a bump.

No, she told herself, a rail!

To get Sophie’s attention, Visser pulled out several packets of cocaine and started organizing them on the coffee table.

The prostitute’s eyes curled toward the drugs. Through a mouthful of water she said, One of those for me?

Visser stopped his prostitute in her tracks. Don’t tell me you fuggin went through the last shit I gave you already?

Petra stopped by, she said. We did a little too much—

A little too much! Visser snapped. What the fug you talking about? That shoulda been enough to last you all fuggin week. And what have I told you about having peoble over?

But—

No but’s, bitch—you want one of these, you’re gonna have to fuggin work for it. Jari threw a packet at her, put the others back in his jacket and unzipped his fly.

Like a kid who gets a familiar piece of candy, Sophie Strange opened the package with ease. The prostitute dipped her long pinkie-nail into the white powder, brought it up to one of her nostrils and sucked in the strong drug.

Twenty minutes later, when Sophie was done blowing him off, Visser said, I’m going out of town for a few days, so you’d better keep this place in order. I don’t wanna hear no fuggin bullshit when I get back! . . . You got that?

The prostitute stretched her mouth and moved her jaw to the side; she hated the way that her mouth tensed up after oral sex. When’re you coming back? she said, anticipating, with her source leaving town, the onset of the DT’s.

"I’ll be back . . . when I’m back. Don’t fuggin worry about it! And you’d better have this fuggin place cleaned up."

Asshole, she thought. I’ll need some money for cleaning supplies.

Visser pulled out a roll of bills, peeled off a few, threw them in the air like confetti. There! he said. And don’t stop by the fuggin pubs.

Visser’s dog, Fritz, witnessing the mean-spirited routine of his master, lay on his scraggly mat in the foyer. Through a crack in the door, he looked on cautiously; he knew the verbal onslaught was soon to come.

The unruly gangster stepped into the foyer and said, Fritz, you fuggin mutt! I’ll cut your fuggin balls off if you don’t behave.

Sophie Strange knew that her pimp had problems keeping the beast in order at times; the dog was too mixed. To Jari then she said, Why don’t you try being nice to him for a change?

Why don’t you try shutting the fug up, Visser shot back rhetorically, a hint of superciliousness in his voice.

Fritz dropped his ears but stood firm; he awaited commands. His master flinched in his direction and pretended to kick. On cue, Fritz let out ear-curdling yelp that would ward off any further attack.

What—like that? Visser said, pretending to kick again.

You’re so mean . . . !

Gaw, the motherfugger lives for it. Visser reached down and massaged the beast’s neck. For a second anyway. With the abruptness and adroit flair of an assassin, the unruly gangster clamped onto Fritz’s spine and sent the dog’s body into a momentary state of paralysis.

The dog appeared docile; Sophie Strange knew that Fritz would remain motionless until commanded otherwise. At the snap of a finger the gentle-looking oversized mutt could turn into a processor of flesh, with no regard to fear—something Jari had taught all of his animals.

Fritz didn’t move a muscle; he knew it would be over if he did.

Visser let go of the mutt, wiped his hands off on his pants and turned his attention back to his prostitute. Tomorrow you’re gonna have three blokes stop by. Belgian. They’re paying good money, so do ‘em up—

Come on, Jari, the prostitute said, grabbing her crotch. I’m really hurting . . .

Shut your fuggin coffee-hole, Visser shot back. You still got an asshole and a mouth!

Chapter 2

The last day in August started with two nineteen-year-old Belgian women dressed to kill. Both had on leather mini-skirts, with laced stockings, and each sported enough make-up to suit a couple of French whores. They had come to South Holland to buy a large quantity of hashish and, by the looks of them, to seduce the weed-tender into a better deal.

Jimmy Dempsey, known simply as Hunt by the locals in Terneuzen, South Holland, would not be swayed; he’d dealt with their kind on a daily basis.

Kimmy here, she gives one helluva blowjob if the price is right, the brunette with blue eyes said in Flemish, a derivative of Dutch (like listening to an Englishman talk to an American). She’ll take care of you in ways you can’t imagine. And I can even join in if you like. She left the statement with a wink.

