by Alex Markman
“Oh,” Leila said. “Such a nice view.” She eyed the large backyard with trees, benches, and two big tables, one on the patio and another on the grass. Beyond was an endless stretch of lake. The sails of a few boats rose in the distance.
Claude placed his hand on her narrow waist and stared at her lips. Her understanding smile touched his heart like a sweet razor. Beautiful girl, he thought.
“Claude,” Marcel interrupted his fantasies. “We have to leave the girls for a short meeting.” He turned around and waved his right hand. All the bikers followed him inside the house. In the large dining room, he offered everyone a seat around the table, which was loaded with glasses and uncountable bottles of wine.
“Our meeting today will be very short,” he said, uncorking a bottle. “Everyone knows what we have gathered for today.” He paused for attention. “We are promoting Claude to hangaround status. Congratulations, Claude.”
Claude was dumbfounded. In a happy haze, he saw bikers coming to him for a handshake. Everyone smiled and raised his glass. The sharp odor of pot sprang up, irritating his nostrils. With a quick glance, he spotted the smoker—Stash, the one with a small ponytail and the bleak, wet eyes of a drunkard. Stash smiled and motioned with a sideways nod, inviting him for a talk outside. Since the group was already moving out, Claude joined him.
“Marcel says a lot of good things about you.” Stash led him to a small bench under a branchy tree. “Let’s sit—nice day, today.”
“Right,” Claude agreed, searching for Leila. She was chirping with three other women, busy eating shish kebabs. Machete went up to them and appeared to say something funny, because the women responded with laughter. Stash followed the direction of Claude’s stare and produced a transparent plastic bag with marijuana inside.
“This is the best grass you can buy in Quebec,” he said, offering it to Claude. “Help yourself. Here’s the paper. You have a nice girl. Only you and Techie are with old ladies. The rest, including Marcel, are with mamas.”
Rolling a joint, Claude continued watching the party. The wild gaiety was spreading over the backyard. Laughter and the flirtatious screams of women flew all around. At a patio table, Marcel was rolling up a $20 bill into a small tube. The mama beside him took the tightly rolled $20 bill, placed one end of it to her nostril, the other to a small stretch of white powder, and inhaled. It would take this broad, Claude thought, less than a minute to get crazy on pure coke, which was available only at the source of supply.
“I’m gonna suggest a job,” Stash said. “Don’t worry about Marcel,” he added, answering Claude’s silent question. “I’ve talked to him already.”
“What is it?”
“Don’t rush. Let me explain something. You can’t make your living forever on work that you’re doing for Marcel. The demand for it goes up and down. I gather that with such a beautiful old lady as you have, you need a stable income. Right?”
“Right. But I can’t sell stuff. I’m not good at that.”
“You don’t need to. I’m thinking of something else.”
“What?”
“I have a collection agency. It’s a legitimate business. I need people who can influence deadbeats without resorting to force. You know how it works, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do,” Claude nodded. “I’ve done that type of work for my buddy, who’s in the car business. When someone didn’t pay, he asked me to talk with him. Everyone paid.”
“You see!” Stash said happily. “You’re the guy I need. No violence, though. That would be a last resort, and only with my permission. What do you think?”
“Sounds interesting. What’s the pay?”
“Very good. We are talking about big money, Claude. Usually, our agency takes debts from $5,000 to $1,000,000. I’ll teach you some tricks of the trade. I’m pretty sure, however, that after seeing you once, no one would want to see you again.” He laughed, pleased with his wits. “Yes, I’m sure about that,” he repeated.
“I’d think you could find plenty of tough guys out there for this job,” Claude said, pleased with this joke.
“But, it’s really not that simple. Most tough guys are shitheads. They can’t deal with debtors who have brains, money, and connections to other tough guys. Sometimes, the job is dangerous.”
“I see. I don’t give a fuck how dangerous it is.” Claude didn’t look at Stash; he watched the party. Marcel’s mama, a rather cute broad of about twenty, or maybe younger, got a boost. She laughed, threw her head back, kissed Marcel, and shouted something incomprehensible. Then, she began to undress. After the last garment fell, she ran toward the lake—a rather spicy view, she was: long, flying blond hair, firm boobs and ass, with a neatly shaped blond triangle at the bottom of her tummy. She threw herself into the water, squealing, splashing, and inviting all others to join her.
In the middle of the backyard, a petite woman was pulling two large men toward the house, inviting them at the top of her voice, “Let’s do a threesome—now! C’m’on, guys.”
Machete talked to Leila, who seemed agitated. He grasped her hand and held it while she attempted to free herself. Claude was about to jump up, but Stash put his hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “If worse comes to worst, I’ll interfere. Mind you, for the next promotion you’ll need 100 percent of the membership vote. Hold on.”
Machete did let Leila go and looked after her as she ran to Claude.
“Let’s party,” she said, clutching Claude’s arm. The gentle warmth of her hands soothed his rage.
“We’ll talk about details later,” Stash suggested. “I’ll let you know how to find me.”
