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stayed there after a particularly drunken evening with buddies in the red light district. A bet had been put on the table that night which could not be resisted. One of his friends, who was trying to stop smoking, brazenly challenged the others that if he could go two days without a cigarette they would each have to eat 13 raw herring sandwiches with mayonnaise and pickles at the market in the morning. If willpower did not prevail and the friend did have a smoke, Peter and the others were to have the privilege of picking out the fattest, blackest Zairian girl dancing in one of the windows along the Oudezijds Achterburgwal to service their mate. Raw herring won. It had to.
    The rich smell of rijsttafel loitered outside an Indonesian restaurant as Peter turned a corner. He was still vacillating between meeting Timmermans or bailing. It was pretty clear what the Belgian wanted. Profit is the only motive of the businessman species. But this idea, it was all just a harebrained notion scribbled on some paper. Didn’t Timmermans realize that? As much as Peter liked the idea, as much as he wanted to see it work, even he had his doubts about its viability.
    Peter liked gliding through the narrow streets on the bike. There was an edge to Amsterdam that he appreciated. When Peter got to Zeppos, he parked the bike and had a quick smoke. From the street he could hear nothing, but suddenly someone opened a door and a flood of laughter, glasses, music and bohemia spilled out onto the cobblestones. It was his sort of place. Peter looked at his watch, checked the alley for Timmermans, stamped out his cigarette and stepped over the threshold into this pleasant world.
    A jazz trio played Brubeck’s “Take Five.” No sign of Timmermans. Peter ordered a beer and scanned the room. A couple made eyes at each other in the corner next to him. He hated that. A table of plump Eastern European businessmen toasted each other with vodka and howled at something funny. A man in his late 40s ate alone — pheasant with raisins and sauerkraut.
    Everything was normal, but something seemed odd. Then he spotted it. The drummer had one leg, the bass player was missing an ear, and the trumpet player had one hand.
    “Peter, I’m glad you made it,” Timmermans said, walking up from behind, coat off, as if he’d been there a while. “May I join you?”
    “Of course. Cool place,” Peter said, making stupid conversation.
    “I thought you’d like it.”
    Again, Timmermans pulled the silver cigarette case out of his jacket. It was clearly one of the Belgian’s props. “So, let us talk about this technology of yours.”
    “You don’t waste any time, do you?”
    “Why should I? It’s clear why we’re both here.”
    “Is it?”
    “Well, it’s clear to me. Why are you here?”
    “I heard good things about the band.”
    “I see. Why don’t you tell me a bit more about your idea.” “You seem to already know a lot about it.”
    “Very little, actually. Your tutor didn’t break too many confidences. I did try to pry it out of him, but he wouldn’t budge.”
    “I don’t even know you.”
    “I thought we had established that back in Alexi’s office?”
    “I know nothing of your business talent.”
    “True, although I can assure you it is excellent.”
    “I don’t even know your taste in women, and that explains a lot about a man.”
    “True, as well, but once again, I can assure you that my taste is exceptional and my senses are keen. That woman over there with that man, for example.”
    “Which one?”
    “That one, there. She’s a fortuinzoekster (gold digger).”
    “You know this, how?”
    “She laughs at everything that ugly bastard is saying. I’m guessing she grew up near Alkmaar. When she was young, she worked for her father — a cheese man. When he died, it was odd jobs — cleaning houses, working at the fish market, that sort of thing. She never went to college. Her first sexual encounter was at 16 with the older brother of