by Alex Markman
MESSENGER
OF
DEATH
MESSENGER
OF DEATH
BY
ALEX MARKMAN
Asteroid Publishing
MESSENGER OF DEATH
By Alex Markman
Published by Asteroid Publishing at Smashwords
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2009 by Asteroid Publishing, Inc.
eISBN 978-0-9811637-0-3
MESSENGER OF DEATH is a work of fiction. Names, characters and events are the products of author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, organizations or events is coincidental and not intended by the author.
www.asteroidpiblishing.ca
[email protected]
Chapter 1
I
August 1995. It was a sunny afternoon, the time when the streets of St. Michel are flooded with people. Hordes of office workers invade restaurants, bars, and cafes; competing for tables on sidewalks; and chatting and laughing under the accompanying ring of forks, knifes, plates, and glasses. In a short Quebec summer, clients prefer to sit under the sky, enjoying the fresh air and nice views of the city, while watching crowds of passersby.
A man in his middle thirties entered a small, but rather charming restaurant at the corner of two streets and took his place at the most distant table outside, by the railing separating pedestrians from the clients. He was neatly groomed with a touch of gray hair and a casual, but expensive, dress; he had the respectable look of a white-collar worker. The only dissonance to his otherwise peaceful impression was his wrestler-sized neck, not that conspicuous at the moment when hidden by an oversized turtleneck.
“Just coffee,” he requested, and the waiter rushed off. This client always gave good tips, no matter how big or small his order, was the waiter’s thought. The waiter had another incentive, too. He was dead scared of this visitor.
No sooner was the coffee served when a different kind of man sat at the table. He had a short and tidy beard and brownish, with a shade of red, hair, which was combed back into a thick ponytail. His drawn, wrinkled, suntanned face made him look like a sailor who had just crossed the ocean on a small yacht.
“Hi,” he said in greeting, and, after shaking hands, diverted his attention to a young woman in a tight miniskirt, passing by the separating fence. “Nice ass, ah?” he asked with a smile, as if looking for approval of his taste for female beauty. His dark eyes were alert, as if he was waiting for something.
The question hung in the air. He put a cigarette in his mouth and clicked his golden lighter.
“What’s the rush, Marcel?” he continued, drawing in the smoke with apparent delight. “You could’ve told me about the meeting yesterday.”
“Too busy with skirts lately, Stash?” Marcel asked. Stash exhaled a huge puff of smoke, diverting his attention to other seductively swaying hips.
“We work to enjoy life, don’t we?”
“We do,” agreed Marcel with a smile, which had nothing kind in it. “So do many others, who we don’t like.”
“Here’s Machete,” Stash remarked. It was an opportunity to change the direction of the not-so-pleasant conversation.
A touch of contempt spread across Marcel’s face as a large man approached their table, unceremoniously grabbed a chair from a neighbouring table, and dropped onto it. He leaned back, making the wood under him squeak. Marcel pulled up a sleeve on his left arm, flashing a Rolex wristwatch.
“Hard to beat the traffic,” said Machete, explaining his being late, his coarse, rough voice supplementing the obvious absence of rudimentary manners. The waiter brought another two cups of coffee, although only one had been requested, and asked, “Anything else, gentlemen?”
“Beat it,” Machete grumbled. The waiter bowed politely and quickly stepped back, like people do at the sight of a rattlesnake. Marcel observed Machete disapprovingly. Machete wore a T-shirt, tightly stretched over large, but sagging muscles. His thick arms—those of a former athlete—were densely wrapped in tasteless, colourful tattoos. He had a dishevelled beard and long, uncombed hair. He looked like a pirate from a sunken ship. Marcel sighed and shrugged his shoulders. It was too late to teach this hoodlum anything. This was Machete, well known in the criminal world by his physical strength and pathological brutality. About 10 years ago, he had earned a black belt in karate. Now, however, excesses of drugs and alcohol had taken their toll on his body.