“Gimme a puff.” Leila pointed at the joint. With a melting heart, Claude saw her pink lips parting. His desire to kiss them was overwhelming.
She drew in the smoke and laughed.
“What was that joker saying to you?” Claude asked, rising to his feet.
“He told me, ‘flash your boobs, babe.’ He then said that I couldn’t be your old lady that fast because you’d left the pen not long ago.”
Leila led him to the table where Marcel sat in the company of two bikers and his mama; she now had a towel around her hips.
Claude noticed that Marcel did not drink. Leisurely smoking a cigarette, he observed the backyard from the corner of his eye.
Everyone was in a good mood, high on drugs and alcohol and the freedom from any restrictions. Agitated voices mingled into an incomprehensible chorus. Only two women were not topless: Leila and Techie’s old lady. A tall and pretty brunette about thirty years old, Techie’s old lady held herself with the pride of a woman who knew her worth. Drinking Coca-Cola, she talked to everyone who wanted her company in a friendly manner. All the bikers regarded her with respect.
“I wanna swim,” Leila said. “Let me change. I’ll be back soon.”
When she left, Claude went to take a grilled steak.
“Having a good time?” somebody asked from behind his back. Claude turned around. Techie stood there, smiling.
“Yes.” Claude was flattered by the fact that the legendary Techie was talking to him as an equal.
“How have my machines worked?” Techie asked. Claude new too well whose people had supplied the firearms he had used in his hits. They made sure that their stolen guns had no faults in either performance or reliability.
“Very good. I like them.”
Claude could talk about guns forever. He liked these dangerous toys; they elevated him by their power and their ability to intimidate people.
Techie spoke like a polite and cultured man. He did not use foul language or take advantage of his stature or influence. But Claude felt in his gut that this was a man of iron will and a clear, powerful mind.
“You need some training, I think,” Techie said, taking a bite of grilled chicken. “Marcel mentioned it.”
“I can shoot,” Claude remarked with pride.
“I know. But there are many circumstances when a trained hand
is a must. Could you shoot with precision while you run? Would your shots be accurate when your target is moving fast? How about long-distance shots? There are some other aspects. Trust me, training would give you that extra mile in many circumstances.”
Claude nodded, his eyes watching Leila in her bikini. She gave him a smile over her shoulder; then, after a moment of hesitation, she plunged into the lake with a joyous scream. It did not escape his attention that Machete, who sat with his mama on the beach, was watching Leila, too. This biker, no doubt, had snorted too much white powder. Apparently violent, he would be tough to deal with if push came to shove. Techie understood where Claude’s attentions were being diverted.
“He’s never gone after someone’s old lady before,” Techie said. “I don’t have a good feeling about him lately. He takes too much blow. Sooner or later, he will lose his mind. Such people eventually become a burden, rather than an asset, to us.”
This was a serious remark, just short of a death sentence, as Claude understood it. The usual way for the Devil’s Knights to deal with a burden was to dispose of it.
When Leila came out of the water, Machete stood up and blocked her way in an attempt to strike up a conversation. She stepped back. Short-tempered Claude had had enough.
“Sorry,” he said to Techie, and walked briskly to Leila.
“Let’s sit at the table,” he said, taking her hand.
“Hey, buddy,” Machete objected, giving him a contemptuous look. “Can’t you see that we were talking?”
His eyes weren’t focused. Fighting with him, however, would be stupid: He was a full patch member, which meant a lot. Luckily, the matter didn’t get that far. Techie came up and stood between them.
“Marcel’s waiting for you,” he said to Claude. He talked to Machete until Claude and Leila left. Marcel made an inviting gesture for them to sit nearby.
“Machete’s getting into trouble,” Marcel said. “I know him. When he loads up too much, it’s hard to calm him down. I’m sorry to say it, Claude, but you’d better leave. Tomorrow, when he’s sober, I’ll give him an ultimatum. But for now, just to avoid a stupid conflict, you’d better leave with your girl.”
Claude saw Techie speaking with Machete. The addict was obviously angry, but Techie remained calm, his eyes cold as ice.
Ten minutes later, in a sour mood, Claude climbed on his bike with Leila settled in behind him, and steered through the gate. Not a single car was on the road. At the first intersection, though, they bumped into a line of police cars. They were flagged over to the side.
“Driver’s license,” one of the police officers demanded menacingly. Claude’s driver’s license was in order. His answers were deliberately stupid, but polite. The police took a picture of him and copied all the data from his documents. For probably the first time in his life, Claude didn’t lose his temper.
“Why have you left the party?” the officer asked with a sarcastic smile. Undoubtedly someone in the village had complained.
“Ain’t no party,” Claude said.
“Go,” the officer commanded and turned his back on him. Luckily, he did not question Leila. She might have been in trouble if he had.
Chapter 4
I
The information technology revolution had created many new ways and methods for the police to store, organize, analyze, and present intelligence data. Serge Gorte was one of the detectives who used those new tools to the fullest. Occasionally, though, they just didn’t seem to help. Like now, looking at his various flowcharts and tables, he remained at a loss—how did this murder relate to anything?
