Messenger of Death

by Alex Markman

  After the government adopted its tough new law against organized crime, both gangs began feeling some heat. Many gang members were arrested, and the gang leaders had to ease their selection rules to recruit new members and maintain their counts.

  As spring began wiping away the remnants of winter and replacing snow with an assault of chaotic, violent colors, Claude’s mood finally began to improve. Although his dependency on drugs continued to grow, his fears and fits of depression began to subside. Shy at first, an urge for violent distraction was growing stronger and stronger, taking the place of his mental fatigue. A decisive wake-up call came one day from Marcel, who invited him to a meeting.

  “I’ll let you know where and when we’ll meet,” Marcel said. “Be ready, anytime. Got it?”

  “Okay . . .”

  “Anytime,” Marcel repeated. Something unusual was in his tone, and Claude sensed trouble. Marcel had never made a habit of repeating his words.

  “No problem, Marcel.”

  An hour later, an unexpected knock at the door made him reach for his gun. He had the nasty feeling that something was fundamentally wrong, and the feeling grew stronger as he opened the door. Beyond the threshold stood a typical biker: a leather riding suit—but without any insignia, Claude noticed—and high leather boots. He wore a band around his head and sported a disorderly beard, mustache, and long hair. Claude remembered him at once. They had been in the same jail at one point in time. The guy had belonged to a biker gang that had been controlled by Marcel. He handed Claude a folded piece of paper and left, not uttering a sound.

  Claude spread the paper on the table and studied it with a frown. It was a map, drawn by a very practiced and firm hand, with arrows pointing to a destination and instructions detailing how to get there and what landmarks to look for. A note from Marcel demanded that he be there at 4 o’clock, sharp, that afternoon. Claude glanced at his wristwatch. It was already two. What the hell was going on? He couldn’t have done anything wrong. He hadn’t done anything.

  The obvious choice for the drive was his beloved Harley Davidson. The warm day, the cloudless sky, and the light breeze were very inviting. Claude put on jeans, hopped on the bike, and drove away. Once outside the city, the rural scenery of the country, the air blowing in his face, and the feeling of freedom known only to motorcycle riders and flying birds eased his anxiety. With no cars or humans in sight, he let the engine roar with its full might. The sun glowed directly above his head, throwing no shadows from the trees on either side of the road. Brightly lit pastures, stables, and farmhouses, scattered great distances one from another, flew past him in pleasant but monotonous succession. He arrived at the meeting point fifteen minutes early and found it to be a farm, plunged into a state of afternoon drowsiness. A gravel road led him through a collection of retired and dirty farm machinery, scattered like a rusty scrap yard, and up to a farmhouse. Farther, behind the house, was a big barn, its large doors looming open. Claude pulled up close to them and turned his engine off. The sudden silence of this remote, uninhabited place alerted him—this would be a perfect place for murder, he thought. Nobody would hear any cry for help.

  With cautious steps, he walked slowly toward the barn entrance, the gravel under his feet protesting with grinding crunches. Inside, he stopped and listened. It was pleasantly cool, and the afternoon sunlight slanted through the opening behind him, making the shady space beyond seem darker than it really was. A voice from the depth of the barn startled him.

  “Come in.”

  Claude nervously reached for the gun stashed under his jacket, but withdrew an empty hand with the same impulsive jerk. Turning to where the voice had come from, he saw Marcel sitting on a long wooden box, dressed in a leather suit, but with no club insignia. He was rolling a joint.

  “Sit down.” Marcel nodded to the place beside him.

  “Some work to do?” Claude asked, settling on the box and smiling. Marcel stretched his lips tight in a contemptuous grimace.

  “Last fall, a dealer in Ontario was killed.” Marcel fixed his eyes upon Claude.

  Claude’s heart began pounding, defying any effort to control its beat.

  “We found out that Stash wanted to collect on the guy’s debt to the Vandals. You killed him?”

  Lying to Marcel meant a certain death penalty.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know that the brother of this dealer was a full patch in B.C.?”

