Messenger of Death

by Alex Markman

  Another obstacle was those damned gang lawyers—they made so much noise about the constitutionality of the new legislation, the reliability of evidence gathered from informants, and the validity of taped conversations, as well as the importance being placed on circumstantial evidence.

  But most frustrating of all was the fact that for the top-ranking gang members business went on as usual; they gave orders, but did not commit crimes. They were immune to prosecution because there was no way for the police to prove they had participated in any crimes, save minor offenses or perhaps possession of small quantities of drugs. Serge knew that only the arrests of these gang leaders could substantially damage the biker organizations and possibly end the turf war. His primary target was now Marcel, the undisputed leader of the Devil’s Knights. Marcel’s arrest would be possible only with the testimonies of many witnesses. But who in their right mind would testify against Marcel?

  “Here we are.” Patrick nodded his head toward an office building positioned in the distant corner of a large lot full of newer model cars. Patrick parked close to the entrance, in the place reserved for management.

  “Business is booming,” Serge said sarcastically as he stepped out of the car. “So many cars for sale, but no buyers. Weird, isn’t it?”

  Patrick nodded. He threw a sharp look around and followed Serge into the building. It was cool inside, and only the hum of an air conditioner disturbed the quiet of the place. A few sales desks had been arranged along the windows, but nobody sat at any of them. Two doors in the wall to the right were closed. With resolute steps, Serge approached one of them, the one with the sign, “Norman Vincent, Manager” on it. His knock was too loud for a casual visitor, and a muffled voice from inside responded quickly.

  “Come in.”

  Serge pushed on the door, walked through it, and showed his badge to the fat man sitting at the desk.

  “Police,” he said curtly. “My name is Serge Gorte. Do you mind talking to us, Norman?”

  “No, sure,” Norman said, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “Please, sit down.”

  Serge took a chair with a cursory glance around the room. The office was a typical one for an average car dealership. It had a sizable desk littered with papers and brochures, a computer terminal, and a small calculator. A few chairs around the desk and a small table in one corner with a coffee machine on it took up the rest of the space.

  “What can I do for you?” Norman asked. His fat face did not show any sign of fear, but a mix of curiosity and displeasure. He shifted his eyes from one policeman to the other and finally fixed them on Serge.

  “Business is booming?” Serge asked with a friendly smile.

  “Business isn’t bad,” Norman agreed with indifferent politeness. “Anything wrong with that?”

  “Yes, there is. There are many things wrong with your business. We’ve arrested a few car thieves who worked for a man named Marcel. It turns out that a lot of the cars they stole passed through your dealership. We know that you intentionally bought some of the cars for cash and then sold them in the U.S. market. A very simple money-laundering transaction.” Norman raised his shoulders in surprise. “But this isn’t the sole purpose for my visit.”

  “What’re you talking about?” Norman directed his stare sideways, away from the detectives, to the point where the wall met the ceiling.

  “You’ll know, you’ll know soon,” Serge said in confidence. He pulled out a photograph from the leather binder and placed it in front of Norman. Norman regarded the photograph with a blank face.

  “You must know him,” Serge said. Norman leaned back in his chair, his face expressing nothing.

  “Who is it?”

  “This is Claude Pichette, the hit man who killed your wife.”

  “Oh?” Norman did not blink. “Is that right?” He looked at Serge in anticipation of additional details.

  “You don’t recognize him?”

  “How the hell could I recognize him?” Norman raised his voice in indignation. “What are you getting at?”

  During a deliberate pause, Serge studied Norman as an entomologist would examine a rare insect. Norman was the first to break the silence.

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the murder of your wife. You paid for it. You know what you’ll be getting for such a crime, don’t you?”

  “I think I’ll call my lawyer,” Norman said, stretching his arm toward the telephone.

  “That’s your right. Do you want to call him right now? Or would you rather listen to the deal I’m going to propose?”

  Norman withdrew his hand and hid it beneath the table.

  “You’d better leave,” he advised.

  Serge picked up the photograph and stashed it back in his binder.

  “For the money-laundering operation and selling stolen cars, you would normally get a pretty long term. The evidence that we have couldn’t be contested in any court. For plotting and ordering the murder of your wife, though, you’d get life. However, with our help . . .”

  Norman’s left eyelid began to tic, but his lips remained tight.

  “We know Marcel recommended that you contact this hit man about killing your wife,” Serge continued. “If you agree to testify against Marcel, we’d take you into the witness protection program. You’d get a substantially reduced sentence because of your cooperation with us.”

  Norman took a deep breath.

  “Fuck you, gentlemen.” Norman didn’t change his tone a bit. He seemed neither irritated nor scared. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You may continue your bullshit in the presence of my lawyer.”

  Serge smiled. Being a realist, he hadn’t expected a quick victory. This was just a preliminary move in an ongoing, complicated game, the outcome of which he’d calculated far in advance.

  “We’ll talk soon, when you’re behind bars. With the lawyer, of course—if you still wish.” He stood up and shoved the leather binder back under his armpit. “Maybe there you’d be more cooperative, Mister Norman Vincent. For now, here’s my business card—just in case you change your mind.”

