Messenger of Death (15 page)

A few days
passed. Claude did not take the time to indulge in any treats,
except cigarettes. Finally, one afternoon, the phone rang. Claude
grabbed it.

“Hi.”

“Go home.” The
informant on the other end hung up. Claude knew the address.
Without wasting time, he called Hans, who had already found a
stolen car for this occasion. It wasn’t long before Hans pulled up
at the back entrance of the building, where Claude—dressed in a
jogging suit, his professional dress for murder—was already waiting
for him. When he climbed into the passenger seat, his cell phone
rang. The informant, using biker’s slang, delivered rather shocking
news: The security guard had left the house—someone had come and
picked him up. Most likely, a replacement would come shortly.

“Hit the gas,
Hans!” Claude commanded, disconnecting the line. “We have only
minutes, if not seconds, to get the job done. Stop very close to
his house.”

“Will you shoot
him inside?” Hans asked. He was pale, very tense—poor Hans. The
stress of this job was too much for him.

“Yes, in the
house,” Claude confirmed. “Keep the engine running.”

Claude was
tense as well. However, when the car stopped, the knot in his
stomach loosened. Cold energy enveloped him, clearing his mind and
sharpening his senses. He stepped down and scanned the area to
assess the situation.

The sky was
heavy with black, rainy clouds. Good, he thought—rain always adds
to confusion on the roads. That will make a police chase more
difficult. A streak of lightning flashed. After a short pause, a
roar of thunder growled, its sound muffled by long distance.

In the driveway
to the house, a Ford Taurus sat abandoned. Claude approached it,
still not having a precise plan of action. Hiding behind the car,
he feverishly wondered what to do next. His ski mask was with him,
but putting it on would not make sense: If he knocked at the door,
who would open it to a masked man? On the other hand, Marcel had
issued a strict order not to harm relatives, but they would be able
to recognize him later if he did not wear the mask. It seemed that
the only solution was to get inside unseen, and quickly, because
the replacement security guard could arrive at any time.

By chance, the
whole family suddenly walked out the front door and headed toward
the car. Claude quickly covered the lower part of his face with the
mask, leaned on the hood, stood, and fired two shots at the face of
the Iron Ghost. Tiny, dark spots sprung up on his right cheek,
followed by a small cloud of flesh and blood that flew from the
back of his head. The man fell dead.

His wife and
kid screamed, terrified. The woman collapsed onto her husband’s
dead body, yelling through her tears. Claude laughed. At that very
moment, a flash of lightning exploded, then a thunder bolt
cracked—the sky, it seemed, also celebrated his success.

Smiling under
the mask, Claude threw the gun on the grass and began walking
toward Hans in a deliberately unhurried pace, in order to stage a
great show of guts, calmness, and cruelty. Let Hans see how a true
biker returns from the kill, he thought. Maybe next time he would
be less scared of these things.

Devil’s Knights
observers said later that a replacement bodyguard had arrived at
the home of the Iron Ghost just a minute after the hit, only to
find his master dead.

Claude’s second
target was not that difficult. His favourite lunch place was a
small but exquisite restaurant in a busy plaza. Killing him there
was not an option, because escape through a crowded building with
security surveillance would be impossible. But after some thought,
he came up with a cunning plan. He bought a wig, put it on,
complemented it with a phony moustache and beard, and, with a
bucket of water in his hand, pretended to be a squeegee bum at the
only traffic light that led into and out of the plaza. Claude’s
lucky card came up on the first day of the operation.

When the target
left after lunch and stopped his car at the light, Claude
approached the driver’s side and offered to clean the windshield.
The Iron Ghost behind it responded angrily and impatiently. Claude
knocked at the window with the squeegee handle, and the target
lowered the glass. Glowing with range, he shouted, “Fuck off,
asshole!”

Claude let the
bucket and squeegee fall to the ground, pulled out a gun, and fired
two shots into the head of the Iron Ghost. After that, he ran.
Hans, as usual, was waiting close by in a stolen car.

These two
murders raised his stature enormously in the eyes of Marcel and the
other club members. Now, he had enough money to buy a Harley
Davidson—the beauty cost him close to $20,000—and he could repay
Marcel his debt, in full. He could now attend the high-profile
party on his own bike.

