by Alex Markman
Camilla shook her head and glanced at a newspaper that was spread across the table. Large, bold letters in the headline were meant to draw the reader’s attention: “Biker’s War Escalates.” A picture in the center of the page resembled a modern painting of a disaster—a biker bar in the aftermath of an assault. She looked more intently at the article. The assault, it said, had been conducted by masked hoodlums, who used baseball bats to break everything inside. The bar, according to the writer, was patronized by members of the Iron Ghosts and was a haven for drug sales. According to speculation, the rival Devil’s Knights gang had sent one of their “baseball teams”—the author demonstrated familiarity with biker jargon—to make a mess of the place. They broke in and ordered everyone not to move. One hoodlum used his heavy bat to take care of everything behind the bar. Shards of glass flew around the room from broken bottles. Others took to beating the drug dealers. One of the clients, too drunk to understand what was happening, had tried to protest. A masked hoodlum hit his legs with a bat, sending the man unconscious to the floor. The article said that police were still looking for any traces of evidence that might lead them to identity the criminals. From there, the piece gave a short history of biker gangs in Quebec. But Camilla did not go much further because two glasses had been placed on the newspaper, making reading impossible. One glass had the whitish, brownish color of Baileys in it.
“Interesting article?’ Stanley asked, taking the chair beside her. The other was half full of a golden brown liquid that smelled like cognac. “Someone must have forgotten the newspaper here. I’ll tell the guy on duty to watch for these things.”
“Is it a secret?”
“No. But it might give the wrong impression to someone that we’re defenceless. We’ll respond, that’s for sure.” He leaned back and took a sip from the glass. His lean face relaxed as he looked around, leisurely observing the party. Camilla watched him with a warm glow in her eyes.
Suddenly, the whole building shook like a dollhouse kicked by a monster. The sound of a rough, terrifying clap of thunder accompanied the jolt, but it was more deafening than even the strongest bolt of lightning could produce. Bits of plaster and dust jumped off the walls and fell from the ceiling, sprinkling everyone and everything. A chandelier hanging from the ceiling on a short chain began swaying and dancing. Everyone rushed to exit the room, the rowdy, commanding voices of men mingling with the piercing shrieks of women. Camilla flew off her chair toward the door but was stopped abruptly by a strong grip. She turned around, trying to free her arm. It was Stanley who held her.
“It’s over,” he said. “Don’t rush. It’s over.”
“What was it?” Camilla asked, her voice shaking. “Hell, what was it?”
The exit was cleared quickly and Stanley ran out, pulling Camilla after him.
“Take my car and get out of here,” he commanded, handing her the keys. “I don’t want the police to see you here. Go, go! I’ll come to your place later.”
In the car, Camilla threw one last glance at Stanley. He and Willy were giving directions and orders to other members of the club.
“Take the dogs inside,” Stanley shouted. “Open the gate. Go, go, but do not rush. There is nothing to worry about. You, stupid ass, back up. Don’t block the way. Hold on, hold on.”
Camilla’s first sickening moment of fear had passed, its last remnants escaping through her trembling fingers and lips. She drove through the open gate and then hit the gas pedal of the powerful Mercedes. At the closest major intersection, traffic had been halted by incoming police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks, all with their sirens screaming and lights flashing. After they passed, Camilla sped toward the green light. She was out of the law’s reach.
Half an hour later, she cautiously unlocked the door to her apartment. Shelly was waiting for her. After numerous failed attempts at marriage, Shelly had sworn to remain single and devote the rest of her life to her vocation. Now, pale and visibly upset, she followed Camilla into her room and began complaining about the injustice done to her on her last exam. Her agitated words were pouring over Camilla like an endless stream of water. One timid attempt to interrupt her failed. Camilla tried again.
“But—”
Shelly raised her voice to continue.
“Why,” she asked like an offended child fighting the injustices of humanity, “why does mediocrity always win in the battle against genuine talent? They understand nothing in art, Camilla, I assure you. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.”
“Right,” Camilla agreed and turned on the television. No method has been invented, Camilla thought, to interrupt this chirping fool, but she was wrong. The breaking news made Shelly wipe away her tears of sorrow.
“There was a huge explosion tonight near the clubhouse of the notorious biker gang, the Iron Ghosts.” The female reporter was holding a microphone in one hand, the other pointing at a building, which Camilla recognized at once.
“A car loaded with explosives was parked nearby and was detonated by remote control or a timer,” the journalist kept talking. “Surprisingly, not much damage was inflicted on the clubhouse. Police attribute this to the fact that the building was originally constructed as a military bunker, with strong metal and concrete walls. The outer wall was reinforced from inside by sandbags. Police suspect the rival Devil’s Knights gang for arranging the explosion as retribution for the latest killing of two of their top-ranking members, who were assassinated in a parking lot on the outskirts of the city.”
“Gosh,” Shelly commented, “ . . . unbelievable.”
“Windows in neighbouring houses were broken by the blast,” the broadcaster said. “No casualties have been reported so far, but the neighbourhood has been shaken by the event.”
