Messenger of Death

by Alex Markman

  “I gotta go to the bathroom,” Claude said, rising drunkenly to his feet. Leila giggled; this triggered Claude to burst into laughter, too. He did his best to aim his finger at her, and then stumbled gracefully into the room. A casual glance at the pager, which he had left at the dinner table before their snorting session, dragged him down from dreamland to harsh reality: The pager displayed the secret code number that meant to meet Marcel at a designated park outside of town, where they would be out of reach of any police surveillance gadgets. When Claude returned from the bathroom, Leila was still laughing.

  “Wan’ another snort?” she asked.

  “Nah. I’ve got a meeting tonight.”

  “A meeting?” Leila laughed again.

  “With Marcel,” Claude whispered. She stopped laughing.

  “Anything happened?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. For sure, I’ve got a job to do.”

  “Maybe I could help you with something?”

  “Nah. Stop it.”

  A few minutes later, he was on his Harley. On it, he could lose any tail, take dangerous shortcuts, or dodge cars if need be. It was easier to escape at night, anyway, when the headlights of a car behind him could trigger his suspicions. Before he knew it, he was on the final leg of his journey to the park, a rural country road with no cars anywhere in the darkness.

  A nice place to kill, he thought, steering his bike toward the entrance. Nobody would dare come to this place at night. What was Marcel up to now?

  As he approached the end of the road, the bike’s headlights captured the black bulk of a Jeep. He pulled up beside it, turned the ignition off, and sat motionless for a few moments, disoriented by sudden darkness and silence. The jeep door flew open and the light inside went on. Marcel stepped down and walked up to him. The bikers shook hands and exchanged greetings.

  “Let’s stretch our legs a bit,” Marcel suggested. “Just in case my car’s bugged.”

  “What’s up?” Claude asked, walking alongside.

  “There’s a very big fish to fry.” Marcel stopped, staring fixedly into Claude’s eyes.

  Claude responded with one of his best tough-guy looks, but said nothing, preferring to listen.

  “You know the Madrid bar in the South End?” Marcel asked.

  “Sure. It’s in the industrial area. Lot’s of truckers stop there.”

  “Right. The Iron Ghosts have taken it over. For now we can’t do much about that. It’s the Ghost’s territory, and we don’t have enough manpower to take it back, let alone keep it for long.”

  “What’s the deal, then?” Claude asked.

  “Hold on—Listen. To keep our baseball teams out, they’ve posted guards inside and outside the bar. I’d guess that all of them have guns. It wouldn’t make sense for us to turn that place into a shooting gallery at this time. I wouldn’t mention this to you for nothing,” Marcel paused, “but your old friend visits this place very often. A stripper working there told us that.”

  Claude’s muscles stiffened. His hand moved instinctively to his gun, but it wasn’t there. His eyes had adjusted to the feeble light of the night, and he could now see Marcel’s face, with its appreciative smile.

  “Our hit teams are busy elsewhere,” Marcel continued. “I can’t provide you with much help, other than to let you know when he’s there. The stripper will send me a signal.”

  “I don’t need any help,” Claude growled. “Leave it up to me.”

  “If you’re going to shoot him inside, make it fast. Two, three seconds at the most, then rush out and fire away.”

  “I don’t need your instructions,” Claude responded rudely.

  Marcel smiled.

  “It’s a risky job, Claude.”

  Claude uttered his customary rowdy laugh.

  “I don’t give a fuck.”

  “Here’s five grand for now. I’ll give you twenty more after the hit.”

  “Thanks.” Claude was impressed. He took the thick roll of cash and stashed it in his breast pocket, smiling contentedly.

  “That’s all for now,” Marcel said. “I’ll leave first. You leave in a little while. Good night.” He stretched out his hand and after a brief, firm handshake walked back to his car. The door of the Jeep slammed, and its engine roared to life. As its lights swept across the road and the vehicle rolled off, Claude climbed aboard his bike and sat, waiting until the hum of the Jeep engine died and quiet returned to the park. A rustle in the forest behind him grabbed his attention—the throaty cry of an animal, probably fighting a predator and pleading for mercy and help. From the depths of the forest, a bird responded with an agitated shriek, and then silence was restored. Claude turned the ignition on. The Harley obediently drowned all sounds of the night forest. Claude steered the bike to the road and took off with such powerful force that the front wheel jumped into the air, a foot above the surface. A few seconds of maddening acceleration, with only the rear wheel touching the ground, gave him the feeling of riding a wild, bucking horse.