  As they approached the car, Patrick asked him, “Why didn’t we lay charges against him for money laundering and trading stolen cars?”

  “We could have,” Serge said, taking his place in the passenger seat. “But that would be only one small victory. I need him to testify against Marcel. That’s the target: the gang leader.”

  “You’ve already arranged around-the-clock surveillance of Marcel,” Patrick said. “Don’t we need to do the same for the other leaders?”

  “Don’t we need . . . ?” Serge repeated, and then sighed.

  “We need to do many things. But we don’t have enough people to do everything. Mind you, it’s not that easy to pick the right target for surveillance. The Iron Ghosts have turned out to be even more secretive than the Devil’s Knights. By the way, Patrick, we need to watch one of them. Stanley Mathews is his name. Take care of him. It won’t be easy, though.”

  “Do we know his address?” Patrick asked.

  “He has a house. But he seldom stays anywhere longer than a week at a time. He’s very close to the gang’s president, but tries to keep a low profile. I know for sure that he’s very active and efficient. It’s not for nothing that the Devil’s Knights sent one of their best hit men to kill him. Arrange surveillance around his house and proceed from there.”

  II

  Ominous clouds had been thickening over Marcel. Damage to the gang had been enormous—almost all the money from their drug trafficking revenue went to fund the ever-expanding war with the Iron Ghosts. The police force was tightening its grip around all full patches. And at the last meeting, the top-ranking members of his club had begun questioning his policies, many among them coming out in favor of a truce with the enemy in order to calm the public, the government, and the media. Worst of all, even Techie had raised his voice against him, giving much weight to these specific arguments.


  “The police get funding only when the public screams,” Techie had said in his chilling, self-controlled manner. “And they did. You remember that our lawyers assured us that the government would never pass the anti-gang law because it was unconstitutional. They passed it. Now the lawyers claim that this law will not be applied and could be contested successfully in the courts. Just watch, Marcel. The court will apply this law. They are letting the cops do whatever they want, even things that are against the law, when nothing else works. We can fight the Iron Ghosts, but we cannot fight the government. They will tire us out, no matter what the law or constitution says.”

  After that, the discussion had gotten rather jumpy. Marcel had at his disposal only his same old arsenal of arguments: the Devil’s Knights would lose respect in all the underworld; a truce with the Iron Ghosts would not last long because low ranks and street dealers, having little brains, would never adhere to the strict rules of it; a truce would give the Iron Ghosts time to regroup and recruit more foot soldiers.

  “That might be true,” Techie argued, “but in the meantime the public would forget about the whole thing, the politicians would again cut funds to the police, because they always need money for their own use, and we would have time to restore our own trade networks.”

  At that moment, Marcel lost his customary confidence and strength. With clenched fists, he defended his position. He vowed to avenge those who had been killed. He would not betray those who were still committed to the fight.

  “Even if we wanted to,” he argued, showing his teeth, “how would we do it? Invite the Ghosts to the negotiating table? After so many deaths? Mind you, they are very weak now. Most of their strong people are in jail. As soon as their remaining top ranks are wiped out, no negotiations will be needed. Trust me, another few months, half a year at most, and they will come to terms with us.”

  In the end, no decision was made, but a change in attitude toward the whole mess was in the air.

  A few days after that meeting, Raymond called. He said that he needed to discuss something urgent and important. It was not easy for Marcel to lose the tail following him, but he did lose it far in advance of the meeting, which had been set up at a family restaurant in a suburban area. Raymond was sitting at a table when Marcel arrived, with a cup of coffee. The customary smile that was usually on his face was gone. He wore no glasses.

  “I won’t take much of your time,” he told Marcel, fumbling with a teaspoon. “I felt, however, obligated to meet you and explain everything personally, so you’d understand what I’m doing. I’m going to take a break.”

  “A break?” Marcel repeated, as if questioning his understanding.

  “Exactly. I’m going to leave Canada in a few days.”

  “Why?”

  “This is a troublesome time.”

  “What troubles do you expect?”

  “The police are after leaders of both gangs now. They believe that when the top ranks are in jail, peace and quiet will be restored in the province. They’re after you, Marcel. They’ll lock you up, one way or another.”

  “They couldn’t. They’d never be able to bring any evidence against me in court. I’ve never done anything wrong, not in the last ten years. The only way to get me is to find a witness that would testify against me, which would be a pretty tough thing to do. Do you think that there are many who’d volunteer for that?”

  “Not many,” Raymond agreed. “But there’s always a chance, and it might only take one. I wouldn’t take anything for granted in this game.”

  “You don’t know the people I’m dealing with. They’d rather die than roll over.”

  Raymond smiled sardonically and dabbed his lips with a napkin.

  “I wouldn’t bet on anyone except you and me,” he said. “That’s why I’m leaving.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until the dust settles.”

  “How long is that?”

  “As long as it takes to get you in jail, I would guess. I assure you, Marcel, I won’t be among the witnesses. I don’t want to be anywhere near this mess. I have enough money to withstand the storm in remote places. But I’m glad that I’ve dealt only with you.”

