by Alex Markman
“‘Because I shoot better than you do, knucklehead’ I said. ‘You’d better get some training sometime, yah lazy bum. For now, don’t say a word until everything’s over. Now, give it to me—now!’”
Stanley took another nervous puff.
“And, did he?” asked Camilla, holding her breath.
“Luckily, he did. I took it just as three jerks entered the room, one behind the other. Even if I hadn’t known them, I’d have understood who they were after. With a little practice, you learn to recognize those who come to kill.”
A quick thought ran through Camilla’s mind: What kind of frightening life has this man had to live to gain such experience? Stanley noticed her strained face, but apparently mistook her fear for admiration.
“One of them I knew well: Machete is the name of this son of a bitch.” Stanley kept talking, encouraged by a new look of attention on her face. “For sure, he and his buddies had killed a few of us. I knew that he was out on bail. As he stepped in, he put on a ski mask. But we’d already been moving toward the rear exit. You see, this bar is my territory. I know how to get in and out of it. Had it been anybody but me, Ogre would’ve been dusted; he would never have run; it’s against his rules. But now, he followed me, without giving it a second thought. There were a few loud shouts behind us, someone in the bar screaming like hell.”
Stanley stopped talking and lit another cigarette from the butt of the first.
“Do you have any whiskey?” he asked. Camilla jumped up and brought a bottle from the kitchen, with a glass. Stanley filled it halfway and drank.
“Outside, around the corner, there’s a narrow passage that leads to the rear parking lot.” He kept talking, his eyes grim. “We barely dodged the waiter, who was coming from the kitchen with a load of dishes. When we leapt through the rear door, we heard the rattle of broken plates—they knocked the waiter down. The commotion was good for me. I didn’t have to start shooting on the run. I know too well that shooting on the run can never be accurate, no matter how much training one gets.
“The parking lot at the back was damn dark. Not a single street lamp was lit, although usually there’s at least some light. I stopped about twenty meters from the rear exit and turned around. At that very moment, the door flew open and the first of them rushed out. I was already standing still, aiming at the target: the doorway. Machete—it was certainly him—was shooting very well. Bullets flew just a few inches from my right ear. But I had the advantage of being prepared for the shot, because I could stand still and take aim at him. I fired, he shrieked like a frightened woman, and fell down. Two others bolted in different directions. Machete, however, turned out to be a hard nut: He kept shooting from the ground, in pain. One of his bullets hit Ogre’s left shoulder, but it wasn’t serious—the bullet just scratched his skin. I fired two other shots, which calmed the shithead for good. Then I ran. Ogre followed, holding his left shoulder with his right hand.”
“‘What’s that?’ I asked.”
“‘I was hit,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry; it’s just a scratch. I’ll drive myself.’”
“‘You sure?’ I asked.”
“‘I have the stuff in my car,’ he said.”
Stanley poured more whiskey into his glass and took a sip. He finally noticed that Camilla was looking at him strangely. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
“I . . . I don’t know if I should tell you—,” she started.
“What? You should tell me everything.”
“This . . . this, Machete . . . he’s at our hospital.”
Stanley leaned back on the sofa, examining her as he would a complete stranger. A moment later, he stood up, took off his jacket, and, pacing to and fro in the limited space of the living room, rolled up his sleeves.
“Where in the hospital?” he asked.
“Stanley, darling.”
“Where?” He threw her a no-nonsense glance, raising his voice.
“On the fourth floor. Room 419. Look, darling, let it pass. There’s a police officer on guard 24 hours a day outside his room. Because the guy’s out on bail, the police didn’t let Devil’s Knights guard the room. They want to interrogate him because the gun was found beside him.”
“Will he survive?” Stanley asked.
“Yes. No vital organs were hit. He’d lost a lot of blood, but he’ll survive.”
“Okay,” Stanley said after a silent conversation with himself. “Let’s forget about that. When are you leaving for your shift?”
“In two hours.”
“Good. Come here. You won’t need that nightgown for awhile.”
