Amsterdam Good Time

by

William Kitcher

When you’re standing outside a bar in Amsterdam, the best way to disguise what you’re saying is to speak a language other than Dutch. Or English, for that matter, considering I’ve never met a Dutch person who didn’t speak English. Chances are, if you’re speaking Swedish, as the two ruffians were doing, no one is gonna know what you’re talking about. But I spent a lot of time in Sweden, and I’m married to a Swedish woman who was back at the pension or whatever it’s called in Holland, so I figured I knew what the two guys were saying. They were planning to rob the bar in which I was drinking.

(Incidentally, I also speak fluent French, Spanish, and Arabic, and can hold my own in conversations in Bengali, Japanese, and Swiss.)

So when I went back into the bar after my smoke, I told the bartender what I’d heard. Daphne was a good bartender and spoke great English but, because I’d tried to make jokes before, she just laughed and moved away. I’d obviously spent too much time in the three streets between the pension and the bar.

The two Vikings from outside, one big, one little, wandered into the bar and sat at a table near the front window. The waiter, Carlos, went over there, and I watched. They said something to Carlos, he reached into his money belt, took out a fist full of bills, counted, and gave it to the guys.

Carlos left them and never returned to the guys with anything. The guys then moved to another area of the bar. Kristina approached them, and the same thing happened. I didn’t know how they were able to get the money that quickly, although I saw that the smaller guy had his hand in his jacket pocket the entire time. Did he have a gun or a knife? I couldn’t remember the Swedish words for either.

The guys then moved to the bar and stood there. Daphne leaned over the bar toward them, and the three of them said things I couldn’t hear. Daphne opened the till, took money out of it, handed it to them, then gave them a couple of shots of tequila.

I took my phone out, called 112 (the emergency number in the Netherlands; I’d learned that the hard way after my suitcase had been stolen, and I’d waited on my phone for an hour after calling 911...), and moved away from anywhere anyone could hear me. I started to say in my rudimentary Dutch, “There’s a robbery—”, but I didn’t know the Dutch word for “robbery”, so I switched to English, “There’s a robbery happening right now at the Orange Crown. You know where that is, right? You need to get here right now.”

“Sir, how do you know it’s a robbery?”

“For godsake, I’ve seen three workers give these guys money!”

“We’ll investigate.”

The Orange Crown being close to the Damrak, the cops, one man, one woman, were there in minutes. I pointed them toward the two criminals still sitting at the bar.

The female cop approached them and said in English, “What are you doing, guys? We’ve had a report you’re going to rob this place.”

One of them swiveled on his stool, and said, also in English, “Anneke, that’s ridiculous. We’re just collecting on our football bets. By the way, you owe us two hundred.”

“I’m not carrying cash,” said Anneke. “I’ll give it to you tomorrow. By the way, bookmaking is illegal.” And she blew out a laugh that smacked me in the kidneys.

As the cops left, Anneke gave me a look that also hit me in the kidneys.

Daphne wouldn’t serve me after that. Carlos and Kristina wouldn’t either.

As the two guys left the bar, I said, “Can I put a bet down on Ajax?”

They said something I didn’t understand, but it didn’t sound friendly.

I tried to calm the waters by putting my hand out for them to shake. “Sorry, guys, I made a mistake.”

The little guy, who’d always had his hand in his pocket, started to move it around. He was about to pull out his gun or his knife. I shut my eyes and hoped for the best.

Nothing happened but then I felt a hand in mine and gradually I opened my eyes. I shook his hand, and tried to smile.

The big guy said something else I didn’t understand, and the little guy laughed.

The little guy was still holding on to my hand, so I looked down. His hand was covered in oozing sores; I then understood why it was always in his pocket.

I think I need to brush up on my Swedish or Norwegian or whatever it was.

Bill Kitcher’s stories, plays, and comedy sketches (and one poem!) have been published, produced, and/or broadcast in Australia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Canada, Czechia, England, Guernsey, Holland, India, Ireland, Nigeria, Singapore, South Africa, and the U.S. His stories have appeared in Horror Sleaze Trash, Rock and a Hard Place, Shotgun Honey, Guilty, Mystery Tribune, Yellow Mama, and many other journals. His novel, Farewell and Goodbye, My Maltese Sleep, was published in 2023 by Close To The Bone Publishing.

Also, his prehensile tail, which never caused him any problems, has now started lengthening.