  The excitement of the risk associated with this hit and the chance of revenge against Stanley was overwhelming. His mind, like the bike’s engine, was firing on all cylinders. Making dangerous turns on the dark roads, he fancied different scenarios for the kill. His first impulse was to enter the bar quickly, shoot Stanley, and then run back out, trusting his life to Lady Luck once more. But his last meeting with Stanley had taught him to appreciate life a little more. The chance of escaping the bullets of so many Iron Ghosts on their own turf simply did not exist. Even if those inside didn’t react quickly, the guards at the door, who observe customers coming in and going out, would kill him. And if not them, then those on duty outside the bar would. So, what about waiting for Stanley outside? This might not be easy, either, as observing the site to make preparations for the shooting and escape would not pass unnoticed by the Iron Ghosts. All of a sudden, a more sophisticated and practical scheme began taking shape in his mind. Baring his teeth in a wolf’s smile, he lifted the front wheel of the bike again, speeding up as if for a takeoff.

  “We’ll settle the score, Stanley,” he said out loud. “I promise.”

  Back at home, he found Leila still in cocaine haze.

  “I took another snort,” she said with a stupid giggle. “Wan’ some?”

  “Yes,” Claude answered excitedly. He stepped up to the table, unbuttoned his jacket, and threw the roll of bills down in front of her.

  “Wow!” Leila cried. She glanced up at him, a look of surprise and curiosity on her face.

  “An advance on a job,” Claude explained, throwing his leather jacket and pants on the sofa.

  “What job?” Leila asked as she lazily picked up his clothes.

  “A very interesting job,” he said. “And . . . there’ll be something for you to do, as well.”

  He took her in his arms, a move that made her think he wanted sex. She leaned forward submissively. Instead of the expected, though, he whispered in her ear: “This fuckhead Stanley, the one who shot me . . . Remember?” Leila nodded. “I found out what bar he frequents. You’ll dance there and take him out to our place.”

  Leila’s head jerked back as she realized what Claude was saying. She stared at him with round, scared eyes.

  “You wanna kill him?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  “What if someone at the bar hits on me? It’s hard to dodge those guys if they want a girl, you know.”

  “Don’t you worry. Hans will take you there and tell the owner that you’re his old lady,” Claude kept whispering. “I’m sure that it won’t take long until Stanley zeroes in on you. You’ve gotta tell him he’ll get to fuck only at your place. That’s it.”

  “And,” she nodded toward the money on the table, “that’s the payment for the hit?”

  “This is only an advance. Much more is coming.”

  “They’ll be after us for the rest of our lives,” she said. She pressed her cheek against his.

  “They’ll never know who did
it,” Claude said with confidence. “Right after that, we’ll move away, to another place. Maybe we’ll travel for a few months. Our club will arrange us a place in B.C.—we have a chapter there.”

  “What’s next, then?”

  “I’ll talk to Hans tomorrow morning. We need a big car for this. Hans will help.” Claude tightened his embrace. “Don’t worry, Leila. This is the last job that you’ll ever do. I’m back on my feet. We’ll have lots of fun together.”

  “I’ve never taken part in a murder,” she whispered.

  “This is the last job, Leila. Trust me. Nobody will ever know who did it. We’ll live in B.C. or another province. Nobody will ever recognize you.”

  IV

  They sat in darkness; the only light in the room came from some streetlights outside. It was close to 1 o’clock in the morning, and Leila would soon finish her last dance and come back with Stanley. Claude took his metal rod out of the closet and wrapped it in a kitchen towel. When he returned to the sofa, Hans was fumbling with a pack of cigarettes. Even in the dark, Claude could see his fingers trembling.

  “What do you need a sleeping bag for?” Hans asked, drawing in the smoke.