“That’s better,” Camilla said after her clothing fell to the floor. It was lovely to feel his warm hands running over her body. “I love you, darling.”
An hour later, after glancing at her wristwatch, she placed both her hands on his cheeks in a gentle, affectionate pat and said with a sigh, “I’ve gotta go. Will you stay here?”
“Yes,” Stanley said, his eyes half closed. She giggled happily.
“I’ll sneak under the blanket with you tomorrow morning, when you’re still in bed. You like it in the morning, don’t you?”
“Sure do.” Stanley kissed her. “Any time of the day, for that matter, any season, any weather condition.”
On the way to the hospital, she smiled at the recollection of his last remark. She liked it the same way Stanley did. Anticipating the joys of the following morning, she went to the fourth floor, only to notice a police officer at the end of the corridor, sitting on a chair outside a patient room. That’s where the man who’d been wounded in yesterday’s shootout, a man she now knew as Machete, was recovering. Camilla walked a short distance to the nursing station, and was immediately absorbed in the busy hospital schedule. Her first priority was to check patients who were in serious condition. Machete was one of them. At the entrance to his room, the police officer was dozing in his chair, fighting desperately to stay awake. When his chin hit his chest, he threw his head back with a jerk, as if frightened by a dream. He opened his eyes for a moment, and then, after seeing Camilla in her white medical gown, let his head drop back onto his chest.
Machete was sleeping. Looking at him, she couldn’t comprehend that this unconscious, bearded man, his skin pale-gray like death, had been trying to kill her lover the day before. She didn’t feel any hatred toward him. With the professional compassion of a nurse, she fixed the tubes leading to his veins, measured his blood pressure, and left.
After finishing with the left wing of her floor, she went to the right wing. It was nearly 2 o’clock in the morning. On the way out of a patient’s room, she noticed two men in white medical gowns coming off the elevator. Both had neatly groomed beards, mustaches, and thick hair. They turned left with the confident steps of doctors very familiar with the hospital. One of them was rather broad-shouldered and fat. He stopped at the corner while the other one kept going toward the end of the corridor, where the police officer was sleeping, his chin on his heaving chest.
At the next moment, horror make her immobile—the slim doctor had Stanley’s gait; she could recognize it from among millions of others. He stopped short in front of the sleeping police officer, his right arm hidden under the white medical gown, then carefully stepped over the guard’s outstretched legs. The fat doctor kept his hand under his white gown, as well; he was turning his head from side to side, looking from one end of the hall to the other.
Camilla darted around the corner to the nursing station. Aimlessly shuffling papers on her desk, she listened with pounding heart to the slightest noises, expecting a rattle of shots, a series of screams, or the noise of a chase. Nothing of that sort happened. She walked to the elevator, from which both wings could be observed. Nobody was there: only the police officer who was dozing peacefully at the entrance to Machete’s room.
An interminable hour passed by. At 3 o’clock in the morning, a sickening yell from the left wing startled her. She ran in the direction of the noise, two other nur
ses following her. In Machete’s room, they found the police officer, groaning and holding his head. Machete was lying on his back, the handle of a dagger sticking out of his throat. He was dead; his eyes were open, his sheets soaked in blood. The killer had obviously known how to make his death quick and silent.
The commotion woke up the whole hospital. The police arrived and began their investigation. The detective who questioned Camilla didn’t find anything suspicious in her behavior; other nurses were shaken no less than she was.
When the shift was over, Camilla was thoroughly exhausted. She left the hospital, going out into the summer morning, holding her purse in trembling hands. The sun had just begun to rise, lingering above the horizon and throwing its blinding rays straight into her eyes. The city had started this day like any other, with traffic on the roads and anxious pedestrians on the sidewalks. Looking at the usual routine of day-to-day life, she could hardly comprehend that what had happened was real. She got into her car and steered it into the busy streets, thinking about possible consequences. A blend of excitement, guilt, and fear haunted her all the way home. At her apartment, she took off her shoes at the doorstep and walked quietly to the bedroom. She found Stanley, lying under the blankets with eyes open, smiling, and apparently in a very good mood.
