Messenger of Death

by Alex Markman

  Finally, the day came when he could take his first steps on free ground again, unsupervised by jail wardens. Outside the gate, in the dreamland of freedom, the sun shone differently: It generously shed warmth and welcome smiles on him. A black muscle car, an impeccably clean Mustang, blocked his way. Its shiny surface, throwing back the sun’s rays like a huge mirror, was adorned with polished, black-painted, and chrome-plated parts, the metal emblem of a leaping horse at the front edge of its frame. Leaning against the left door stood a short, lean fellow, his head shaven and shiny like the surface of his car. This was Hans, the only one close to him whom he had never beaten. He wore a T-shirt and worn-out jeans and smiled in unison with the sun. An expert in car theft, Hans knew just as well how to buy cars, fix them up, and sell them. For his own use, he was accustomed to keeping sports cars and taking very good care of them.

  They hugged each other, and rushed to take seats and head down the road. Hans stomped on the gas pedal, the motor rumbled agreeably in response with all its 250-horsepower, and the tires screamed, pushing the pavement under them at breathtaking speed. They laughed and shouted.

  “Where’re we goin’?” Claude asked.

  “To your apartment,” Hans answered with a sly grin.

  “Yer kiddin’,” Claude said, and gave Hans a light slap on the neck. “I don’t have one.”

  “You do, too. I rented one for yah. Gave the super some dough. Paid for the first and last month.”

  Claude uttered his rowdy, barking laugh.

  “Son of a gun. Do you have any broads for tonight?”

  “Of course. That’s the first thing.”

  “Is there a telephone?”

  “’Course. But why do you need it so soon?”

  “’Cause I have to call my buddy from the slumber. Trasher his name is. A Devil’s Knights guy, you know.” Claude spoke casually, as if he were a big shot in the biker’s world.

  “Bullshit,” Hans said. He gave Claude a serious, questioning look, as if to say, you’re pulling my leg, buddy.

  “No kiddin’. He wants to meet me. We’ll do big business, Hans.”

  “I’m not from the biker’s stock,” Hans said. “I’m in the car business.”

  “You don’t make much in it,” Claude noticed.

  “’Cause I’m lazy. But I do a good job, you know. And I’m not greedy. That’s why I’ve stayed away from the joint for so long.”

  “Let’s talk later,” suggested Claude, looking out his window at fast-running pictures of the road: green, tidy, mowed lawns; tall lampposts; small houses under the sleepy afternoon sun; and bridges with a rare pedestrian moving along their walkways.

  Hans turned the Mustang into a rundown quarter of the city and soon stopped at the back of a dilapidated apartment building, where a few rusty, battered cars were parked.

  “Here we are,” Hans said with pride, taking care not to step in the greenish puddle of liquid that smelled like a clogged toilet. “There is an entrance from here. I find it kinda handy sometimes to sneak in from the back. Don’t yah think so?”

  “Handy it is,” Claude agreed. Hans unlocked the door, and led Claude to the second floor, where he opened the first apartment on the right. Claude was impressed: Although the furniture was old and half-broken, it was furniture, nonetheless. The kitchen was equipped with refrigerator, toaster, and gas stove. What else could one dream of?

  “This is to start with,” said Hans, alluding to the not-so-presentable ambience. “When you start making money, you can buy something better.”

  “I don’t give a damn,” Claude said with a rowdy laugh. He sounded like a mad, happy horse. “This is good for me.”

  Hans grabbed the phone and dialled.

  “I’ll have a couple of broads here ASAP,” he explained, while waiting for the response.

  Indeed, two plump, short-legged birds arrived soon, not bad for the first day after three years in a high-security jail, although any would have done for such an occasion, even one from an old-folks home. And a real, beautiful life began: plenty of booze, pot smoking, fucking, pizzas, and Chinese food, delivered from the local restaurant. Two days later, after the crazy smokes and fires had settled a bit, just when he needed a break, Trasher, his former cellmate, dropped by. Claude didn’t even remember calling him, but it didn’t matter; they had business to discuss, anyway.

