Messenger of Death

by Alex Markman

“Weird guys,” Shelly expressed her unsolicited opinion when they got to their room. “We’d better stay away from them.”

  “We don’t have to marry them,” Camilla objected. “Dinner in a restaurant is not an engagement.”

  She turned on the TV, trying not to listen to her friend’s conversation about marriage and dinner.

  According to the local news, the weather was expected to continue to be cold and overcast for another two days. However, the chairlifts at Mont Tremblant would be open. In the actual newscast, the announcer said that the local police had been informed about an Iron Ghosts biker club gathering in one of the hotels at the ski resort. In a related story, a brawl had broken out in one of the bars with a local gang, associates of the Devil’s Knights. The news concluded with a warning about an approaching snowstorm.

  Camilla dodged questions about the sick man, skillfully diverting the conversation to other topics, such as how good looking the guys were who had kept Shelly company. The diversion worked.

  Stanley picked them up in the lobby exactly at 8 o’clock. The girls settled comfortably into the rear seat of a large jeep and looked out the windows in silence. A dense mass of trees edged the narrow road, which wound in steep curves up the hill. Occasional snowflakes swirled leisurely through the headlights. There was no traffic on this seemingly deserted road.

  The car reached the top of the hill where a large building stood, its windows ablaze with bright lights from inside. Stanley pulled up close to the entrance and led the girls through the lobby and two large halls. The entire place was richly decorated and packed with well-dressed, smiling people. Elegant furniture, china, crystal glasses, and sparkling flatware added to the ambiance of this opulent place. When they entered the dining room, a huge picture window stretched from floor to ceiling like a glass wall, providing the view of a fenced courtyard, lit by outdoor lamps all around it.

  “Here we are,” Stanley said, pointing to a table by the window. The two men who had kept Shelly company in the hotel sat there with one vacant chair between them.

  “Sit down with us, Shelly,” one of them invited with a smile.

  Camilla took the nicest place at the far end, where she could observe the snow-covered land outside as well as the warm aura of the dining hall. On her right sat Stanley. Shelly settled between the two men, all pink cheeks and shining eyes, happy to be the center of attention.

  A large table further down the hall was apparently made up of a few smaller ones that were joined together to accommodate a party of ten men in their late thirties and early forties. Tough-looking guys, they studied everyone around with hostile suspicion.

  “Some water?” Stanley asked. Camilla paid attention to his hand, which was holding a jar. She saw an interesting ring on his finger: a weird emblem surrounded by small diamonds.

  “Yes, please,” she said, studying the hands of the two guys across the table. They wore similar rings.

  “Anything wrong?” Stanley asked, filling up her glass.

  “You all have weird rings,” she said. “What do they mean?”

  “Anyone having a ring like that belongs to our club.”

  “What club?”

  “A motorcycle club, the Iron Ghosts.”

  “Oh . . . now I understand.”

  Stanley raised his eyebrows, smiling with lips only; his eyes remained serious.

  “What do you understand?”

  “The TV news I heard. There was a brawl between two gangs in one of the bars. That’s where Ogre was wounded?” She spoke in a half-whisper, making sure that Shelly would not hear anything.

  “Right, you are,” he said in the same tone.

  “What made you chase me on the slope?”

  “My guys called and told me about Ogre when I was standing behind you to take the last ride on the chairlift. They couldn’t take him to the hospital because the police would have been involved. We’d had enough of that crap. We try to avoid them as much as possible. Besides, Ogre said that the wound was not serious. And then I noticed the nursing school patch on your backpack. ‘That’s what we need,’ I thought. When I caught up with you, I noticed that you were much more than a nurse.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A very pretty, nice girl. Everything sweet that could be said about a girl.”

  “Rascal. You are gangsters,” Camilla said with a frown of disapproval.

  “Not exactly. Sometimes we do things that the law doesn’t approve of. But we don’t harm people.”

  “Why don’t those guys have any women among them?” Camilla nodded in the direction of a large table.