Shelly was quick to shower Camilla with her opinion about bikers.
“You remember that guy, Stanley?” she asked. “Have you seen him lately?”
Camilla didn’t answer. She was listening to the broadcaster too intently. “The bikers were quick to react. Their lawyer prevented police and firefighters from entering the building because no formal warrants had been issued. In addition, no one from the club has agreed to cooperate with the investigation.”
“You are the only one in the whole world who understands me,” Shelly was saying.
The phone’s ring startled Camilla. She reached for it nervously, but instead of “Hello,” a croaking sound escaped her throat.
“Hi. It’s Stanley,” was the calm response. “Everything’s okay?”
“Yes. What about you?”
“Good.” She felt almost as if his voice physically conveyed his energy and surprisingly good mood to her. Like a magic elixir, his voice poured strength into her, dissolving all her fears and worries. At that moment, Shelly got up, showing signs of impatience.
“Camilla, dear, I’ve gotta go. I’d love to stay with you longer, but I’ve got a date.” Shelly was speaking in an apologetic tone, sincerely believing, it seemed, that Camilla needed her company.
Camilla had an urge to yell, “Go to hell,” but instead nodded in understanding and agitation.
“Bye, Camilla. See you later.”
“Where are you?” Camilla asked Stanley, when Shelly was out the door.
“Not far. May I come by?”
“Yes, please.”
A few minutes later, Stanley came in. He was serious but calm and self-controlled.
“Knights planted the bomb,” he explained, kissing her on the lips. “Were you scared?”
“Just at first,” Camilla confessed and led him into her room. “I’ve watched the latest news. Here, sit down.” She laughed at his impatience. “Wait, Stanley,” she said in a mellow voice, not wanting to yield to his passion.
“I’m too excited,” Stanley said, unbuttoning her blouse and bra. “You’ll soothe me.”
She agreed.
“Don’t rush,” she whispered. “Oh, Stanley, dear.”
Danger added spice to their physical intim
acy.
Half an hour later, with not a stitch of clothing on, Camilla brought a tray holding two cups of coffee from the kitchen. She’d expected Stanley to watch her admiringly, but noticed that his attention was keenly focused on the television set.
“What’s up?” she asked, placing the tray on the coffee table.
“Sit down,” Stanley said with a smile. “Look what’s going on there.”
Camilla picked up her nightgown and settled down on the bed. On the TV was another interview, this time with a woman about fifty years old, dressed in a conservative black jacket. With the blank, stern face of a skilful politician, she gazed at the audience with infinite patience.
“Our guest is Monica Goddet, a member of parliament and a prominent figure in the political scene of our province,” the male broadcaster said. Then, turning to Monica, he continued.
“Monica, how would you comment on the latest events, which our police have labelled an escalation of the biker’s war?”
“The death toll has become staggering,” Monica answered, frowning. “In the last few months, this ‘war’ has intensified on an unheard-of scale. Numerous assassinations have been aborted by the police. Still, as it stands now, more than forty people are dead, two of them ordinary citizens—innocent victims who happened to be in the crossfire. A few other bikers are missing and deemed dead. The bikers show extreme contempt to public opinion, law and order, police, and all our legal institutions.”
“What measures would you suggest?” asked the interviewer.
“Some measures have already been taken. A special unit, assembled with members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, city and provincial police personnel, and other institutions involved in public security, has already begun working on this issue. A larger budget for police units dealing with biker gangs is under consideration. And, I personally feel that intensive training must be provided for police forces to improve their efficiency.”
“The police have suggested that the parliament should adopt a tough new law that specifically targets biker gangs. This law is supposed to make investigations easier. What do you think?”
“Let’s first consider what kind of a law was suggested. The police want to declare the outlaw biker clubs criminal organizations. The mere membership in such an organization could be the foundation for searches, arrests, investigations, or straightforward criminal charges. This would make the life of the police so easy! No hard work, no investigative skills required. If we go this way, we could, in the future, single out any group that the police or the government dislikes for any reason. I believe that this law, if adopted, would be unconstitutional and challenged successfully in the courts.”
“Is there any government proposal?” the broadcaster asked.
“Yes, there is. The government intends to set up a task force to recommend measures to end the biker’s war and to deal with organized crime in general. The magnitude of the biker’s war demonstrates how large the criminal world has become. The public is not aware of that.”
Camilla was listening with keen attention. A disturbed feeling, like a sudden ocean wave, drowned her in its chilling depth. Stanley noticed her mood and turned the set off.
“The government is dead serious about you guys,” Camilla remarked.
“They’ll never pass this law,” Stanley said. “They’re more afraid of the police having power than of us having it.”
“She said that the war had escalated noticeably in the past few months. Did you have anything to do with that?”
Stanley shrugged his shoulders.
“Let’s talk about something else.”
“What if these Knights target your relatives, wives, girlfriends?”
“That would never happen,” Stanley said. “I am quite sure about that. That would be too much. For sure, the government would do something then. The police don’t care much when we kill each other. But when someone who doesn’t do any business with us is hurt, it becomes a different story. The Knights are not that stupid.”