  “Gosh,” Claude exclaimed, pretending great surprise. “I had no idea.”

  He quickly reran the events of the hit in his memory. Only the dealer had told him about his brother being a full patch Devil’s Knight. There was no witness to that.

  “I’ve been watching Stash for the last year or so,” Marcel continued. “He puts all his money up his nose. Often, he couldn’t even pay his membership fees. I never thought, however, that he’d go so far as to collect debts from our own people. Enough is enough.”

  A silent exchange of sharp looks followed. Claude nodded, waiting for instructions—on how to execute the death sentence.

  “You’ve been friends lately, the two of you,” Marcel started.

  “I don’t give a fuck,” Claude growled. “If I’d known the truth, I’d have told you right away. Son of a bitch wanted me to be a scapegoat.”

  Marcel shrugged his shoulders.

  “It’s hard to keep a tight leash on a pack of wild wolves. Anyone’s free to leave the club. There’s nothing wrong with that. But one cannot be in the club and not obey its rules.”

  It was unusual for Marcel to explain his point of view.

  “I agree with you,” Claude told him.

  “The dealer’s brother is in an active search for the killer,” Marcel kept talking. “It’s better to finish with Stash before they find you out. Stash, in his current state of mind, would spill the beans. I don’t want to lose you.”

  “But Stash has a brother who is a Prospect in Nova Scotia,” Claude cautiously remarked. He was sure that there were other reasons to get rid of Stash.

  “That’s right. We’ll let him know everything after the fact. He’ll understand. Once a Devil’s Knight, one has to remain so ’til death.”

  “How d’yah wanna do this?” Claude asked.

  “I’ll arrange it for next Thursday, here, in this barn. Just between you and me, I’ve suggested promoting you to Prospect. This is supposed to be a surprise to you, but I have a reason for telling you sooner. Everyone approved your candidacy, Stash included. At the meeting next week, we’ll discuss a few things, full patches and selected Prospects only. I know that Stash is planning to play golf that day, so he’ll have his clubs with him. We will use them for teaching him, and reminding all others, a lesson. Everyone has to take part in it. You’ll start.”

  Claude nodded. Killing a full patch needed to be a collective decision and had to be carried out as a group responsibility. Apparently all the high-profile members had agreed about the action that would be taken. By participating in the execution with them, even leading it off, he would be admitted into their circle.

  “The shovel’s over there.” Marcel pointed his finger to the wall where a few manual tools were arranged.

  “The cornfield behind the barn would be a good place for his grave. You won’t have time to dig it next week, so go and do it now. No one from the farm is around. I have to go. See you next Thursday.”

  Marcel went outside. The roar of his bike thundered from somewhere behind the barn where Marcel had hidden it before Claude arrived. As the bike moved past, the sound of its engine grew weaker and weaker, until it died in the distance. The peace and quiet returned. Claude took the shovel and went to dig the grave for his friend, the one man who had guarded him so faithfully in the hospital.

  IV

  The following Thursday was an ideal day for outdoor activities. Around the farm, where the meeting was about to take place, nature seemed ready for an afternoon nap. Without the gentlest breeze blowing, fresh green leaves hung on
their trees in drowsy immobility.

  Even inside the barn, where the bikers were gathering, it seemed everyone was in a good mood. The place bustled with the sounds of friendly greetings and lively conversations. The rattles of motorcycles rose from the distance, growing louder and louder until they arrived and settled into their own resting places. Only three members did not ride their bikes: two came in cars, one in a pickup truck. A few of them wore the club’s colors.

  Stash came on a bike, his golf bag attached to the rear seat as expected. Half a day on a golf course, exposed to sun and fresh air, had brought a trace of color to his wrinkled, swollen face.

  “Glad to see you,” he said to Claude, firmly shaking hands. “How are you these days?”

  “Getting better.”

  “I have a deal for you, Claude. Could we meet next week?”

  “Of course. No sweat.”