V

The noise of
incoming motorcycles disturbed a small suburban plaza that dozed in
the rays of the rising sun. Ten Harley Davidsons rolled into its
small parking lot at exactly 9 o’clock. On the rear seat of each
sat a woman who held the driver by his waist and leaned into his
back. An elderly couple coming out of a coffee shop threw
frightened glances at the noisy visitors and hurried to their
car.

Marcel gave a
sign. Everyone obeyed by turning off their engines, climbing off
their bikes, and walking over to him. Claude knew most of them,
because he had already attended a few club gatherings that had been
attended by full patches. Enviously, Claude looked at their vests.
He still had only a plain black leather jacket.

“Here’s
Claude,” Marcel said, turning to a man with questioning, but
friendly eyes in a cleanly shaven face. Nothing about him, except a
biker’s vest, suggested that he was a biker. “Claude, I don’t
believe you’ve met Techie, have you?”

“No, but I’ve
heard a lot about him,” Claude said, looking with respect at the
legendary Techie, who was second in command after Marcel.

“Welcome to the
party,” Techie said, shaking hands with Claude. He threw a glance
at Leila. “Nice girl you have.”

“My ol’ lady,
Leila,” Claude said with pride. Leila nodded at Techie with a sweet
smile.

“I know.”
Techie returned the smile. “That’s good.” He did not explain what
was good about that: her being a nice girl, or her being Claude’s
ol’ lady.

Claude noticed
other bikers shooting glances at Leila. No wonder—she was the
prettiest of all the girls there. Claude was somewhat annoyed by
the stare given Leila by a man he’d not met before. The man looked
like an outlaw biker: large and fat with disorderly hair flowing
everywhere. He didn’t smile, but slowly rolled his eyes over
Leila’s body, lingering for moments on her breasts and hips. Claude
didn’t worry much, though: Leila’s status of “old lady” would
protect her from the unwelcome advances of others; it was against
club rules to covet any brother’s serious relationships.

“Come here,
Machete,” Marcel said to the man. “This is Claude.”

Machete
squeezed Claude’s hand with all his might. Claude responded with
almost as strong a grip. The exchange was not friendly.

“You did a nice
job for me once,” Machete said.

“I don’t
remember,” Claude responded, in surprise.

“The Greek
Delight shish-kebab house. You worked with Trasher then,
remember?”

“Oh, yes, I
know Trasher.”

After this
short introduction, Marcel mounted his bike and made a sign for
everyone to follow him. The women took their rear seats and the
group took off, the rattle of Harley engines disturbing the
peaceful neighborhood until they merged onto a highway out of town.
After an hour, they turned onto a lonely side road. As they rode
past a short row of sleepy country homes, a few birds flew from the
trees, frightened by the deafening sound of the mighty engines.
After the last biker had disappeared around a curve and quiet had
returned, the birds quickly flew back to their roosts.

Following a
lengthy stretch of bush and dense forest, another row of houses
appeared. Marcel stopped near the first one. It was a large
bungalow with a high wooden fence built from its sides outward and
around the backyard. Marcel stopped at the gate: It opened at once,
as if someone inside was waiting for his arrival. The whole party
drove in, past a smiling, broad-shouldered fellow with a neatly
groomed beard, in shorts, a T-shirt, and sunglasses hiding his
eyes. He raised a long barbeque fork in a welcoming gesture. After
the last motorcycle rolled in, the guy closed the gate. The rattle
of bikes died an instant later.

“Oh,” Leila
said. “Such a nice view.” She eyed the large backyard with trees,
benches, and two big tables, one on the patio and another on the
grass. Beyond was an endless stretch of lake. The sails of a few
boats rose in the distance.

Claude placed
his hand on her narrow waist and stared at her lips. Her
understanding smile touched his heart like a sweet razor. Beautiful
girl, he thought.

“Claude,”
Marcel interrupted his fantasies. “We have to leave the girls for a
short meeting.” He turned around and waved his right hand. All the
bikers followed him inside the house. In the large dining room, he
offered everyone a seat around the table, which was loaded with
glasses and uncountable bottles of wine.