  “Because we’re here to discuss business. I recommend you choose the seafood, although the steaks are good here, too.”

  Camilla glanced up only to meet the eyes of some of the club members. They regarded her with apparent interest. She diverted her eyes to the mirror on the right. Her face was a harmony of colors: natural pink spots of health on tight, smooth cheeks; large, blue eyes with a seductive gleam of joy; long, dark eyelashes; smooth, white skin on her forehead and neck; and the happy smile of a strong, healthy woman, whose full red lips parted teasingly, showing two rows of white, even teeth. A gray–white sweater stretched flawlessly over her shapely breasts and slim waist. She cast her eyes down contentedly.

  “I like you as I never have any girl before,” Stanley kept talking into her ear. “With me, you’ll have all the excitement you could ever want. You’ll have life as you’ve never had or dreamed of before. Say something. Why don’t you speak?”

  Camilla looked out the window again. The ambience of the restaurant had created a pleasant, relaxed atmosphere. In the window glass, as in the mirror, she saw Stanley, looking her up and down, his eyes glowing with lust and adoration.

  “Are you a leader in this group?” she asked.

  “You may say so,” Stanley agreed. “But it wouldn’t be entirely true. I like doing things myself. That’s why I would never be a president of the club. Although I have many people working for me, that’s true. Why?”

  “They look at me as if I’m your property.”

  She turned away to avoid his piercing stare. He put his palm over her delicate fingers and caressed them. She did not object. Everyone noticed what was going on. Shelly exchanged glances and sly smiles with her companions to the right and left.

  “Be with me,” Camilla heard Stanley saying, his lips close to her ear. “You dream, I’ll make it happen. Fair deal?”

  She cast a quick glance at Stanley and his hard, sharp profile: He was her kind of man.

  “So, you needed a nurse for Ogre.”

  “Right. But it turns out to be much more than that. When are you going home?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon. Why?”

  “Stay another night.”

  “Where?”

  “With me. Stay. You will never regret it.” When she said nothing, he went on. “I can do anything for you.”

  His presence, more than his words, excited her. She was no saint in her relationships with men, but all her affairs had been inspired by passion; they had never been about quick, casual sex.

  “I can’t stay,” she said firmly. “But I’ll give you my number. We can talk more.”

  Stanley nodded in consent. He observed her inch by inch, as if she were his own property, to be taken care of.

  II

  The cold Quebec winter turned slowly into a dull, gray spring, which was abruptly interrupted by the beginning of a hot summer. Young girls were quick to welcome the return of warm weather by wearing their new outfits. This was the time of year when everyone was making plans for vacations and travel. Even the bikers were busy, preparing to escalate their feuds with other biker gangs.

  Marcel had arranged a meeting on the rooftop garden of a 25-story condominium building. The garden overlooked the twisting blue ribbon of the local river and an uneven row of tall hills to the west. A recent associate of the Devil’s Knights had bought a unit here. The place was new, in mint conditi
on, and the owner assured Marcel that it was safe—the cops had not yet installed any recording devices. Marcel agreed, but intended to observe some precautions anyway.

  “Wanna glass?” the associate asked. He had brought some chairs from his apartment and arranged them around a table, on which he had placed a few bottles of beer and some pretzels.

  “No. Get inside and watch the door.”

  The associate obeyed without uttering a sound, and Marcel walked over to the safety railing that ringed the roof. The peaceful scene of the rural community across the river soothed him for a few moments. A short rest in a quiet, distant place with his wife and cute little girl, he thought, would be a nice, refreshing change from this madhouse, but there were just too many urgent matters to attend to.

  Marcel turned around, disturbed by the click of the door latch behind him. Machete and Stash came onto the rooftop, shook hands with him, and took seats at the table.

  With a quick twist of his fingers, Stash unscrewed the jagged metal cap from a beer bottle and let the pressurized gas escape with a brief, protesting sound. After taking a big swig of the brew, he turned his head and looked at some of the distant hills basking in the afternoon sun.