  Trasher, tall and lean, dressed in a black jacket and leather trousers, came in without a knock on the door, which was not locked. Claude reasoned that no thief in his right mind would break into an apartment that had no valuables inside and was guarded by a former con from a high-security prison. Claude jumped up from the sofa and exchanged strong, friendly hugs with the guest.

  “Hay, old buddy,” Trasher said, placing a big bottle of whisky on the table with a knocking sound. At thirty-three, he was seven years older, and yet he called Claude “old,” alluding to years in jail. “Life’s good?”

  He fell into a dilapidated easy chair that complained against such abuse with a squeaking sound of its wooden joints.

  “Getting better,” nodded Claude, settling on the sofa. “And you?”

  He observed Trasher with friendly interest, but with a touch of envy. Trasher dressed well, which meant that he had money. His thin, but long bony nose and dark questioning eyes gave him a hawkish look. His suntanned skin, untidy beard and thinning, receding long hair made him look like an Indian chief.

  “Not bad either,” assured Trasher, with a nod. “Not bad at all. Let’s crack the bottle.”

  “Naw,” refused Claude. “Can’t take it anymore.”

  “No rush,” agreed Trasher. He stood up, took off his jacket, and hung it on the easy char. On the back of his T-shirt was a huge sign, looking like a corporate seal, with his club insignia along its edges: “Devil’s Knights.”

  “So, what are you gonna do now?” Trasher asked, returning to the squeaking chair and leaning back. “Any plans?”

  “Naw. Any suggestions?”

  “’Course.” Trasher stretched his legs, as if preparing for a long conversation. “I’m selling stuff, you know. Lots of money. That’s what I wanna talk about.”

  “Naw, Trasher. I’m not cut for selling. Can’t do it, man.”

  “What do you wanna do?”

  “Action. Rob banks, beat the hell outta somebody. You know me, Trasher.”

  Claude stood up, went to the refrigerator, and took out a jar of tomato juice.

  “Wan’ some?” he asked Trasher. Not getting a response, he began drinking from the container.

  “I need exactly your type of man,” Trasher shouted cheerfully, and hit the table with his bony fist. Empty bottles and dirty dishes jumped noisily, as if sharing their excitement with Trasher. “That’s what I’m gonna suggest to you.”

  “Shoot.”

  Claude returned to the sofa and stretched his legs, as well.

  “Some jerk from the Iron Ghosts visits my territory. This chickenshit sells stuff better than mine. I told him to fuck off, but he doesn’t. He has his backup, too, you know. I gotta beat the shit outta this fuckhead to make others think twice before coming to my place.” He clenched his fists. “Wanna help me?”

  Claude uttered a sadistic guffaw.

  “’Course! What and when?”

  “In two days. I’ll pick you up. In the meantime. . . .” He pulled his jacket from the chair, removed a roll of money from the inner pocket, and threw it carelessly on the sofa.

  “Two grand,” he said. “To start with.”

  “Shit,” Claude exclaimed in pleasant excitement. “Let’s go to a good bar tonight. Ah? May be we could hook up with a good-looking broad.”

  “Sure, Claude. I have to rush now, though. I’ll be back at eight.” He stood up. “See you soon.”

  And he did. The destination that night was one of the strip bars close to downtown, about half an hour from where Claude lived. As Trasher explained, the place had a reputation for having the best girls in town, young and prett
y, and a fairly peaceful crowd of professional men. With this well-to-do clientele, security was tight. Claude, however, had his own notions of security. He knew too well that fights sought out those who had no intention of avoiding them. His favourite weapon, a short and heavy metal rod, was stashed behind his belt and hidden under his jacket.

  Half an hour later, Trasher parked his Harley Davidson close to the bar entrance and the two buddies went inside. Two grim fellows examined them at the door with menacingly narrowed eyes. Claude chuckled. They had chosen the wrong targets for their intimidation tactics.

  A few moments later, they were seated at the far end of the first row of chairs.