“Our meeting
today will be very short,” he said, uncorking a bottle. “Everyone
knows what we have gathered for today.” He paused for attention.
“We are promoting Claude to hangaround status. Congratulations,
Claude.”

Claude was
dumbfounded. In a happy haze, he saw bikers coming to him for a
handshake. Everyone smiled and raised his glass. The sharp odor of
pot sprang up, irritating his nostrils. With a quick glance, he
spotted the smoker—Stash, the one with a small ponytail and the
bleak, wet eyes of a drunkard. Stash smiled and motioned with a
sideways nod, inviting him for a talk outside. Since the group was
already moving out, Claude joined him.

“Marcel says a
lot of good things about you.” Stash led him to a small bench under
a branchy tree. “Let’s sit—nice day, today.”

“Right,” Claude
agreed, searching for Leila. She was chirping with three other
women, busy eating shish kebabs. Machete went up to them and
appeared to say something funny, because the women responded with
laughter. Stash followed the direction of Claude’s stare and
produced a transparent plastic bag with marijuana inside.

“This is the
best grass you can buy in Quebec,” he said, offering it to Claude.
“Help yourself. Here’s the paper. You have a nice girl. Only you
and Techie are with old ladies. The rest, including Marcel, are
with mamas.”

Rolling a
joint, Claude continued watching the party. The wild gaiety was
spreading over the backyard. Laughter and the flirtatious screams
of women flew all around. At a patio table, Marcel was rolling up a
$20 bill into a small tube. The mama beside him took the tightly
rolled $20 bill, placed one end of it to her nostril, the other to
a small stretch of white powder, and inhaled. It would take this
broad, Claude thought, less than a minute to get crazy on pure
coke, which was available only at the source of supply.

“I’m gonna
suggest a job,” Stash said. “Don’t worry about Marcel,” he added,
answering Claude’s silent question. “I’ve talked to him
already.”

“What is
it?”

“Don’t rush.
Let me explain something. You can’t make your living forever on
work that you’re doing for Marcel. The demand for it goes up and
down. I gather that with such a beautiful old lady as you have, you
need a stable income. Right?”

“Right. But I
can’t sell stuff. I’m not good at that.”

“You don’t need
to. I’m thinking of something else.”

“What?”

“I have a
collection agency. It’s a legitimate business. I need people who
can influence deadbeats without resorting to force. You know how it
works, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do,”
Claude nodded. “I’ve done that type of work for my buddy, who’s in
the car business. When someone didn’t pay, he asked me to talk with
him. Everyone paid.”

“You see!”
Stash said happily. “You’re the guy I need. No violence, though.
That would be a last resort, and only with my permission. What do
you think?”

“Sounds
interesting. What’s the pay?”

“Very good. We
are talking about big money, Claude. Usually, our agency takes
debts from $5,000 to $1,000,000. I’ll teach you some tricks of the
trade. I’m pretty sure, however, that after seeing you once, no one
would want to see you again.” He laughed, pleased with his wits.
“Yes, I’m sure about that,” he repeated.

“I’d think you
could find plenty of tough guys out there for this job,” Claude
said, pleased with this joke.

“But, it’s
really not that simple. Most tough guys are shitheads. They can’t
deal with debtors who have brains, money, and connections to other
tough guys. Sometimes, the job is dangerous.”

“I see. I don’t
give a fuck how dangerous it is.” Claude didn’t look at Stash; he
watched the party. Marcel’s mama, a rather cute broad of about
twenty, or maybe younger, got a boost. She laughed, threw her head
back, kissed Marcel, and shouted something incomprehensible. Then,
she began to undress. After the last garment fell, she ran toward
the lake—a rather spicy view, she was: long, flying blond hair,
firm boobs and ass, with a neatly shaped blond triangle at the
bottom of her tummy. She threw herself into the water, squealing,
splashing, and inviting all others to join her.

In the middle
of the backyard, a petite woman was pulling two large men toward
the house, inviting them at the top of her voice, “Let’s do a
threesome—now! C’m’on, guys.”

Machete talked
to Leila, who seemed agitated. He grasped her hand and held it
while she attempted to free herself. Claude was about to jump up,
but Stash put his hand on his shoulder.