Marcel did not like Machete. Like a mad dog, this biker resorted to violence, whether it was necessary or not—even when it was detrimental to the interests of the gang. However, all members stayed behind him in times of trouble—as this was the code of the club—especially when tough guys, so plentiful in the underworld, sought revenge. However, Marcel needed Machete. The man was a leader in his own right. He controlled several violent gangs, which served him well when beatings, murder, or destruction was being contemplated.
“I was about to say to Stash,” Marcel began speaking, “that we are at the point when some decisions must be made. We can’t sell our stuff in some areas, like before, because the Ghosts have a cleaner product.”
“Don’t look at me, man,” cut in Machete, returning the grim stare. “I told you to get rid of them, but you didn’t listen. Who in his right mind would set up an outlaw biker club without our permission? And you—you put up with it.”
“I told you before that you’re dumb. Did it help?” asked Marcel in false kindness. Machete’s eyes narrowed, but Stash intervened, depriving him a chance to demonstrate the biker’s dirty vocabulary.
“What do you suggest we do with the Ghosts, Marcel?”
“I will take care of them,” Machete stated, and lit a cigarette.
“You know that they don’t wear colors,” Marcel said. “You can’t make them out on the street.”
“Gimme one of them, and I can find out where everyone else is. It won’t take long until all of them are out of the game.”
“I know only one.” Marcel said mockingly. “Jason. He’s the president.”
“Let’s start with him,” suggested Machete.
“You’ve smoked too much pot lately,” Stash chuckled. “Jason is well connected with the Italians and Columbians. They do a lot of business together. You know that.”
Machete’s answer was populated with dirty words. The meaning of his response was Let’s take care of business, no matter what.
“That’s not the way to deal with them,” Marcel said. “Too much trouble.”
Machete uttered a strange sound.
“Never heard you bothering about troubles. What then?”
“We’ll tell them to close the club. Jason will know what that means. For sure, he has tough guys around him, and that’s okay, but he’s the clever one among them. He knows that they are too small. He would understand that eventually none of them would survive. Let’s give them a choice. I’m pretty sure that they are not mad dogs, crazy for a fight. On the contrary, most, if not all, of them are businesspeople. There is a good chance that they will come to their senses.”
“When and how are you going to do this?” Stash asked, as Machete spit on the floor.
“Today. I’ve already talked to Jason over the phone,” Marcel said. “The meeting is in an hour, at 2 o’clock. I have already told everyone in our other chapters that we have a meeting with the Iron Ghosts.”
Machete and Stash exchanged glances. Marcel enjoyed the effect of his words. He liked surprises.
The last time they had seen Jason had been at least 15 years ago. Since then, Jason had led a very secretive life and, as the entire underworld knew, was flying high. Marcel remembered Jason as a cunning and diplomatic business guy, who enjoyed swimming with sharks in the dark
waters of the drug trade. He always tried first to find a peaceful solution with his foes, and was surprisingly good at that, if one takes into consideration that very few in this business accept a compromise. Jason never used drugs, very seldom used alcohol, and knew well what is right or wrong in the underworld. With all that, he was capable of making terrifying decisions in a split second and executing them with speed and ferocity, which impressed even the most daring gangsters. Marcel was sure that fighting with him would be costly and deadly.
“How’d yah find him?” Machete asked.
“An Italian helped me. Do you have your colors with you?”
“In the car,” Stash said. Machete nodded silently.
“Let’s go now. Follow me.”
Marcel rose to his feet and threw a fistful of dollars on the table, not waiting for the waiter to bring the bill. He led the way; the other two followed him to their cars. Marcel’s new jeep started with a hardly audible crank. The jeep and the other two cars cruised along the crowded streets. At the outskirts of the city, the traffic subsided and at last disappeared as they entered a rural area. Marcel pulled up in front of a lonely, strange-looking building, hidden almost to the roof behind a high, brick fence. The other two cars parked behind him.
