by Alex Markman
“It is very nice to have a neighbour like you. My name is Brian. What’s yours?”
“Rosa,” said the old lady. “I haven’t seen you before. You are a very nice young man. Press 15, please. Thank you. What floor are you living on?”
She squinted again, trying to get a better view of him. “My vision is not as great as it used to be,” she explained.
“Twentieth,” Claude lied.
At the fifteenth floor, he returned her bags, said, “Good-bye,” and pressed 17. When the elevator stopped, he stuck his head out and looked right and left. No one was in sight. He stepped out and knocked at the door of unit 1703. Brigitte would be allowed to see his face. The dead—as she soon would be—could not be a witness.
He stood in front of the peephole, smiling. He heard a feeble rustle in the depths of the apartment, then the click of the lock, and the door opened slowly. A petite, pretty young woman in a fluffy nightgown appeared.
“Please, come in.” She returned his smile. “I am Brigitte.” The woman stepped back to let him enter.
“Nice to meet, you,” Claude said, searching the distant corners of his memory for a few extra nice words. Brigitte nodded and smiled again—a very sweet smile, Claude thought. She looked very tempting. Her cheeks, a bit puffy after a sound sleep, were perfectly smooth. Something childish was dancing in her large green eyes. It would be nice to fuck her, Claude thought, but no, business is business.
“Please, sit down,” she invited.
“Thanks. I didn’t expect to see such a beautiful woman.”
Brigitte smiled again, this time with a touch of understanding and compassion. Apparently it was not much of a surprise for her to have another man making over her.
“Some coffee?” she suggested.
“No. Business first.” He pulled out an envelope and placed it on the table. “Please, count.”
“I trust you,” she said in her gentle voice. “I couldn’t care less about money.”
She seemed unable to recognize danger. Claude admired her acting skills: This bitch played an innocent angel without a flaw.
“Please count it and give me a receipt. Just in case, you know. I don’t want to have any complications with Norman.”
She sat back in a chair and took the envelope.
“Why didn’t you call from the entrance?” she asked.
“Oh, there was an old lady there who let me in. I helped her with her bags. Very nice lady.”
“Sure you don’t want some coffee?”
“I’d love to, but have no time at all. My wife is waiting for me downstairs in the car. We have to rush.”
“Well, then,” she responded, seeming slightly disappointed. She removed the money from the envelope and started counting. Claude walked behind her back, stretched on his gloves, grabbed her chin with his right hand and the top of her head with his left, and, with a powerful clockwise twist, crushed her neck vertebrae. Brigitte died instantly, without uttering a sound. Claude let her fall to the floor and went to the room where Norman’s office was. He found money in the top drawer, as Norman had promised. In the bedroom he picked up some jewellery. He gathered the money that had scattered on the table, which Brigitte had had no chance of counting, and moved slowly into the hallway.
No one was in the corridor.
Claude proceeded to the fire exit door and went out, burying the lower part of his face in his half-folded right arm, as if protecting himself from the blow of a fist. A quick glance around assured him that no security cameras had been installed in the staircase. Good. Trying to make as little noise as possible, he descended to the ground floor and left the building through a side door. The short passage leading to the street was empty. With a brisk walk Claude crossed the road, went to his parking space, got into his Honda, and turned the key. A thought about Leila made him smile—she would be beside herself with delight at the sight of the pile of money and jewellery he brought her.
On the way home he stopped at a small plaza with a public phone, and dialled the pager number and then 7777, which meant to Marcel that the deal was done. Steering the car back into the slowly flowing traffic, he rolled down his windows and let some fresh warm air in. Life is good, he thought—the sun was shining; money was plentiful; and his girlfriend was really something. She was waiting for him now.
The ring of the cell phone interrupted his pleasant chain of thoughts.
“Number twelve, if you could,” the voice said. It was Marcel.
“When?”
“Right now.”
“Okay.”
The café with the code number twelve was a half-hour drive away. Why would Marcel want a meeting on such short notice? Claude thought, already cruising along the streets toward the meeting place. Did I do something wrong? By the sound of his voice, Marcel isn’t angry. What’s the damn rush?
His worries were groundless. Sitting at a table on the sidewalk, Marcel greeted him from afar with a friendly smile. He stretched his arm out for a handshake.
“Everything went well?”
