Messenger of Death

by Alex Markman

  “I’m sorry,” she said, sipping her drink in the open bar, in the midst of the Mirage casino. “I’ll make up for the loss, Claude. I wanna make money, too, as you do.”

  “Again, the same old shit. You don’t have enough money?” Claude growled.

  “It’s not that. My life is just so boring sometimes. I like doing things. Do you think I left my well-to-do parents for nothing? Why can’t you give me something to do for yah?”

  “You can’t help me with what I’m doing, I’ve told you more than once,” Claude objected.

  “What’s so special in what you’re doing? I’m not a coward. We can do deals together. Except, perhaps, killing. You don’t kill, do you?”

  He threw a sharp glance at her, but she had already turned around to look at the roulette table nearby. She didn’t wait for his answer, obviously certain that he was not a killer.

  “Look, Claude.” She touched his hand but continued looking in the direction of her interest. Claude followed her stare and raised his eyebrows. He recognized one of the gamblers in an instant by his red ponytail. Stash was pushing tall towers of ten-dollar chips into the gaming area of the roulette table. A young, pretty woman, excited by his large bet, was commenting on his move with short applause.

  “Very interesting,” Claude murmured. “Let’s get closer. That’s a high roller’s table.” A quick look around showed him that several thousand dollars, easily, waited for the drop of a small ball to decide their destiny.

  “Let him know that we’re here,” Leila suggested.

  “Not now. Let him finish the game. With such bets, he’ll soon be out. I’d rather stay behind and watch it.”

  Claude tilted his head back and let the remaining beer in his glass drip down his throat. He stood up, scanning the vast casino for other Devil’s Knights or any suspicious activity. He saw only serious faces at the slot machines, staring dumbly at the rotating numbers and pictures that flashed hypnotically in front of their eyes. Claude and Leila left the bar area and moved to within three feet of Stash.

  Suddenly, the roulette dealer threw a small white ball into the groove above the rotating wheel so it could begin its fast spin in the opposite direction. As the speed of the ball was diminishing, Claude observed the bets and the gamblers. On the other side of the roulette table sat a Chinese fellow, approximately his own age, frantically placing hundred-dollar chips in a rush to cover his lucky numbers before the ball fell into a slot. A Chinese woman sitting beside him was looking at her own tall towers that sat in the “dozens” area. As in a dream, Claude was taking in the steady murmur of casino sounds swallowing him: excited conversations and arguments, the silvery clinking of coins falling rapidly from slot machines, a scream at a card table across the room, a sudden roar at the craps table. At last, the small ball dropped into the rotating wheel. In a deft and rapid sweep, the dealer removed almost all the chips from the table. The woman standing beside Stash clapped her palms and laughed happily; Stash had won. The two Chinese players did not blink at their losses but began pushing another bunch of chips forward to satisfy Lady Luck.

  Claude regarded the Chinese high rollers with jealousy and hatred. He wanted to be in their shoes, sitting with piles of chips, arrogantly ignorant of the admiring and envying eyes of bystanders. It would be nice to kill that bitch, he thought, looking at the rainbow of sparkles jumping off the huge diamonds on her fingers and in her ears. She must have felt his look because she raised her eyes to meet his.

  Claude smiled inwardly as he saw fear flickering in the woman’s eyes. She cast her glance down at the green table and then looked up again. Claude gave her his best sadistic smile. He held his stare as she took a paper napkin out of her bag and wiped large drops of sweat off her forehead and neck. No trace of arrogance or indifference remained on her face. Her fingers trembling, she did not dare to look at him again.

  Stash placed his new bets. This time, however, Lady Luck knocked him down for good. He happened to notice, though, the strange look and behavior of a Chinese woman across from him and quickly looked back.

  “Claude!” he exclaimed. Sudden surprise and anxiety were replaced with a contented smile. “Glad to see you. When did you get here?” His face was now even worse than it had been in the park. Undoubtedly in the sniffer’s paradise, he was trying to focus his eyes on Claude’s face.