“Tired?” was his first question.
“Oh, Stanley . . . ,” Camilla sighed, taking off her clothes. “Gosh, I thought I would die . . . I was so terrified . . . I’m still shaking.”
She lay beside him and closed her eyes, feeling his embrace.
“Stanley, darling, I can’t. It’s beyond me. I have to recuperate.”
“I know that you like it in the morning,” Stanley reminded her.
“Not this morning. Please, my dear. I can’t. I have to rest a bit. Tell me, how’d yah do it?”
A proud smile appeared on Stanley’s face.
“You tell me first—what happened after Ogre and I left? Lots of fuss?”
“There was. The police officer was screaming. We all rushed to the room. The biker was dead. A knife was stuck in his throat, up to the handle. It was so frightening. The poor police officer was disconsolate.”
Stanley laughed heartily.
“What would happen if they discovered my role in all this mess?” Camilla asked sternly.
“Never, my sweetheart,” Stanley assured her. “There were no witnesses, other than you.” He caressed her hair.
“How did you do that?” she asked. Stanley sat up on the side of the bed and began to dress.
“We arrived in an ambulance. I know someone who is an ambulance driver. As you noticed, Ogre and I wore wigs, phony beards, and mustaches. A few Devil’s Knights were on patrol around the hospital, but they didn’t suspect us. Five other guys were waiting inside the ambulance, just in case. We had guns. I thought we’d have to take the guard into the washroom and tie him up there. I even took a roll of duct tape to seal his mouth. But the pig was sleeping like a kid. When I stepped over his legs, he moved a bit. I grasped my gun, but happily, he didn’t wake up. Good for him. That saved his life. When I sneaked behind the curtain, I saw Machete sleeping. I drove my dagger into his throat. He jerked, but then died in the next instant. We left down the staircase.”
“Weren’t you scared?”
“C’mon, Camilla.” Stanley was already dressed. He bent over and kissed her eyes. “Take a rest.”
“I love you, in spite of everything,” she said with her eyes closed.
“I love you, too. I promise that you’ll never be involved in anything like this, again. Sleep well.”
He kissed her once more and left.
When her fear subsided, Camilla had nearly regained her usual, happy state of mind. But later, she started examining Stanley not only with the care of a loving woman but also with the curiosity of a psychologist. Behind his image of a strong and tough man, she often saw glimpses of a hellhound with no human features. He claimed that his actions had always been provoked by circumstances. It was one thing, though, to have a reason, but another to act upon it it the way he did. Stanley’s lack of fear and disregard for consequences were beyond her comprehension. In some way, however, she admired him even more than before. What he’d done was both terrifying and mind-boggling. One must be worth something to do that.
For a week they didn’t see each other. Stanley called her every day, soothing her nerves with his confident manner of speaking, his charm, and his careful selection of words—always to the point and convincing.
“I miss you so much,” he said at the end of each conversation, “but I can’t come to you. Too many things I’ve got to do these days.”
She listened to his words with a mixture of delight and fright. The newspapers, the radio, and the television were all talking about the biker’s war, contract killings, staggering death tolls, and detonations of large amounts of dynamite at the businesses and social buildings of rival factions. She now had no doubt that Stanley was involved in, if not initiating, many of these events.
“I’d love to meet you tonight,” he said one evening. “Come to the Dummy Eagle bar at eight. We’ll have a few beers and then go to my place. I don’t want yours to be under X-ray.” That was what he called police surveillance.
When she arrived, he was already sitting at one of the tables with his usual welcoming, relaxed smile. Ogre was beside him, his face to the entrance, as well. Camilla couldn’t understand how they could be so tranquil in the midst of such turmoil.
She threw an anxious look around the crowded bar, a rather foolish attempt to recognize gangsters that might be hunting Stanley.