Hunt smelled fresh, minty breath emanating from the feline’s words. He was tempted. However, he said, For the quality you’re getting, babycakes, fifteen a kilo is a good deal. The American had the trace of an accent when he spoke Dutch; he always would.

The brunette said, What if we up the order next time, say ten kilos? Would that lower the price?

Ten kilos . . . hmm . . . Hunt let the words hang in the air. That’s a tall order for two lovelies like yourselves. He wondered what they were up to; perhaps they did have a clientele. He told them, Hang on, we might be able to work something out. After some basic math, Hunt came up with the number twelve on the display. He spun the calculator around one hundred eighty degrees and pushed it over for them to see. That’s about the best we can do. Otherwise take the Ketama hashish for ten—it’s nearly as good.

The brunette turned to the one called Kimmy and said something in Flemish—too fast for him to understand. Hunt offered them his usual poker face.

The one called Kimmy said, Give us a kilo of the T-Bisla! If everything works out . . . we’ll be back for more—much more.

Could be legit, Hunt told himself; such was how long-term relationships were established. Okay, then, a kilo it is! He removed four 250 gram plates from under the bar. Instinct told him that these women would be smuggling the goods in their vaginas, so he said, You want me to, uh . . . fix ‘em up for you?

Kimmy batted her eyelids several times and said, If you don’t mind, we’re gonna have to do the dirty deed—

Yeah, the brunette added, we’re in no mood to get harassed by the police.

Hunt said, I’ll shape them up real good for you. Do you need some Vaseline?

What we need, Kimmy said, batting her long fake-eyelashes, is for you to help.

Sorry, girls, he told them, got work to do. Hunt took their money, then turned to Rutger, one of his partners, and said, Rut’, can you help the ladies?

They didn’t call him the platinum gangster for nothing; Rutger was quickly off his feet, all smiles (exuberance really). This way, girls, he said, leading them to the back. Rutger’s suave voice trailed off: So, how’s it going, lovely ladies . . .

About ten minutes later Rutger returned with the women. He could be heard saying: All set, then! Off you go! Perhaps next time we go to the pub for a drink. Despite this gigolo façade, Rutger van Es was no gentleman; the blond man was pure gangster. He looked like a pit-bull. And smart too. Notwithstanding his native language, he was fluent in French, English, and German—all necessary languages to conduct proper business in a coffee shop.

After he said his goodbyes to the women, Rutger saw that Hunt had a Frenchman at the bar, a gregarious man in his mid-thirties, who was evidently looking for a good shop to supply a steady flow of product to French suburbia. Rutger heard the man say that it would become a regular thing if all went well.

Hunt knew enough French to get by. He said, We might be able to help you. What are you looking for specifically?

Preferably weed, the Frenchman said. Why don’t we try two hundred grams of the Super Skunk and see what happens? Perhaps we’ll do kilos after that.

Hunt weighed out the order and loaded it up in a large zip-lock bag. The Frenchman unrolled two large brown bills and handed them over. Perhaps I see you next time. And then the customer left as casually as he had come.

As the hour wore on, the coffee shop overflowed with people. Lined up into the foyer were Belgians, French, English and Germans; such was a typical day. Those who had had their turns at the bar were now over on the paisley sofas smoking, speaking in their foreign tongues, enjoying a day away from their countries where such activity was verboten.

Cannabis smoke drifted in heavy patches.…

And on and on it went for hours . . . until they ran out of product and had to get more.

Dijkstraat—a kilometer of brick road that split the Centrum in half . . . sat in the middle of a vein of forty-seven coffee shops . . . a smoker’s paradise . . . a metropolis for dealers coming from all parts of Europe to dwell in Terneuzen’s lucrative soft-drug market.

Terneuzen’s coffee shops—most of them were nothing but old flats converted into pot-dens, with makeshift bars to cut hashish and fill orders. Each year, in these shops alone, millions of guilders were brokered. They were unlike