  “Today is our last day here, actually,” Claude said. “We saw you on TV before we left home. That was one nice speech, Stash.”

  “Let’s go for a drink,” Stash suggested. “I wanna tell you something. Let the girls talk to each other. This is Merlin, by the way.” He began walking toward the café that was set up in the middle of the tropical forest inside the s huge lobby of the Mirage. After passing a small bridge over the stream that ran through the dense tangle of exotic plants, he chose a table and invited Claude to sit beside him. Their women had no choice but to sit on the other side of the table. From there, they couldn’t hear anything because of the loud music being played by a live band.

  “Listen, Claude, I’m broke,” he said. His right eyelid was twisting in a nervous tic. “Could you lend me a grand? I’ll give it back to you as soon as I return.”

  “We have to go upstairs. I have money in my suitcase.”

  “Thanks.” With a wry smile, Stash added, “My broad is very expensive. You have a good one, your ol’ lady, that is. Expensive as well?”

  Claude nodded.

  “Don’t you worry about money,” Stash said. “There’s a lot of work to do. Listen, I have something special for you. There’s a deadbeat in Ontario that owes me forty grand. No, not to me. To the Vandals, you know their club, don’t you? I got word that he keeps money at home. He feels safe in his territory. You have to take care of him.”

  “What if there’s no money?” Claude asked.

  “Finish him. The Vandals will pay for the deal. You’ll get ten grand for it one way or the other.”

  Claude had a feeling that something wasn’t right. But in his capacity as a contract killer, he wasn’t in a position to ask too many questions besides those directly related to a job.

  “I’ll give you his address and telephone number,” Stash continued. “He lives in a house. The trick is to sneak in when he’s alone.”

  “Leave everything to me,” Claude said.

  “I like you,” Stash said, a smile pushing up the pouches under his eyes. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  IV

  Claude returned home to discover that Hans was out of town. Because help would be necessary with the trip to Ontario, he agreed to take the insistent Leila with him. His only hope was that there would be no need to kill. His mood was rather grim during the seven-hour drive.

  “Why aren’t you talking?” Leila asked him time and time again.

  “Shut up,” he snapped.

  The dealer had gotten a call from Stash already and was supposed to be expecting his arrival. What if his bodyguards were there, though? Should he shoot them all? Leila mustn’t be involved in anything like that.

  He stopped the car near the dealer’s house and dialed his cell phone number.

  “It’s me, from Stash,” Claude said.

  “I’ll be right out,” the confident voice said.

  “Watch me,” Claude said to Leila. “Move to the driver’s seat and wait. When I return, hit the gas. Clear?”

  “Sure,” Leila said.

  “Do whatever I tell you to do, no questions asked. Understand?”

  Claude touched the gun under his jacket and got out. Heavy clouds were coming in with the darkness of the late evening, and a windy drizzle made him wet during the short walk to the dealer’s house. On the long driveway, a self-assured, tall man about thirty-five years old stood waiting.

  “Hi,” he said with no note of hostility. “Long drive?”

  “Sort of,” Claude said. “You wanna talk here, or inside?”

  “Better inside. A rather nasty drizzle.”

  “Anyone at home?” Claude
asked. As they stepped inside, he noticed the nicely furnished foyer and living room.

  “No, no one. You can speak. You came for money, I gather?” He pointed to the couch. “Would you like to sit down?”

  “Yes. Any bugs here?”

  “No—for sure.” The dealer sat back in an armchair and stretched out his legs. “I don’t have the money right now. Like I told Stash, I need another two or three months. Do you want something to drink?”

  “No,” Claude said, squinting grimly. “I didn’t drive seven hours for a drink. I was told that you keep money here, in your home. Give me whatever you have, and we’ll talk about how long you need to pay off the rest.”

  “Excuse me?” The dealer was visibly irritated. “Didn’t you understand what I said?”

  “I did,” Claude responded with a menacing growl. “Are you going to give me money or not?”

  “Listen,” the dealer narrowed his eyes, “continue with that tone of voice, and I’ll throw you out. Got it?”