Claude gave him a detailed account of the events.
“I like it,” Marcel nodded and took a sip from his coffee cup. “In a short while we’ll have a meeting in a country home that belongs to one of our members. Big house on the lake, you know. Two boats.” There was a meaningful pause. “You’re invited. Mind you, mostly full patches will be there.”
The joy at having such respect shown him was more than Claude could handle. He suppressed an urge to jump up, taking a cigarette, instead, and lighting it.
“Why don’t you speak?” Marcel asked.
“I don’t have a bike,” Claude said with intonations of guilt.
“Buy one.”
“I’m still short of money.”
“How come? You’ve been paid well.” Marcel frowned. “Too much up your nose?” He was hinting about cocaine use.
“No, not at all. But I’ve had to spend some money on furniture. I have a girl. You know. Like . . . she will be my old lady.”
Marcel’s eyes glowed in appreciation.
“Good girl?”
“Yah. Very pretty. But she wants to buy all the household things, and it’s damn costly.” Claude shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, “What could I do? A woman.”
“I know, I know,” agreed Marcel. “I’m convinced that having a family isn’t a bad thing. It makes one responsible and careful. How much do you need for a bike?”
“Another ten grand.”
“I’ll lend you the money.”
“Marcel,” Claude said, overwhelmed with emotions. “I’ll do anything for you. But . . . I don’t know if I can pay you back soon.”
“You can. There are a few jobs waiting for you. By the way, can you ride a bike?”
“Yes, I can. I have a friend in the car business. He has good bikes once in awhile, so I drive them. I already have a license.”
“Good. One of my people will call you tomorrow and give you the ten grand. Okay?”
The whole world began a slow dance around Claude’s head. It seemed that the day was an endless succession of happy events and news. This morning, he had killed a woman. It was a nice, perfect kill. He’d gotten lots of money for it and some jewellery for Leila. Marcel was going to lend him money for a beautiful Harley Davidson. And now, more jobs and money were waiting for him. Such a nice, beautiful life!
“I’m always ready,” Claude said, lighting another cigarette. He drew the smoke in as if it was the elixir of life. Exhaling a thick cloud, he asked, “What are these jobs?”
“I’ll give you the home address of an Iron Ghost. That’s the only thing I know about him at the moment. Don’t touch his wife or kid. Make it clean.”
“Will do. What else?”
“Another one is a frequent visitor of the Planetarium restaurant. We have some people there who’ll let us know when the Ghost is there. Our guy will be in touch with you. Be ready any minute, as time is at a premium.”
“Sure. Anything
else?”
“Not now. But something’s cooking.”
“What?” Claude sensed something interesting.
“Very soon we’ll know the exact location of the muffler shop that belongs to Stanley.”
A sadistic guffaw from Claude greeted the news. Marcel raised his eyebrows, which made Claude interrupt his reaction. The waiter, who stood nearby, noticed a disturbance and came over with a pot of coffee.
“Some more coffee, sir?” he asked Marcel, bowing in respect.
“Yes, please.”
The waiter turned to Claude.
“Something for you, sir?”
“Only coffee.”
“Certainly, sir. Here you are. Enjoy.” The waiter left.
“Sorry,” Claude apologized. “It was too good news for me. He’s mine—don’t give him to anyone else. Okay?”
“Sure. Five grand on top of the usual pay is what you’ll get for him.”
Claude’s head began to swirl.
“I’ve gotta go,” he said. “My ol’ lady is waiting for me.”
“Sure,” Marcel nodded with a condescending smile.
By the time Claude got home, it was late afternoon. He found the curtains drawn to dampen the bright sunrays, Leila napping on the sofa. She was dressed in soft jogging pants and a T-shirt, and she smiled sleepily when she heard him enter the room. She spread her arms for an embrace. Claude grabbed her and ran his palm over her back under the clothes, from shoulders to buttocks, enjoying the unique softness, smoothness, and warmth.
IV
During the next two weeks, Claude was busy executing Marcel’s orders. The hunt for the first target was not simple: This Iron Ghost stayed in a different location almost every night, avoided public places, and was accompanied by a bodyguard at all times. A special crew of Devil’s Knights kept his house under surveillance around the clock. Their only task was to notify Claude when the target returned to his home.
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 shootin
g 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.