  Claude found himself enjoying the unusual fun of having a friendly talk with this high-ranking Devil’s Knight—who would be beaten into a bloody mess with his own golf clubs within the hour.

  “I had to shut down my collection agency,” Stash was still talking. “The new laws have given the police too much power. They came to me demanding that I give them the list of my clients and debtors—since the inception of the company! Lawyers would have cost me a fortune. I’m thinking of running back to the States.”

  “Good idea,” Claude absently agreed. “It is getting pretty hot here.”

  “Exactly. See how many of us are missing? Dead or in jail . . . The police are closing in on us. I was against this war with the Ghosts from the outset. See how many new members we’ve taken in, in a rather short time? We’re paying a heavy price.”

  “Marcel said that there was no way back.”

  “He said,” Stash nodded. “There’s more than one solution to this, I think. What would be the good of a truce with the Ghosts after all of us are wiped out? That’s what will happen eventually, believe me. Well, most of us think that Marcel’s doing the right things. So, be it. There will be no winners in this war, Claude, you’ll see. But, enough of this crap. Marcel is calling everyone. Let’s go.”

  Claude shrugged his shoulders. There wasn’t much sense in arguing with a dead man.

  Inside the barn, everyone settled down in a circle, sitting on whatever was handy: wooden boxes, blocks of wood, or armfuls of hay spread on the ground. The mob, it seemed, was in a relaxed, friendly mood. The last splashes of conversations died when Marcel took the stage and introduced the topics of discussion.

  His main concern was the amount of money that they needed to maintain pressure on the Iron Ghosts. He requested, in fact, demanded, that everyone contribute more than he had before, as all expenses pertinent to the planning and executing of explosions and killings—as well as the gathering of information on enemies, police officials, businesses, and politicians—were growing faster than anyone could have expected. Nobody objected, although a few bikers complained that because of pressure from the Ghosts, their business had shrunk, leaving them with almost nothing to live on.

  Next, Marcel suggested that they promote one of the biker’s gangs in northern Quebec to Prospect status. They were doing very well, he maintained, contributing money and soldiers to support the Devil’s Knights in fighting the Iron Ghosts. He also suggested easing restrictions for admission to the club, as they had recently seen significant losses, some through deaths, some through incarceration.

  Claude looked around the barn. He saw Techie sitting next to Marcel. Techie had regarded every speaker with his cold, inquisitive eyes staring from his unemotional, stony face. A few seats down was Stash, who had apparently begun sensing that something was going to happen before the meeting was done. He wiped sweat off his forehead with a sleeve, his eyes jumping from face to face, looking in search of an answer to his gruesome suspicions. But all the discussions were conducted in a businesslike manner, nothing really stood out as being unusual, and the meeting concluded within an hour, as planned. A short break was announced, and a purr of conversations filled the barn.

  “Now . . .” Marcel raised his voice above the noise of the crowd. “I have an announcement to make—Good news. Claude is promoted to Prospect status.”

  The uproar of congratulations pleased Claude immensely. Status in the gang was very important to him. It meant he would have the companionship of high-ranking members and the friendship of like-minded people united by common goals, rules, and mentality. It meant recognition of his wits, guts, and achievements. It meant business and money. Everyone shook hands with him, gave him strong, manly hugs on the shoulder, and spared a few words of praise.

  “We’ll celebrate this event at the Speaking Parrot bar tonight,” Marcel added. “I’ve booked it until morning. Everything will be paid for: broads, drinks, and food.”

  Another uproar of appreciation.

  “One more thing, before we go . . .” Marcel paused, allowing a feeling of apprehension to descend over the mob.

  “A question to you, Stash—,” he paused again.

  “We’ve discovered that you helped to collect a debt from one of our own people—a debt payable to the Vandals.” He was looking directly into Stash’s eyes, waiting for a look of fear or panic to fill them.

  “It seems that you’ve even gone so far as to kill the Ontario dealer, whose brother is one of our own full patches.”