Marcel put on his colors—his biker’s jacket with insignia, emblems, and other imprints of their club. The very sign of all these attributes meant to intimidate anyone who would dare to mess with one of the most powerful outlaw motorcycle gangs in the world.
“Almost 2 o’clock,” he commented. “We got here in time.”
They passed through the gate in the brick fence and approached the entrance to a large one-story building, on the wall of which the emblem “Iron Ghosts” had been painted like a large seal. The guard at the door, a menacing-looking and sturdy fellow, looked them up and down with a suspicious, hostile stare.
“Carrying toys with you?” the guard asked. Marcel spread his hands like the wings of a bird, exposing his whole body for observation.
“Wanna search?”
“Go ahead.” The guard nodded and stepped aside, allowing the three bikers to enter.
Marcel threw a quick glance around as the door behind them closed with a metal click. The windows facing the yard were large, admitting plenty of light, some of it drawing attention to a bar overflowing with bottles in the left distant corner. Sofas, chairs, and coffee tables had been set up around the floor with a purposeful disorder that was, apparently, meant to encourage casual, informal sitting. Everything was new, of good quality, and sparkling clean.
A skinny man in tight jeans and a T-shirt—he looked less than thirty—was sitting in an easy chair. As the three bikers entered, he got up and gave a brief nod, inviting them to follow him down a narrow corridor. He swung open one of the doors before them and led them through it, his face emotionless, like a stone. Marcel and Stash found themselves in a room brightly lit by fluorescent lamps. Unlike the previous room, this one had no windows, no other light. A long, polished table stretched before them, 10 people sitting around it. None of the men looked older than forty; they watched their guests with serious, calm faces that showed more than a bit of contempt. The skinny guide closed the door and pointed to the end of the table, where a few chairs were vacant.
“You can sit there,” he stated curtly before moving to the other end to take a place beside a man who had the sharp, abrupt facial features of a boxer and dark hair with contrasting white skin. Marcel took the offered chair. As he moved, he observed each set of eyes at the table, testing its owner’s guts with a momentary, penetrating stare. No one blinked.
“Jason.” Marcel greeted the man at the opposite end of the table. Jason gave a nod in return.
“Wanna talk business, I s’pose.”
Jason was a leader—an obvious conclusion even by casual observation. But it was the man beside him, the self-confident fellow who had led them in, who truly interested Marcel. The bastard had been examining Marcel with keen interest. Marcel reciprocated, calmly studying the longish, pale face, the blond, shortly cut hair, the icy cold blue eyes, and the small scar that accented his left jaw. Leaning back in a relaxed pose, smoking leisurely, he exuded calmness and confidence. Undoubtedly, this guy was one any leader would chose to be close by his side.
“So, you guys call yourselves an outlaw motorcycle club.” Marcel started with the heart of the matter. He paused, testing the reaction to his statement. Jason’s expression did not change. He did not say a word. No, a man with a lazy eye, halfway down one side of the table, was first to react.
“What business is it of yours?”
“You haven’t asked our permission,” explained Marcel. Someone at the table hissed, as if suppressing a laugh.
“And, we won’t,” the guide responded matter-of-factly.
“What is your name?” asked Marcel.
“None of your business.”
“Okay, look, None-of-Your-Business,” Marcel raised his voice slightly, hardly able to contain his boiling rage. “You don’t even wear colors. Who could tell who you are?”
“Nobody,” Jason interrupted. “Neither you, nor the cops. Is that what you want?”
Marcel let this question hang in the air. He directed his attention to the fellow with the small scar.
“I’d like to talk to you,” he said. “What should I call you?”
“Stanley.”
“Stanley, then. You should know, Stanley, that you can’t set up an outlaw motorcycle club without our permission. You should also know what happens to those who think differently.”
“Who the fuck are you to tell us what we should or shouldn’t do?” Stanley asked, shooting Marcel a look of cold steel.
