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Ronald Oudman - Dirty Mac Lacey's
Gepubliceerd op: 20-10-2013 Aantal woorden: 651
Laatste wijziging: 24-10-2013 Aantal views: 1142
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Dirty Mac Lacey's

Ronald Oudman


Just staring at the mirror behind the bar at Mac Lacey's, boozing in the infamous gin joint on the corner of the Kalverstreet and the Ferdinand Bolstreet in Amsterdam, of all places. And all of a sudden this bimbo walked in, she recognized me and she started sobbing. "O Mr Oldman, you've got to help me",

So I fetched her a bourbon, watched her sipping the drink and just waited until she came up with the rest of the history. In the meanwhile, tiny particles of dust were dancing in the faint rays of sunshine of a late October afternoon. And I lit another cigarette. Filterless Stubborn Mule, a brand that was difficult to get hold of. But, hey, this was Amsterdam afterall...

She was staring at me, watery blue eyes in which all hope seemed to have been lost. "It's my boyfriend, she sobbed, he ain't just the same anymore, he..." A banging noise, shattering window panes, I dived to the floor, a car outside made it's getaway with screaming tyres. A nice round hole between her eyes. Blood as red as her lipstick trickling to the floor. The floozy was dead.

I got up, took the skirt's glass and finished it in one go. "Get yourself together man!", I shouted, maybe a bit too harshly at the bartender, who was shivering like a reed behind the bar, bulletholes all around him. "Fetch me a bourbon. Make it a double one and make it snappy." Sometimes, you just know when a day is a lousy day and it won't get any better.

No reaction. "Can't you hear me, wiseguy?", I quipped, "Fetch me a bourbon, I am getting behind on schedule, and believe me, when that happens, you don't want to get to know that side of me. All of a sudden he came to himself and reached for the telephone. "You're not going to call the dicks, are you?", I asked, "This is a busy day and you've only got two customers inside, one of which is dead. I would take care of my reputation if I were you. Better ditch her out on the street. But first, let's take a look inside her purse." Of course, if you've been working in my line of business, as long as I have, you're not as easily stunned anymore. She carried 15.000 bucks with her, a stash of opium pellets, and a .45 Browning, not exactly a ladies pistol, a nice and shining piece of artillery, but unfortunately it didn't help our little ladyfriend.

The next morning, while I was sitting in my office, thinking things over, with my feet on my desk, smoking a nice cigar and enjoying a hair of the dog, a wop made his way into my office. I knew this guy, he was one of the infamous Daltoni brothers: Rob Daltoni. A short fellow. But they're the most dangerous. He was wearing a pinstriped suit. Little droplets of sweat sparkling on his forehead, I thought I saw some leftovers of yesterday evening's spaghetti in his thin black moustache and I prefer not to mention his body odor. He was slightly out of breadth, staring at me with his beady bloodshot eyes. He pointed his finger at me, saying: "You better mind your own business, you smart-ass." So I offered him a Havana and poured him a drink.

While the mobster was just standing there, confused, with a glass of bourbon in the one and a cigar in the other hand, a sighing female stumbled into my room, long blonde hair, blue eyes, a delicate nose, red lipstick, nice boobs, a pink blouse with black dots, a very short dark blue skirt, pretty black stockings and nine inch heels... She looked at me, she looked at him, then went out again: "Sorry, wrong detective..." These things happen.

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