Entry 1. – The Lost Diary of V.V.

Marsellus called this morning.

He wants me in Amsterdam.

I said fine.

He said run the club.

I said fine.

How long?

Doesn’t matter.

Amsterdam.

I’ve never been.

My brother Vic’s been. Says the coffee shops are something. I asked him what kind of something. He just smiled. Vic smiles like that when he knows more than he’s saying. Which is always.

He also tells me they eat mayonnaise on their fries over there. Not ketchup. Mayonnaise. I don’t know how I feel about that yet. I’m going to reserve judgment until I try it. That’s the fair thing to do.

What I actually want to know — and nobody seems to have a straight answer on this — is whether they do breakfast properly. Not the continental thing. Not a roll and some cheese and call it a morning. I mean actual breakfast. Eggs. Bacon if they have it. Something that makes you feel like the day is worth starting.

This is important information that I have not been able to confirm.

I may be going in blind on the breakfast situation.

That concerns me more than it probably should.

I’ve got two days to get things in order. The suits go in storage. The furniture stays — Vic said he’d keep an eye on the place. I told him not to touch anything. He said he wouldn’t. I don’t entirely believe him. He’s my brother. I know how he operates.

The Malibu goes in storage too.

That’s the part I keep coming back to.

Three years is a long time to leave a car sitting. I had her detailed last week. She looks perfect. Cherry red. Not a scratch on her. I keep walking around her in the garage like I’m memorizing something.

Which I guess I am.

I put a cover on her this afternoon.

Stood there for a while after.

Then I went inside and packed my suits.

Flight’s at six.

I hear good things about the food.