  In the middle of the stage, a narrow pillar had been erected, and around it, a very pretty young woman was dancing with almost professional grace, completely naked. In the next round of the show, she lay down on the floor and, moving her knees and thighs in impossible twists, exposed herself to the fullest. Then, she stood up and began weaving her legs and arms around the pillar, like a liana around a tree, holding it from time to time close to her loins and gliding up and down it in a very suggestive manner. In one of her turns, she noticed Claude’s inflamed eyes and paused for a moment to give him the sweetest smile he had ever seen. An invisible needle pierced him from his groin to his throat, causing a strange feeling of acute itching and sweet pain. He took two big gulps of beer to wet his dry mouth. Never before would he have dreamed of approaching such a beauty. But now, with plenty of money filling his pocket, she might be affordable. He smiled back. She winked. His heart began pounding against his ribs.

  “Hot little pussy,” commented Trasher with an approving smile.

  The girl finished her show and nodded to the enthusiastic applause of her spectators. She smiled into space, to no one in particular, and threw her arms up and backward, behind her neck, her elbows pointing to the ceiling, to make her breasts push forward in a seductive way. She then began walking out while another girl stepped in for the next performance.

  Claude stood up and quickly reached the stairs leading to the stage. The beauty descended confidently, like a woman dressed in the most decent outfit.

  “Hi,” Claude said.

  “Let me pass, please.” She gave him a friendly smile.

  “I’m Claude,” he introduced himself, stepping aside. “I wanna meet you tonight.”

  “I’m Leila, and I can’t.” She rejected his advances with a promising smile. “Someone already takes care of me,” she explained in an apologetic tone. “You’d better run from here. It could be too dangerous for you.”

  She passed by and climbed the short flight of stairs leading to the dressing room. Claude stared greedily at her pretty bum, which swayed femininely at each step. After the girl disappeared behind the door, somebody tapped him on the shoulder. Claude looked cautiously around. Who the hell dared to touch him?

  “Don’t hit on that girl again.” A rather tall and strong-looking black guy stood there, his brutal face matching his powerful physique. His advice came with a frown.

  “Why not?” Claude asked mockingly; then, he laughed. The fellow was visibly perturbed by the fact that someone was not afraid of him. Apparently he had not expected any resistance.

  “Don’t ask questions, you son of a bitch,” he said, slightly raising his voice. “Beat it. Or I’ll hang you by your balls.”

  His stare was heavy. He was a real brute, Claude recognized at once. His attention was diverted momentarily to the changing room door, where the beauty was coming out again, this time with a light, transparent piece of cloth over her shoulders. She flashed Claude a short and scared smile. That was Cupid’s last arrow, and it hit his heart with deadly accuracy.

  “Why don’t we go outside and discuss that idea?” Claude suggested. In reality, he was trying to feign naivete and friendship to disorient his antagonist. He could hardly contain a boiling fury that had risen inside. How good it would be to tear this bastard to pieces here, on the spot, and run away . . .

  If not for the girl.

  The guy looked at him, puzzled.

  “Are you stupid, or what?” he asked, and then exchanged quick glances with two other men who had rushed to his side. He shrugged his shoulders and led the way to the back door.

  “I’m with you,” said Trasher from behind his right ear.

  “Go to your bike. I don’t need you.”

  “There are three of them.”

  “Do it. It’s more important to get outta here fast. Turn your bike on and wait.”

  Claude didn’t look back and didn’t know whether Trasher had gone or not. He followed the one who led the way, feeling with his sixth sense the two others behind him.

  It was already dark outside, but the streetlights made sufficient illumination for a fight. Claude pulled the metal rod from under his belt, and with a quick twist of his body, he hit the black man in an attempt to crush his skull. The man dodged; the rod missed the right spot but landed on a shoulder. The blow was still devastating, and the man collapsed, uttering a desperate, roaring sound like a mortally wounded large animal. Though the other two guys had already jumped out of the rear door toward him, Claude indulged himself in a second blow, which landed with a cracking sound on the head of his opponent. The man fell silent onto his back and stretched his arms wide, as if dead.