  Claude pulled out his Magnum, walked over to the dealer, and pressed the barrel into his nose.

  “You do what I say,” he said with the most frightening tone he could muster. “One wrong move and you’re dead. Now, put your fucking hands behind your back.”

  At last, the dealer understood the danger he was in and obeyed. Claude stuffed the gun back under his belt, pulled out a roll of duct tape, and began tying the dealer’s arms.

  “Listen, man,” the dealer was growing alarmed, but began talking in a deliberately calm manner. “Listen, you’re doing something stupid. Don’t you know that my brother is a full-patch Devil’s Knight in B.C.? Do you need that much trouble?”

  Claude paused for a moment. Killing the Devil’s Knights associate would certainly mean serious complications. Is this what had seemed so out-of-place when Stash was describing this job? Was it possible that Stash had sent him here, knowing that? Was Stash so crazy on drugs that he didn’t understand the consequences? No—Impossible! Anyway, Stash was a full patch. He was supposed to know things like that.

  “Tell me about your brother,” Claude said, resuming his work. “Better yet, give me money. Then tell me about him. Otherwise, you’ll pay me in full.” He began binding the dealer’s legs to his chair.

  The dealer was totally incapacitated and at the mercy of a rather frightening messenger.

  “What’re you doing, man?” he began shouting. “What’re you doing? I don’t have the money, I swear! I don’t have any money. Just a few bucks upstairs. I’ll pay the whole debt, I swear.”

  Claude finished and straightened up.

  “I’m asking you for the last time: Will you give me money or not?”

  “You, joker!” the dealer screamed. “What’re you doing? Don’t you understand that I have no money? Don’t you understand that my brother is a full patch—”

  “Stop it, you jerk,” Claude interrupted him. He went to the kitchen and took a narrow, sturdy knife from one of the drawers. When he came back, he wasted no time turning its sharp point toward the left eye of the dealer.

  “I don’t know anyone still alive who has called me a joker,” he said. “Now’s your last chance. If you don’t give me the money, I’ll poke your left eye out. If that doesn’t help you find your money, I’ll poke out the right one. If that doesn’t help, I’ll kill you. So, where’s the money?”

  “I have no money . . .” whispered the dealer, scared beyond sanity. He pleaded, “I swear. I’ll give you money . . .”

  Claude didn’t let him finish. His rowdy laugh rang with sadistic pleasure as it mingled with the deafening shrieks from the tortured dealer.

  When Claude left ten minutes later, the corpse of the dealer was still tied to the chair, a knife deep in his eye socket. Climbing into the passenger seat, Claude commanded with his customary laugh, “Full speed ahead!”

  Leila smiled back and hit the gas pedal, letting the tires screech.

  “You see,” she said, making a sharp turn, “I can be of help to you.”

  When the thrill of the torture had wound down and clarity had taken its place, Claude started to play back the ordeal with the drug dealer. What if the man had been telling the truth? What if, indeed, his brother was a full-patch Devil’s Knight? Was it possible that Stash had been so desperate for money that he’d demanded pay-off from a Devil’s Knights associate? Would Stash make him a scapegoat when someone had to take responsibility for the kill?

  “You’re so quiet now,” Leila interrupted. “You haven’t said anything for an hour. Did something go wrong?”

  “I’m in no mood to talk,” Claude said curtly. “Everything’s okay.”

  A few days later, Claude was called to perform some duties at the Devil’s Knights clubhouse. Anyone who was not a full patch had to do them occasionally. Besides the task of security guard, which he didn’t mind at all, he had to do cleaning, because inviting any kind of cleaning service to this most sacred place was out of the question. The very thought of cleaning up after someone else disgusted him. But the most aggravating part was the fact that anyone of higher rank could give him an order or issue him a penalty. At these moments, his mind went fuzzy with an insane urge to kill the superior. Unfortunately, the only choice for those who wished to climb the ranks of the gang was to obey without a single objection, not even a trace of disobedience or displeasure; any promotion had to be approved by 100 percent of the voters.