  “Nice place,” he remarked. Marcel and Machete did not comment. Stash looked at Marcel with watery, tired eyes, darkened with tiny, swollen blood vessels. Marcel stared back with a disapproving grin.

  “Too much coke lately?” Marcel asked. With some effort, Stash stretched his mouth into a fake, apologetic smile. His eyes, however, remained alert.

  “C’mon, Marcel,” he objected, but stopped short of offering any convincing argument as the door to the rooftop garden squeaked open and another guest appeared. This was a tall man about forty years old, very sporty looking. He wore a shirt, opened two buttons down from the collar, and expensive, casual pants, held up by an equally expensive belt with a designer buckle. His sturdy black walking shoes made firm, sure steps as he approached the table and sat down next to Machete.

  “Hi.” He did not look at anyone in particular.

  “Take one, Techie.” Marcel nodded toward the bottles of beer. The man reached for one, opened it with a quick twist of deft fingers, and took a tiny sip. He slowly moved his gaze, examining everyone around the table. Apparently he did not care about the spectacular view from the rooftop.

  “What’s up?” he asked. Marcel couldn’t help but notice the difference between Techie and Machete. Machete was bulky, with a disorderly beard and long hair, and sat in his usual grim mood. Techie was clean-shaven, with neatly groomed blond hair. His suntanned face and neck radiated good health and energy. Marcel did not answer Techie’s question, but turned his attention back to Stash and continued his conversation.

  “You have to be alert. Stop it.”

  Stash was about to say something, but Marcel stretched his arm, palm out, as if pushing off any possible objection. Stash placed his bottle on the table with an angry bang and straightened his back. Marcel gave him a warning look and turned to Techie.

  “There’s a job for you,” Marcel said. Techie was an expert in weapons and explosives, the boss of a well-trained team involved in smuggling guns from the United States, planting and detonating devices, and calibrating guns for smooth operation and precision shooting. As his nickname suggested, Techie had outstanding technical knowledge and working skill in everything related to firearms. He was the only one of the Devil’s Knights who did not have a criminal record. If he had ever committed any crime, it was in the distant past. All stealing and smuggling was conducted by subordinates, and he made it clear to everyone on his team that they were not to be messed up with anything not related to weapons.

  “Look . . . ,” Stash began, but Marcel interrupted him.

  “You wanna say something?” Marcel’s voice was menacing. Techie raised his eyebrows, forming horizontal wrinkles on his forehead. Machete took a swig of beer. Stash’s face hardened, his watery eyes regaining the grim energy of a gangster.

  “Don’t you think we’ve gone far enough with them?” Stash asked. “We’ve paid a heavy price for fighting. Twelve of our people have already been killed. Four others are missing. You and I know that they’re dead. Don’t you think we should talk some sort of truce with them?”

  “We’ve killed twice as many,” Machete echoed curtly. Marcel nodded in agreement.

  “True. I know that you, Stash, are among those who blame me for this mess. Tell me, what else are we supposed to do? Do you know the solution? How would we look in the eyes of everyone around us if we couldn’t cope with a small, independent group? How would our American brothers look upon us? Besides, you know these guys. As soon as any sort of truce was settled, they’d start to expand. Many already look at them as an alternative to us. No, Stash, forget the truce.”

  “They turned out to be not such a small group,” Stash held his ground. “Look, they have an endless supply of candidates. You assured us at the very beginning that as soon as Jason and Stanley were out of sight, we would easily finish them off. Jason is now in jail, but Stanley is no less efficient. Do you realize what bigger mess you are getting us into? Nobody knows what could happen tomorrow.”

  “There is no other way,” Machete interrupted angrily. “We must finish them. With or without Stanley, they won’t hold out too much longer. They’re in pretty bad shape. One of their full patches has left the club. After all, they do not have as much money and support as we do.”

  Marcel made a gesture, as if wiping dust from an invisible wall in front of him.