“Sit down, sweetie,” Stanley invited, moving a chair. “Relax. Any problems? Investigations? Tell me, what’s happened since that night? I couldn’t speak to you about that over the phone.”
“Nothing much,” Camilla said. “They just spoke briefly to all nurses who worked that shift. Since a police officer was guarding the room, there wasn’t much they could ask others. Once, though, my heart stopped when the detective talked to me. He didn’t ask much, but when he looked at me. . . . At first I just took him for a kind family man who had gotten his job on the police force by sheer chance.”
“What was it about his look?” Ogre asked.
“I don’t know. But I was as calm as a saint. I wanted to be an actress before I decided to be a nurse, you know. My acting skills have helped me a lot in my life.”
“Do you, by any chance, remember the name of the detective?” Stanley asked.
“Serge Gorte. Kind of a weird name, isn’t it?”
She noticed how quickly Stanley and Ogre exchanged glances.
“Forget about it,” Stanley advised, leaning back in a casual manner. “What do you want to drink, my cute little actress?”
His face suddenly became hard and tight, just as she remembered it had been when she’d seen him for the first time, at the chairlift. He was looking at Ogre, but Ogre was looking intently into the murmuring crowd of beer drinkers.
“What is it, Ogre?” Stanley asked. Camilla’s heart jumped in fear. These guys, she thought, don’t have a minute to relax from the dangers of their busy lives. Is this the nature of an adventurous life? If it was, she wouldn’t be able to live it.
“The shithead that I was supposed to meet when Machete came. You see him there at the bar counter? He’s alone.”
“What are you up to, guys?” Camilla asked. She looked back and saw the man at the counter. He turned his head and their eyes met. Camilla gave him a polite but meaningless smile. In the next moment, the man was staring beyond her, at Stanley and Ogre, trying to retain the last traces of his vanishing smile. She turned around, only to notice a remarkable change: Ogre was now smiling, waving at the man in a friendly manner; Stanley was not tense anymore, but had begun fiddling with his glass of beer. He touched her hip under the table.
“Here’s the key for my Jeep, Camilla. When I give you the signal, go there and wait with the engine running.”
�
�What are you guys up to?” she repeated in whisper.
“Don’t be scared,” Stanley commanded with a smile. “You’ve said that you’re a good actress. This is your chance for a good show.
The man who sat at the bar stood up and came over to their table. By his look, he seemed a tough guy—middle height, broad shouldered, and apparently very strong.
“Hi,” he said to Ogre. “Haven’t seen you in ages.” There was tension in the man’s eyes. He was trying hard to detect the danger, but couldn’t quite come to any conclusion, misled by the appearance of friendly faces.
“Sit down, Shifter,” Ogre said, nodding at the remaining vacant chair. “Have a beer with us. This is my friend Stanley. You wanted to meet him—here is he.”
Stanley shook hands with Shifter, who relaxed at once. He sat, accepted the offered bottle of beer, and took a large swig as he stole a glance at Camilla. Without understanding why, she took part in the game and returned the glance with a smile, that peculiar smile that only very coquettish women can master.
What am I doing? she asked herself. Maybe they want to kill the poor man. There’s nothing that they wouldn’t do. However, she felt no strength or will to say “no” and disobey Stanley.
A few minutes of meaningless small talk apparently convinced Shifter that he was safe. He even tried to pull off a few jokes, but told them in too primitive a way, typical of poorly educated people who lack sophistication and wit. While listening to one of his stupid jokes, Camilla felt Stanley’s gentle kick under the table. She smiled, as if reacting to Shifter’s words.
“I’ve gotta get home, guys,” she said, rising. “It’s getting late.”
“Where are you going?” Shifter asked.
“I live close to Serengeti Optical,” she lied. This distant store was the first landmark that came to her mind.
“I actually don’t live far from there. Could you give me a ride? I don’t have a car today. The busses only run once an hour that late,” Shifter said. She wanted to cry “stupid ass!” but looked at Stanley instead. He smiled.