  This evening, the clubhouse had too many visitors. The high ranks had invited a few ladies and indulged in plenty of drinking to ease the stress of intensified fighting with the Iron Ghosts, stepped-up police pressure, and an increase in media attacks. Although business discussions had been strictly prohibited in the clubhouse, some members deviated from this rule, albeit with many precautions such as gesturing, and using biker’s slang and secret codes.

  Stash was there, too. He took Claude by the sleeve and pulled him to the bar.

  “Here’s five grand for now,” he said with the weak smile of an addict. Claude noticed the disapproving glance that Marcel threw their way. Claude quickly stuffed the envelope into his pocket.

  “Why not all ten?” he asked.

  “I’ll give it to you a bit later. What’s the rush? By the way, a month has passed since that chickenshit Toulouse promised to sell the house. Go kick his ass.”

  “Will do,” Claude nodded. “Can I fiddle a bit with his furniture? That’ll impress his wife.”

  “Go ahead. But make it when his wife and kids aren’t at home. Don’t overdo it, though. Make him clear that he has no choice but to pay.”

  When Stash left, Marcel took his place.

  “Let’s go out,” he suggested. “I need to talk to you.”

  The parking lot was empty, but Marcel threw a quick glance around, more from habit than necessity. A bit tipsy, he drew his unusually grim face close to Claude’s ear.

  “We found out where Stanley’s muffler shop is. It’s time to take care of your friend.”

  Claude uttered his rowdy laugh. He even went so far as to impulsively embrace Marcel. His gesture was not well received.

  “This son of a bitch is like mercury,” Marcel continued when the distance between them had grown to an appropriate space for his rank. “Mind you, it’s not going to be an easy task. But I won’t give you any instructions. After you’ve done with him, I’ll propose to promote you to Prospect.”

  “Thanks, Marcel. I’ll do it. I couldn’t die in peace if he were still alive. His death will be a good lesson for all the others.”

  Marcel’s grim face relaxed at last in an agreeable smile.

  “I trust you. You’re my messenger.”

  Chapter 6

  I

  Monica threw an anxious glance at the face of the clock on the table and saw that its hands pointed at 4:30—almost the end of another workweek. But on Friday nights, when everyone else rushed home to begin a weekend, she was one of a few workaholics who usually remained in the building. Not in the least
concerned with having leisure time anyway, tonight she had a special reason for staying: She was mentally rehearsing her speech for a television interview scheduled at 8 o’clock.

  As a politician, and a very active one at that, she had to respond to the media outcry about the escalating biker’s war. Particularly troublesome for her constituents were the deaths of innocent bystanders who had had the bad luck of being in the crossfire. The public at large was concerned that the streets of the city were no longer safe. Explosions and shootings in this time of peace were more frightening than in times of war.

  Monica was sure that a few questions would be about her stance on the proposed laws. Inevitably, the interviewer would ask her: “Why are you against a law declaring the outlaw motorcycle clubs criminal organizations?” “Why do you oppose giving the police special powers to detain and interrogate their members who are under suspicion?” “Why do you oppose giving police the authority necessary to curb the biker’s war?”

  Indeed, her arguments against the proposed measures, which she saw as contradicting Canada’s constitution, were becoming less and less convincing in light of the recent numbers of deaths, amount of destroyed properties, and threats to businesses, journalists, police, and government officials. Tension was reaching the point at which politicians had to do something to ease public rage and fear.

  At the far end of her desk was a large tray, filled with mail that she had intended to read at the end of the day. With her mind already far away on the television show, she eyed the first few pieces. It was probably just the usual crap, she figured. She unfolded the first one, which was typed on a very fine paper with watermarks. Its content quickly cleared her mind. She read it twice, still not believing her eyes. It had only a few lines:

  Dear Monica,

  Happy birthday!

  We appreciate your position on any proposed law against motorcycle clubs. We praise your efforts to defend the constitutional rights of minorities. Without people like you, our democracy would plunge into a dictatorship.