Terminal Compromise Part 89

"A mutual friend, Kirk, said I should call you."

"Ah, ya, ya. Repo Man, is it not?" The voice got friendly.

"That's what Kirk calls me."

"Ya, ya. He said you want to attend our meetings. Ya? Is that so?" Jon sounded enthusiastic.

"That's why I swam the Atlantic, all three thousand miles. I would love to!" Jon didn't sound like Scott expected a computer hacker to sound, whatever that was.

"Huh?" Jon asked. "Ah, ya, a joke. Goot. Let me tell you where we meet. The place is small, so it may be very crowded. I hope you do not mind." Jon sounded concerned about Scott's comfort.

"Oh, no. I'm used to inconvenience. I'm sure it will be fine."

"Ya, ya. I expect so. The meetings don't really begin until tomorrow at 9AM. Is that goot for you?"

"Yes, just fine, what's the address?" Scott asked as he readied paper and pen.

"Ya. Go to the warehouse on the corner of Oude Zidjs Voorburg Wal and Lange Niezel. It's around from the Oude Kerksplein.

Number 44."

"Hold it, I'm writing." Scott scribbled the address phonetically.

A necessary trick reporters use when someone is speaking unintel- ligibly. "And then what?"

"Just say you're Repo Man. There's a list. And please remember, we don't use our given names."

"No problem. Fine. Thank you."

"Ya. What do you plan for tonight?" Jon asked happily.

"I hadn't really thought about it," Scott lied.

"Ya, ya. Well, I think you should see our city. Enjoy the unique pleasures Amsterdam has to offer."

"I might take a walk . . . or something."

"Ya, ya, or something. I understand. I will see you tomorrow.

Ya?" Jon said laughing.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Do one favor?" Jon asked. "Watch your wallet. We have many pickpockets."

"Thanks for the warning. See you tomorrow." Click. I grew up in New York, Scott thought. Pickpockets, big deal.

Scott took a shower to remove the vestiges of the eleven hour trip; an hour ride to Kennedy, an hour and a half at the airport, a half hour on the tarmac, seven hours on the plane, and an hour getting into town.

He dressed casually in the American's travel uniform: jeans, jean jacket and warm sweater. He laced his new Reeboks knowing that Amsterdam is a walking city. Driving would be pure insanity unless the goal is sitting in two hour traffic jams. The single lane streets straddle the miles of ca.n.a.ls throughout the inner city which is arranged in a large semi-circular pattern. Down- town, or old Amsterdam, is a dense collection of charming clean, almost pristine 4 story buildings built over a period of several hundred years. That's the word for Amsterdam; charming. From late medieval religious structures to townhouses that are tightly packed on almost every street, to the various Pleins where the young crowds congregate in the evenings, Amsterdam has something for everyone. Anne Frank's house to the Rembrandt Museum to a gla.s.s roofed boat trip down the ca.n.a.ls through the diamond dis- trict and out into the Zeider Zee. Not to mention those attrac- tions for the more prurient.

He ran down the two flights to the hotel lobby and found the concierge behind the Heineken bar which doubled as a registration desk. He wanted to know where to buy some pot.

"Not to find us selling that here," the Pakistani concierge said in broken English.

"I know. But where . . ." It was an odd feeling to ask which store sold drugs.

"You want Coffee Shop," he helpfully said.

"Coffee Shop?" Scott asked, skeptical of the translation.

"Across bridge, make right, make left." The concierge liberally used his hands to describe the route. "Coffee shop. Very good."

Scott thanked him profusely and made a quick exit thinking that in parts of the U.S., Texas came to mind, such a conversation could be construed as conspiracy. He headed out into the cool damp late morning weather. The air was crisp, clean, a pleasure to breathe deeply. The Amstel ca.n.a.l, not a ripple present, echoed the tranquility that one feels when walking throughout the city. There are only a half dozen or so 'main' streets or boule- vards in Amsterdam and they provide the familiar intense interna- tional commercialism found in any major European city. It is when one begins to explore the back streets, the countless alleys and small pa.s.sageways; the darkened corridors that provide a short cut to the bridge to the next islet; it is then that one feels the essence of Amsterdam.

Scott crossed over the bridge that spans the wide Amstel con- scious of the small high speed car and scooters that dart about the tiny streets. He turned right as instructed and looked at the street names on the left. While Scott spoke reasonable French, Dutch escaped him. Bakkerstraat. Was that the name? It was just an alley, but there a few feet down on the right was the JPL Coffee Shop. JPL was the only retail establishment on Bakker- straat, and it was una.s.suming, some might call it derelict, in appearance. From a distance greater than 10 meters, it appeared deserted.

Through the large dirty plate gla.s.s window Scott saw a handful of patrons lazing on white wrought iron cafe chairs at small round tables. The Coffee Shop was no larger than a small bedroom.

Here goes nothing, Scott thought as he opened the door to enter.

No one paid scant attention to him as he crossed over and leaned on the edge of the bar which was reminiscent of a soda fountain.

A man in his young twenties came over and amiably introduced him- self as Chris, the proprietor of the establishment. How could he be of service?

"Ah . . . I heard I can buy marijuana here," Scott said.

"Ya, of course. What do you want?" Chris asked.

"Well, just enough for a couple of days, I can't take it back with me you know," Scott laughed nervously.

"Ya. We also have cocaine, and if you need it, I can get you he- roin." Chris gave the sales pitches verbally - there was no printed menu in this Coffee Shop.

"No!" Scott shot back immediately, until he realized that all drugs were legal here, not just pot. He didn't want to offend.

"Thanks anyway. Just some gra.s.s will do."

"How many grams do you want?"

Grams? How many grams? Scott mused that the metric Europeans thought in grams and Americans still in ounces and pounds. O.K., 28 grams to an ounce . . .

"Two grams," Scott said. "By the way, how late are you open?"

Scott pushed his rounded spectacles back up his nose.

"Ah, sometimes 8, sometimes 10, sometimes late," Chris said while bringing a tissue box sized lock box to the top of the bar. He opened it and inside were several bags of pot and a block of aluminum foil the size of a candy bar. "You want hashish?" Chris offered.

Scott shook his head, 'no,' so Chris opened one of the bags in- stead of the candy bar.

"You American?" A voice came from one of the tables. Scott looked around. "Here," the voice said. "Me too." The man got up and approached Scott. "Listen, they got two types of ganja here. Debilitating and Coma. I've made the mistake."

"Ya, we have two kinds," Chris agreed laughing. "This will only get you a little high," he said holding up a bag. "This one," he held up another, "will get you stoned."

"Bulls.h.i.t," the American said. "Their idea of a little high is catatonic for us. Take my word for it. The Mexican s.h.i.t we smoke? They'd give it to the dogs."