  Claude hit the second man, but received a hard blow from the third, who then grasped Claude by the arm that was holding the rod. Claude hit the man’s face with his forehead and felt the bones of the guy’s nose crush; he collapsed, screaming. The second man had recovered and jumped to his feet, but did not dare attack alone. He limped away in awkward, jerky movements.

  Not in the mood to chase him, Claude went back into the bar, where he found the beauty standing in a transparent bikini by the door of the dressing room, anxiously looking around. At the first sight of him, she approached the decorative fence that separated the showgirls from the public.

  “You have blood on your mouth,” she said, her eyes opening wide from fear. “Where are they? Where is Jessie?”

  “Who is Jessie?” asked Claude, wiping his lips where he figured the blood was.

  “The black one.”

  “Jessie, son of a bitch, won’t come back today,” Claude said. “He will be busy with health problems.” He laughed rowdily. “I have to go, though. When do you finish?”

  “Soon. I want to leave at midnight.”

  “Very good. I’ll catch you. Just walk slowly along the street.” Claude paced briskly out of the bar and disappeared into the darkness, like a raccoon in the forest.

  When he went out, Trasher gunned the engine, filling the quiet street with rough, growling sounds. Claude hopped onto the back, and the mighty bike jumped forward like a mad horse. Nobody chased them though. As they mingled with the other cars, two police cars approached on the opposite side of the road, their deafening sirens and flashing lights stopping oncoming traffic. Soon Trasher pulled up at the apartment building.

  “Good job,” commented Trasher. “See you the day after tomorrow.”

  When in the apartment, Claude dialled Hans.

  “Wanna help me tonight?” he asked.

  “I’m dead tired,” Hans moaned, half asleep, far from being pleased with a late call.

  “I need your help, buddy.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I have to pick up a broad. Do you have any hot wheels?”

  “I do. A jeep. Only ’til tomorrow, though.”

  “That’s okay. For an hour, at midnight. Okay?”

  Hans expressed his lack of enthusiasm with a short but impressive shower of dirty words.

  “Okay,” he agreed at last. “I’ll pick you up.”

  Claude needed a stolen car. In case of a police chase, they could abandon it and run away. Hans, sleepy and angry, met him in the jeep, which he had brought from its hiding place. Close to midnight, they parked about 50 meters from the entrance of the bar, where it could be conveniently observed.


  At exactly 12 o’clock, Leila came out and began walking along the poorly lit street. She had taken hardly a dozen steps when the Jeep Cherokee pulled up near her. Its back door opened.

  “Get in,” Claude said from the front passenger seat. His tone suggested no disobedience. Leila hesitated, but after he repeated his command in a more menacing tone, she climbed onto the back seat.

  “How are you?” asked Claude, turning back. “Everything was well in the bar?”

  “Where are we going?” asked Leila, her voice trembling in fear.

  “To my place. Don’t you worry, everything will be okay. How was at your place?”

  “Jessie was taken to the hospital. He’s in a coma, and they say his life is in danger. The other two are also in the hospital, one of them with a serious injury.”

  Claude roared in sadistic laughter.

  “Jessie will survive,” he assured her. “These guys have two skulls. I broke only one of his.” He laughed again. Hans echoed his laugh, but with less enthusiasm.

  “Are you going to kill me?” Leila asked as she began to cry.

  “Stop it,” demanded Claude. “Nobody would dare to touch you. You are under my protection.”

  Leila used her sleeve to wipe away some tears.

  “Please, let me go,” she kept crying. “Please.”

  “Stupid broad.” Claude was now talking to Hans. “I’d kill anyone who’d even look at her.”

  “Please.” Leila was shaking, as if in a fever. In a few minutes, she was able to calm herself and the car grew silent, with only sporadic weeping sounds that expressed her fear. Soon, the Jeep came to a stop. Claude jumped out and opened the rear door.

  “Come out, bunny,” he said, offering his hand. His gesture had a sudden and unexpected effect on Leila. She stopped crying, took his hand, and stepped down to the ground. Claude closed the rear door of the car; its tires screamed from the strong push to get away. A moment later, its rear lights disappeared around a corner.