Marcel turned directly to him with a sudden jerk, his chin up, his right hand stretched aside and slightly back, as if ready to throw a grenade or a knife. Everyone in the room knew he was the president of the most powerful Devil’s Knights biker chapter. Anyone speaking to him with such disrespect should be dead on the spot.
“Who the fuck are we?” Marcel repeated the phrase, now in a lower tone. His anger had suddenly subsided, and he composed himself, putting on the air of a businessman. After this pause, he added, “You should know by now. Wanna know us better?”
“Better,” Stanley echoed, not so irritating but with mocking contempt.
“Better,” nodded Marcel.
Stanley laughed. A splash of laughter from others around the table joined him. Bikers appreciated the opportunity to show their contempt and defiance to the “almighty” Devil’s Knights.
Marcel fixed his frozen stare upon Stanley; his eyelids opened wide, showing white space all around his irises. It was the look of an insane, outraged animal whose only instinct was to bite off live flesh. And yet, his body and gestures were calm and reflective. This combination was so ominous and impressive that the gangsters of the Iron Ghosts club gave him a moment of respectful silence.
“Fuck you,” said someone at the back. All three Devil’s Knights looked at the one who said it.
“I’ll remember you,” promised Machete, stretching his lips in a hateful grin. He stood up and walked toward the door; the other two followed him. Everyone around the table understood that these guys would take care of business. Everyone smiled.
The guard at the door blocked their way.
“Hold on,” he said. He looked the Devil’s Knights up and down.
Marcel couldn’t believe what was happening. Would they dare to kill him right here, in the club? Were they that stupid, to start a war this way?
The sound of steps made him turn back. He saw Jason approaching in a steady, unhurried pace.
“Let’s talk outside,” he said to Marcel, giving a nod to the guard.
The door opened wide, letting them out into the parking lot. Agitated guard dogs, restricted by long leashes, jumped back and forth for a few moments and then sat, watching the group with tongues hanging out. The sun, lingering above the horizon, showed its red edge in the
crack of thick, black clouds. Dusk was quickly turning into darkness.
“Is this your fucking way to negotiate?” Jason asked, fixing Marcel with a glare of malice. “Give me an ultimatum? You think we are a bunch of scared broads here?”
“You know as well as I do that the guys in America press upon me. I have no choice.”
“Look, Marcel,” Jason began, talking in a calmer manner. “There is always a way to cut a deal. After all, we can at least agree not to cross each other’s domains.”
“There is another way of doing things,” Marcel responded, “and that is for you to work for us. We will give a name to your club, a prospect status, you know, all that. . . .”
“Move your ass out of here,” Jason demanded. He gave Marcel a burning glare, turned around and disappeared behind doors. Marcel had no illusion; Jason’s outrage meant something.
Before opening the door of his car, Marcel turned toward his followers.
“The only thing we can do is wait and see what the Ghosts do now. Anyway, none of their club members should be killed without my permission. We’ll set up a special commission, which will make decisions as to who to take care of. Understand, Machete?”
II
Claude was slowly coming to the end of his prison term. Placed in the wing where the Devil’s Knights held an upper hand, he had kept a low profile, trying not to jeopardize his timely release.
For the last few days, Claude had stared through the grid of metal bars that covered his window. He looked at the sky, fancying the biker’s life, with its unrestricted freedoms and cruel, dangerous adventures on the edge of survival. He would use his favored weapon, a piece of metal rod, to beat the shit out of those who stood in his way. He would obtain “hangaround” status in the Devil’s Knights club and steal cars with his childhood friend, Hans. Hans was a good thief, but did not have as much guts as Claude. When someone refused to pay a debt for a stolen car or parts, Hans used to ask Claude to “educate” the debtor in the morality of financial obligations. In the criminal world, when almost everyone was able to kill, it was not an easy task. Claude, however, always got the money he earned.