Technically, the case, which involved a car dealer’s young wife, had nothing to do with bikers and therefore was the problem of another department. But something about the case piqued his interest. One thing was obvious: A professional hit man had committed the murder. No clues had been left that would help lead to the killer. Missing jewellery and money appeared to be an awkward attempt to imitate a robbery. Circumstantial evidence suggested that the victim knew the killer personally. She’d let him in, with no protest or resistance.
Too many murders in the last few months have been committed by experienced hands, Serge thought. Granted, they’d been hits on bikers or their associates and involved guns, explosives, and beatings, some in public places. This case seemed to have no similarity whatsoever to the others, but . . .
The first person he suspected was the husband of the dead woman, Norman Vincent. He had a firm alibi, though, and he didn’t seem to have a police record—at least no information about him was readily available.
Serge sighed. He turned to study the pictures of ten bikers that police had taken last month on a stakeout. Someone in a country village had alerted police to their noisy arrival, and even though lawyers for the Devil’s Knights club protested police harassment of bikers, the current political climate was not in their favor. Checkpoints had proven to be very valuable in the past. They often led to charges for firearms violations and to the discovery and identification of new members and associates of the gangs, which allowed their data to be gathered and recorded in police files.
No illegal substances or violations had been found, though, on any of these bikers: no drugs, no firearms, no contraband. On the other hand, only nine of them were known bikers, notorious leaders of the Devil’s Knights club. One of them had not been associated with any biker gangs before. A biker wannabe, perhaps—information about him was abundant in police files and the files of various penitentiaries. He was Claude Pichette, a violent, ill-tempered psychopath who had proven to be a danger to fellow inmates and to prison guards, as well. What was he up to? What was he doing for a living? What if he was somehow connected . . . ?
Well, something was nagging at Serge, and the idea was worth a try.
He dialed the number for the security office at the Vincents’ condominium building. A female officer answered abruptly, then changed her tone as soon as Serge identified himself. In a short time, she found out that the security guard who had been on duty at the time of the murder was currently working a shift. Serge picked up a few pictures from the table and put them in the breast pocket of his jacket. In his customary, unhurried pace, he went out, got into his car, and drove to the condominium.
After parking close to the building entrance, he took a walk and looked around. He noticed, first, the lonely street, which had no pedestrian traffic. Then, a small park with a few benches caught his eye. It was just off the street, and looked as if it might provide a convenient observation post for watching the entrance doors. He stepped inside the small lobby, absorbing every tiny detail.
At his left was a windowed room where a security guard was supposed to be sitting. Nobody was there. The next door was locked; naturally, only tenants of the building would have a key for it. Soon, a young woman came in. She unlocked the door and pushed it open.
“Would you like to come in?” she invited with a smile.
“Thanks,” Serge said as he followed her in.
A few minutes later, a security guard—a tall, dark Indian man—came and settled in behind his desk on the other side of the window.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, leaning forward like a servant, ready to please.
“I’m Detective Gorte,” Serge said, showing his badge. A look of fright crossed the guard’s face.
“There have already been a few of you here asking questions,” he said. “I can’t really tell you anything more.”
“I know. I’m not going to take much of your time.” Serge forced a false grin on his lips.
“Okay.” He exhaled loudly. “What can I do for you?”
“The murder happened between 10 and 12 o’clock, during your shift,” Serge said. “Are you 100 percent sure that no stranger came in during that time?”
“I am positive.”
“Could you remember those who came in?”
“Most of them.”
“Did you see all their faces?”
“I thi
nk so. Most of them . . . I think.”
“Most of them . . .” repeated Serge. “Could you give me an example of the ones you didn’t see?”
“There was one guy who was helping one of our elderly tenants with some bags. They talked to each other. I supposed that they knew each other.”
“How tall was the guy? How was he dressed?”
“Well . . . about six feet, I s’pose. I don’t remember his dress, though—nothing that stood out.”
“Never mind,” Serge remarked impatiently. “Who was she, the lady he helped with the bags?”
“The old lady from the fifteenth floor. Rose is her name. She lives in 1509.”
“Good. Thanks a lot. Can I have her phone number?”
“Sure.” The guard opened a binder and wrote it down. “Here it is.”
Serge dialed from the guard’s phone. A cracking voice, undoubtedly belonging to an old woman, said, “Hello.”
“Sorry to disturb you, Rose,” Serge apologized. “I am Detective Gorte, investigating the murder in your building. Would you kindly agree to have a chat with me for a few minutes?”
A moment of silence followed.
“Certainly,” the old lady said and hung up.
Serge took the elevator to the fifteenth floor and knocked on Rose’s door. He felt that somebody was watching him through the peephole. The lock clicked and a thin woman appeared at the doorstep. She was very old, indeed: Wrinkles took up all the space on her small face. The top of her head was decorated with a crown of gray hair, light and transparent like haze, tidily arranged in waves.
“Please, come in,” she invited, squinting her pale eyes at him, as if disturbed by the strong light. “This is probably regarding this terrible murder on the seventeenth floor?”