“Why can’t you leave the club for good?” Camilla asked. “You’ve mentioned that you want to do that eventually.”
“Eventually, but not right now.”
“Why not?”
“You don’t want to turn money down if it’s going to be there.”
“I’m just scared,” Camilla confessed.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” Stanley assured her. “But some measures of caution should be taken. We shouldn’t live together. Like I said, I’ll find you a good apartment. For now, let’s go eat—someplace nice. Where would you suggest?”
Chapter 3
I
The meeting place was code number four on Marcel’s list. The restaurant, owned by an Italian crime family, had been designed with its clientele in mind. It was divided into three areas—two large halls, arranged along an outer glass wall that faced the street, for ordinary visitors, and a smaller room at the back, with only ten tables inside, for those select patrons who needed privacy and wished to be hidden from unwelcome attention. The food was good, inexpensive for its quality, and served by pleasant, ever-smiling, attentive waitresses. It was a large money-laundering outlet in which illegal cash was converted into legitimate income, reported taxable, and made safe for spending. When Marcel and his two bodyguards came in, it was about 2 o’clock in the afternoon and the lunch crowd was nearly gone. One of the waitresses greeted them with genuine joy.
“Please, follow me,” she said, holding large restaurant menus under her arm. In the back room, daylight from a small window mingled with electric light from a hanging chandelier. Reflected and multiplied by numerous crystals, it created an instant atmosphere of comfort, quiet, and privacy. White tablecloths; snow-white, well-ironed napkins stuffed into wine glasses; and the refreshing chill of air conditioning enhanced this feeling.
“Which table do you wish to take?” the waitress asked.
“The one in the left corner is for me,” Marcel said. “That one—near the entrance—is for my friends.”
“Certainly.” The waitress responded with an energetic nod to emphasize her understanding.
“I’m waiting for another guest,” Marcel told her, as he sat down where he could observe the entrance to the room. “He should be here any minute.”
“Certainly,” the waitress repeated in the same tone. “Here is the wine list.”
“A bottle of my favourite,” Marcel requested, not looking at the paper. “You know . . .”
“Of course, sir,” she said seriously, as if on an important mission, before going to serve the bodyguards.
Raymond appeared at a quarter past two, as arranged. Settling in across the table, he asked with a smile, “Who are those two?”
“My people,” Marcel responded with pressed lips.
“I don’t welcome any attention other than yours.” Raymond adjusted his phony eyeglasses on the bridge of his nose and started studying the menu.
“They are reliable people,” Marcel growled.
“I know. But they are outside the list of the two people I trust the most.”
“And who would that be?”
“You and me.”
“Listen.” Marcel frowned. “It’s not peace and quiet now. You know as much as I do that we live in troubled times. It’s not cheap to keep bodyguards these days. Besides, these guys are for your safety as well as mine.”
“I know, I know.” Raymond sighed, his way of expressing appreciation for Marcel’s consideration. “What can I do for you?” He removed his napkin from the glass.
“Some wine?” Marcel asked, taking the bottle.
“Please.”
Raymond looked in silence at the stream of red liquid pouring from the bottle.
“I need information on someone as soon as possible,” Marcel said while Raymond was sipping his wine. “Stanley Mathews is his name. We know that he has a muffler shop, but we don’t know what name it’s registered under. The bastard is shifty like mercury; he is e
verywhere and nowhere. We don’t know where he lives or where he hides. Besides the usual pay, I’ll give you an extra two grand when we’re done with him.”
“I don’t need the last detail,” Raymond said. “Do you want me to find out where his muffler shop is?”
“Yes. Any other information about him would be a bonus.”
“I’ll try. Anything else?”
“I need to know the address of Serge Gorte. He’s the one responsible for investigating bikers.”
Raymond didn’t blink. He was looking into Marcel’s eyes in silence, in expectation of some explanation. The tension at the table was growing.
“Three grand,” Raymond broke the silence in a low voice. “I have to share with others . . .”
Marcel smiled through tight lips, his eyes grim. In response, Raymond raised his glass and said, “Cheers.”
“Something else,” Marcel said.
“Sure.” Raymond drank his wine in small, slow sips.
“The government is going to assemble a task force that is supposed to work on ways to deal with bikers.”
Now, a genuine smile appeared on Marcel’s lips. Raymond took too big a swig, made a choking sound, and coughed.
“Excuse me,” he said, lifting the napkin to his lips.
“We need their addresses—if not for all the task force members, then at least for the major players.”
Raymond recovered quickly. A look of respect flitted across his face, only to yield to his customary unemotional mask.
“I’ll do my best,” he mumbled. “As far as I know, the task force has already been assembled, but the members have not been announced yet.”
The rest of the lunch passed by in meaningless small talk, with each thinking his own thoughts. Marcel pulled up his left sleeve and glanced at his watch.
“Five minutes to three,” he said.
“Time to depart?” Raymond asked.
“I’m expecting someone else at three,” Marcel said. Raymond produced his wallet, but Marcel stopped him with a gesture.