  He stood and threw a five-dollar bill on the table.

  “Good luck, Marcel.”

  Raymond left, but the conversation rang in Marcel’s ears long after. The warning was impossible to ignore. He became even more jumpy after receiving a note from Norman, begging Marcel to meet. To be as safe as possible, Norman suggested a cafeteria in an office building in the crowded downtown area.

  Marcel agreed. He drove to a big plaza on the outskirts of town, parked his car in the back of the parking lot, and walked into the shopping mall. Dodging shoppers, he quickly reached the front entrance at the far end of the building, and rushed out. Norman’s man was waiting for him a few steps away, sitting on a motorcycle with the engine running. Marcel hopped onto the back seat, and the driver, an experienced biker, rushed out of the lot, dodged cars stuck in traffic, and in ten minutes delivered Marcel downtown. There was no chance for a tail to follow him. Nonetheless, Marcel got off the bike two blocks away from the meeting place and walked slowly toward it, scanning the area to make sure he was not being followed.

  Norman was already in the cafeteria. Looking at Marcel, he went straight to the heart of the matter, telling the details of his conversation with Serge Gorte.

  “How the hell do they know about Claude?” Norman kept asking. “Did he roll over?”

  “You must be crazy,” Marcel said. “Gorte probably just wanted to scare the shit out of you. If Claude had rolled, I’d already be in stir. Just forget about it. Claude is one of my most trusted men. Besides, he’s done so much . . .”

  “But how do they know?” Norman insisted. “You know what this means? If the cops get me for my car business, I could live with that. I’ve discussed that option already with my lawyer. He’s told me that five, seven years at the most—that’s what’s in the cards. In four years I’d be out. But for the little bitch I can get life.”

  “You won’t.”

  “Look, Marcel. We’ve known each other for a long time. The only witness against you and me is Claude.” When Marcel started to say something, Norman made a protesting gesture.

  “I know, I know,” Norman cut in quickly. “You trust him. But just for peace of mind . . . Once he’s out of the way, we wouldn’t have to worry. Do you know how much money you’re getting through our outlets? Millions. Do you need troubles like this?”

  “Look, Norman,” Marcel said, “I’ll meet Claude soon. I’ll think about what you’ve said, and—”

  “Don’t think, Marcel. Do—and do it quickly.”

  Money speaks, Marcel thought. He nodded reluctantly in agreement.

  This was the second meeting to leave a bad taste in Marcel’s mouth. Could he rely fully on anyone when the stake was his own life? Norman was a very tough guy, but he’d grown too accustomed to everything big money could buy. If given the choice of life in prison or testifying against Marcel, what would he choose? Killing him would be easy, but not expedient. Norman had made him a shitload of cash with the car business. And, he was not a penny pincher: He contributed once in awhile directly to the war with the Iron Ghosts. This was a good gesture for one who was no longer a member of the club.

  But Marcel clearly saw where the danger could come from. If Norman cracked, Claude would be arrested.

  In the midst of the gang war, the cops, desperate to arrest gang leaders, might offer Claude a good deal, one that they wouldn’t have contemplated in earlier times. A life sentence without parole in a high-security prison would be a tough break for anyone. Claude was a tough guy—no doubt. He was one of those who would accept the blows of Lady Luck without complaint, Marcel believed. But he was in love with his girl—possibly too much in love. Marcel wondered if she might mean even more to him than the gang. When offered a reduced sentence, during which he could have access to his girl, Claude might turn. Nobody
could predict how many other hits the police would discover then.

  Removing him would solve the problem.

  A way to be rid of Claude had to be found.

  Disposing of hit men was not an unusual practice for the Devil’s Knights, but the reason for such a decision had always been more solid than just a safeguard against likely defection. It was usually because they made unforgiving mistakes. Most professional killers were not clever people. Inevitably, successful hit men developed a feeling of infallibility, sometimes killing the wrong people for trifling reasons. Sooner or later they did other stupid things or started bragging about their heroic acts. Former cons usually cannot keep their mouths shut for long, and when a killer cannot keep his mouth shut, tracks eventually lead back to full patches, which endangers the well-being of the whole gang. Claude, though, had not done anything stupid or wrong so far, which was quite remarkable.

  Marcel knew he would not have a chance to get the approval of other members of the gang. So, how could he arrange a hit? What if Claude could be killed by an Iron Ghost?

  Marcel recalled a strip bar that had recently fallen into the hands of the Iron Ghosts. Stanley was a frequent guest there. His people, surely armed, were usually around, expecting retaliation from the Devil’s Knights baseball team. Why not ask Claude to kill Stanley there? No doubt Claude would take the risk without thinking twice. There was a tiny chance of his success in killing Stanley. But there would be no chance for him to dodge bullets in an escape from the Iron Ghosts.

  III

  Leila and Claude were having a good time on the balcony, taking advantage of a warm evening. They watched the brightness of the day give way to the spotty glow of streetlights. After snorting a few lines of pure, uncut coke, they exchanged smiles and stupid remarks, and then laughed as if they had made some very witty jokes.