"To watch nature," Grijpstra said.
"No kidding?"
"Holland's getting too full," Grijpstra said. He told the sheriff and deputy what Katrien had been telling him, last time he called on the ailing commissaris to pay his respects. Katrien quoted recently published statistics. "Nine hundred Dutchmen to the square mile, nine hundred pigs to the same square mile, twenty-three cows to the same square mile, twenty-three cars to the same square mile."
"How big a country are we talking about, Kripstra?"
Grijpstra was still working on how much three hundred kilometers times a hundred kilometers, less allowing for a skinny waist and one southern leg reaching down, would come to in United States measurements when Ish-mael helped out. Holland, said Ishmael, which he hadn't believed was there-who could believe Squid Island's Rinus?-had turned up in Ishmael's encyclopaedia and was half the size of Maine. The sixteen million Dutchmen were also likely to exist. Ishmael's old Encyclopaedia Britannica only listed five million of the creatures, but that was in 1890 and didn't the human affliction keep multiplying all the time thanks to medical science? And sixteen million Dutchmen spread out in half the state of Maine, why, that would equal out at around nine hundred a square mile, as the man was saying. "That's a lot of crawling around in a space the size of Jameson, don't you reckon?"
The sheriff said he liked people fine but people tended to exaggerate at times. He said Billy Boy was a great man for numbers. Hairy Harry asked Billy Boy to confirm Ishmael's statement.
"That could be right, Hairy Harry."
"How many of us in Maine now, Billy Boy?"
"About a million, Hairy Harry."
"Sixteen million customers," the sheriffsaid, "crawling all over each other, and you were in the police a good while, tending to their crawling, isn't that right, Kripstra?"
Grijpstra said he had had that pleasure until two years ago.
"And now you're watching nature, you and the other retiree cop? What else'd you be watching?"
"Just nature," Grijpstra said.
Hairy Harry apologized for any inconvenience he might have caused. He leaned out of his car window.
"Good watching, Krip. We'll be watching your watching."
Chapter 5
Billy drove Ishmael and Grijpstra to Beth's Diner for a late breakfast. It was ten o'clock by then, but Billy Boy and Ishmael said that, as the lobster boats were coming in from early-morning trap lifting, the restaurant would be jumping. Grijpstra remembered his lack of dollars.
"Rinus will have some," Ishmael said, "you could call him."
"No phone on Squid Island," Grijpstra said.
Billy Boy pulled a microphone from under the jeep's dashboard. "This is America, Krip. Everything works." He pushed the microphone's button. "Squid Island, this is your sheriff. Come in, Rinus."
The radio produced a little static.
"Must be out of the house," Ishmael said, "or he could be coming into town on the Kathy Three." Billy Boy pushed his button. "Kathy Three, this is your sheriff, come in, Kathy Three."
The radio produced more static.
"Flash and Bad George don't worry much," Ishmael said. "They're also hard of hearing. Their diesel might be thumping too."
Grijpstra moaned.
"You hungry?"
Grijpstra had gained weight since leaving the force. He now liked to keep it up, to project an image of the heavy detective, the man of substance. Nellie helped: her cooking was designed to keep her men stout.
"De Gier could be in the diner," Ishmael said. "If he isn't, he might be coming."
Grijpstra noticed Akiapola'au after he'd eaten the stacked pancakes with whipped butter, the home tries with parsley, the extra large eggs over easy, the little steak to the side with the choice ofsauces, the pumpernickel toast, the fresh orange juice.
"More coffee?"
"Oh yes, miss."
"I'm Akiapola'au, you can call me Aki."
Aki said she was from Hawaii, the big island, Kona Coast. Had he ever been there, seen the volcano boil and the little finches eat dead flesh?
Grijpstra burped politely behind his hand, saying, "Excuse me." He hadn't been to Hawaii, or anywhere really, he'd only been to Antwerp to eat mussels. Antwerp was just down the street from Holland, in Belgium, a few hours' drive, well worth the effort to eat mussels, but he wouldn't care to go further, and he wouldn't be here in America on the other side of the globe if his good friend Rinus hadn't insisted-so now where was Rinus?
Grijpstra liked talking to Aki, who seemed fascinated by his accent. She was tall and lovely, exotic, black hair down to wide shoulders, doe-eyed, dressed in silk under her little apron-a tight skirt cut up along the thighs so that she could move around easily, her blouse low cut. "Nicely stacked," Grijpstra thought.
"We've got mussels here," Aki said. "The locals think they're trash food, but they're good. My Beth could steam some."
"Your Beth," Grijpstra said.
Aki smiled. "Beth and I are a couple. She steams mussels with jalapeiios-my own crop, I grow them in planters."
She had to go, there were mouths to feed, bearded mouths of bulky rough-looking men in yellow plastic coats, tall boots, turtleneck sweaters, flat hats with black braid on the visors.
"It's cold on the water," Ishmael said, "always some ten degrees below what it is here on land, twenty at times. And it gets chilly on land; there's no Gulf Stream here like you have in Europe."
"So Rinus sent you to pick me up in Boston?" Grijpstra asked.
Ishmael smiled. "You didn't know, Detective?"
Grijpstra sipped coffee.
"A plane out of Woodcock County, Maine?" Ishmael asked. "Lots of counties in Maine." Ishmael squinted. "A coincidence? Me piddling next to you in an empty airport? Lots of restrooms in Logan Airport. Two coincidences too many maybe, Detective?"
Grijpstra smiled, to show appreciation of Ishmael's humor. "So you do fly at night. You'd just arrived at Logan in the dark. You needed some time to rest. Is that why we waited?"
"You knew or you didn't?" Ishmael said.
"So how do I get to Squid Island?" Grijpstra asked. "You can't fly me there, and the Kathy Three isn't responding. Shall I row?"
"You could get Aki to drive you to the Point," Ishmael said. "There'll be dories there, but you've got to watch out for the tide. It's low now, and low tide tends to pull you out to the ocean."
Ishmael had to tend to his airplane. "Don't get stuck on the sand flats, Kripstra." Ishmael put money on the check that Aki had left on the table, shook hands with Grijpstra, said they'd meet again. "Enjoy your stay, Krip. Take care."
Grijpstra didn't get that. Too much was happening. There was Jameson Harbor outside, apparently known as 'the Point,' where rowboats were kept and where Ishmael seemed to live. Grijpstra got up and looked out ofa window. The harbor didn't appear pointed at all. And it was close. Why would Aki have to drive him to a nearby harbor? There were fishing boats tugging at their moorings and a good-size new-looking yacht, similar to the other expensive sailboat with the divine captain and his timeless crew that Grijpstra had seen from Ishmael's airplane. This yacht was tied down with a frayed-looking anchor cable that was yanking her sleek bow down sharply. Grijpstra read the yacht's name on the stern, in elegant white italics on varnished teak: Macho Bandido, He also saw a row of dories, obviously used to row fishermen to their boats. The dories were tied up to the quayside. He could maybe borrow one. He looked at the garland of islands at the end of the bay beyond the harbor. The tide would be out, baring sand banks that he could see stretching out behind markers. Squid Island must be beyond the sand banks. If his rowboat got stuck he would have to wait for high tide to come in and float him and then he'd have to row against the tide. Better be careful now. Wind direction? He checked the way the waves were rolling. Away from the harbor. Very nice. No big deal. Up. And away.