  “Enough about the truce,” he concluded. “We need to get rid of Stanley, that’s for sure. Do you have your baseball team ready, Machete?”

  “At a moment’s notice.” Machete’s eyes glistened with pride.

  “Send them to the bar on Pearson Street. They sell a lot of pot to yuppies there. Stanley’s guy keeps it.”

  “Will do,” nodded Machete.

  “You, Techie—send your people to arrange a small display of fireworks by their clubhouse on St. Lucia Street. You’ll have to—”

  “I know what to do,” Techie said abruptly. “It’s not my first display.”

  “But we don’t know exactly what day he’s supposed to be there. You’ll have to have someone watching the area.”

  Stash shook his head disapprovingly and interrupted.

  “You know, Marcel, that they’ve stocked up a huge pile of dynamite. They would reciprocate. The newspapers would scream again.”

  “That’s the point,” Marcel admitted. He was about to say something else when the door opened and their host appeared, carrying a tray with sandwiches and napkins. Techie watched as their host stepped forward.

  “Looks good,” he commented.

  “My ol’ lady did it,” the associate said with pride.

  “Is there a washroom here?” Stash asked.

  “Only in my apartment. I’ll show you.”

  “I need to make a quick phone call,” Machete said, placing a bottle of beer on the table and standing.

  “Sure,” nodded the associate. “Follow me.”

  Marcel pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and walked to the railing. Leaning on it, he took a few puffs while staring at the green hills, blind to the beauty of the landscape. Techie came up to him and, with his back against the rail, looked in the opposite direction.

  “I think we should do something about Stash,” he said and turned his face to Marcel.

  “I know. I will talk to him.”

  “Talking has never been a cure for cokeheads,” Techie insisted.

  “What do you suggest?” Marcel kept staring toward the hills in front of him, but he was well aware of Techie’s presence. Techie was a biker in very good standing, with an impeccable reputation. Without such members, any outlaw motorcycle organization would cease to exist.

  “Let’s demote him to a prospect at our next club meeting. If that doesn’t help, let’s take his colors and let him go. Otherwise, it might be too late and we would have
to take him out. Not a good option.”

  “He hasn’t done anything wrong yet to demote him,” Marcel objected. “Don’t forget, he’s better than all of us in public relations. Now, when we’re heading into a real mess with the Ghosts, we need him. We couldn’t last long against the government, the politicians, and the media without Stash. He’s well educated and knows how to speak and present things. It might be hard, but I’ll fix him.” He straightened up and confronted Techie. “Trust me.”

  “What do you think about the idea of truce with the Ghosts?” he asked, changing the discussion. The two bikers stared solemnly at each other. Their short round of silent gangster’s diplomacy was interrupted as Stash and Machete returned and took their places at the table.

  “Let’s talk later,” Techie suggested. Only Marcel heard him, but Stash and Machete looked at them intensely. Marcel took his seat and stretched out his legs.

  “As you know, the situation in the Rivierre joint is not in our favor now. We did manage to grease some of the guards, but many still side with the Ghosts. I have the addresses and personal information of all jail staff.” Marcel stopped, testing the impression he was making. Machete opened another bottle of beer and smiled. Techie remained calm and indifferent. A few vertical wrinkles appeared on Stash’s forehead.

  “I’m going to send a copy of it to the damned jail office and make sure that they know who has the original. I also have an address of Serge Gorte—he has become a pain in the ass lately. It would be nice if he goes voluntarily, as his predecessor did.”

  “What if they just spit on us?” asked Techie, alluding to the prison guards.

  “The names of those who screw things up will be typed in bold and marked with asterisks.”

  “What if they’re not convinced?” asked Stash.

  “We’ll convince them. After all, we offer them a good choice: either have money and work with us, or else . . . ”

  “I think you’re going too far, Marcel,” Stash said firmly. “Slumber office, Gorte— gosh, if it comes to that, you would provoke the government. It’s the system, you know. Have you ever thought about that?”