  Claude turned his attention to a biker standing at the entrance to the barn. He held the bag full of golf clubs.

  “Debts must be paid, Marcel, you know that. Our people shouldn’t be exempt.” Stash wiped some sweat off his neck and looked around in search of Claude. He didn’t see the biker at the entrance put the bag on the ground and remove one of the clubs from it.

  “So far as this dealer is concerned . . . ,” Stash began, stopping mid-thought when he found Claude, already standing behind him holding one of his golf clubs in both hands.

  When their eyes met, Claude swept the club around, using the full force of his body and arms. The air whistled under the pressure of the fast-moving metal rod until the heavy end of the club landed on flesh with a dull, somewhat wet sound. Stash collapsed, yelling in pain. Bikers snatched up the remaining clubs and joined Claude in the execution. Marcel and Techie did not participate: They only watched.

  Stash was dead in a few minutes, his head smashed. Claude produced a large garbage bag, spread it on the ground, and, with the help of a few others, slid the body inside it. Several of them carried Stash to his grave, the grave that Claude had dug the week before. They threw the corpse in, followed by the bag of golf clubs, and the grave was quickly filled with soil, which was then smoothed level with the surface around it. Someone loaded Stash’s bike onto the pickup truck as bike engines roared to life. Soon, not a biker was left, and the place returned to its native stillness and quiet.

  Claude was high, as if he had enjoyed a snort of cocaine, all the way back to town in anticipation of being the center of attention through a whole night of wild binging.

  There was nothing, he thought, that he would not do for the gang.

  Chapter 8

  I

  Serge glanced one last time at the photographs that were spread over his table. He picked one up and placed it into a black leather binder he held. As he did so, he looked over and noticed the hands on the clock were pointing to 12:30. The door to his office opened just then and Patrick came in.

  “Time to go?” he asked. His tone suggested both a question and a reminder.

  Serge nodded, closed the binder to place it under his arm, and stood up. As he moved away from his desk, Patrick raised an eyebrow. Serge had not picked up the jacket and holster that were hanging on the back of his chair.

  “You’re not taking your piece?”

  “You have one,” Serge replied. “That’ll suffice. Let me enjoy summer once in awhile. I hate wearing a jacket all the time.” Without a jacket, it was impossible to conceal a gun. But he didn’t really expect a violent res
ponse from the man they were going to meet. And if a problem arose, he would simply use his experience in psychological warfare.

  Outside the office, Serge fully appreciated the warm, sunny day. The air was dry and crisp, typical for the first week of July. A light breeze gently touched his skin as he opened the car door and climbed into the passenger seat. He quickly rolled down the window to let some fresh air inside.

  Serge found it convenient that Patrick didn’t talk much during the drive so his thoughts could flow without interruption. Today he chose to reflect on the recent successes they had had. Their fight against the biker gangs had become so much more efficient after the new anti-gang legislation had passed and increases in police funding had gone into effect. Taped phone conversations, evidence from raids on clubhouses and biker residences, reports from undercover police agents who had penetrated low-level dealer networks, and information from other sources were flying into the central police database like numerous rivers flowing into a large sea. The police were finally able to start bringing charges against bikers from rival gangs, their puppet clubs, and many associated businesses.

  But Serge had to admit the gangs were demonstrating remarkable resilience and were fighting back with vicious determination. The bikers were quick to recruit new members, to restore destroyed drug networks, and to continue pushing narcotics to the public with no noticeable change in availability or price. They had managed to identify and eliminate a number of police informants. And several prison authorities had received accurate lists of their own prison guards with details such as home addresses and a variety of personal information. Some of the lists also contained unexplained asterisks that made a few wardens panic. One arrest had even uncovered a similar list of all the anti-biker squad personnel and their addresses.

  With that, he had to acknowledge the one major setback that had recently been discovered: A mole obviously existed inside the police department. That was the only possible explanation for where that privileged information was coming from and also for why so many important raids had resulted in nothing more than biker’s laughs.