  “We’ll wrap him up in it. I don’t want to kill him here—just knock him out. We must quickly put him into the sleeping bag and tie him up tight. I have some good strong rope. In the sleeping bag, we can keep an eye on him and make sure that he won’t be able to move. We have to take him out and make him talk. This guy must have lots of money.”

  “Something feels wrong,” Hans said and cleared his throat.

  “C’mon, Hans. Everything’s going well. You see, he hit on Leila the very first night he saw her. He wanted to fuck her right there in the owner’s office. But she told him, ‘Not here, Stanley. Only in my place, nowhere else. And not tonight, ’cause my boyfriend is gonna take me home tonight. Let’s do it tomorrow.’”

  Claude laughed. “Clever girl, she is. He believed every single word.”

  “You threw a shovel into the car. What’s that for?”

  “We have to bury him, Hans. I know a nice place. It’s a farm, not that far of a drive away.”

  Hans grumbled.

  “Something’s just not to my liking,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Look, everything’s going smoothly,” Claude went on, “even better than I expected.”

  “That’s what worries me,” Hans said. “My old buddy, the one I used to take care of cars for, always told me that if something goes too well at the outset, expect trouble in the future. He was always right. He’s dead now.”

  The pager on the table beeped. Claude rushed to grab it.

  “I can’t believe it,” he said in a low voice, looking at the code. “They’re coming, Hans. Now, take this sleeping bag. We’ll pack him in it nicely.” Claude stashed the rod under his belt. “Turn the light off in the staircase. Hold the flashlight, just in case. Let’s go.”

  He stood up and led the way out. Hans followed with the sleeping bag, to the staircase and then to the ground floor, where they took their positions on both sides of the rear entrance.

  After Hans turned the light off, almost nothing could be seen inside.

  “I wanna smoke,” Hans said. “Just a few puffs.”

  “No,” Claude said with irritation in his voice. “He’d be able to smell the smoke. This fuckhead is too fast and could have a gun.”

  No single mistake could be made with Stanley. Not one tiny error. Claude knew too well how dangerous this Ghost was.

  Twenty minutes passed—for Claude, it seemed an eternity. How does Hans feel? he thought. Poor devil is scared to death. Not good.

  At last they heard a car coming into the parking lot, and then they heard approaching voices.

  “Please come in.” It was Leila.

  “It’s damn dark here,” Claude heard Stanley saying.

  As soon as he crossed the threshold, Claude hit the back of Stanley’s head with the wrapped metal rod. Stanley fell down, not uttering a sound.

  “Go home, Leila,” Claude demanded in a low voice. “Fast—now.”

  She disappeared in an instant. Claude turned on the dim staircase light and began spreading the sleeping bag on the floor. Hans, it seemed, had revived. He helped with spreading the bag and putting Stanley inside it. They pulled up the zipper, quickly wrapped their prisoner with the nylon rope, and threw the package in the back of a stolen Jeep.

  “Is he alive?” Hans asked, jumping into the driver’s seat.

  Claude studied Stanley’s face, which was sticking out above the top of the sleeping bag.

  “Yah, he is. Let him relax a bit. He’ll be having a tough time tonight.”

  Hans started the car and drove out of the parking lot.

  “This was a good one,” Claude said with a contented smile. “Smooth and easy. I told you so, Hans, I told you so. This is the first time that I’ve ever liked Stanley. Good chap, he is, isn’t he?”

  “Let’s kill him and throw him into a lake somewhere,” suggested Hans. “Let’s just finish him as soon as possible.”

  “What’s the rush?” Claude was in a good mood. “I can’t let my friend Stanley go that quick.” He laughed heartily.

  Stanley groaned.

  “You see, he’s alive. I told you.” Claude was addressing Hans, but had turned his head to make sure that Stanley heard him.

  “What the fuck is going on?” shouted Stanley in a somewhat muffled voice. He began twisting, kicking, and shaking, trying to free himself from the tight rope.

  “Hi, Stanley,” Claude turned in the seat and greeted him. “Did you sleep well? Do you remember me?”

  “What the fuck you are doing?” Stanley shouted again. “What do you want?”

  “I wanna kill you, my friend.” Claude couldn’t help but laugh. “I love killing my old friends.”

  “You’ll pay for this, ” Stanley said. “You’d better let me go.”

  Claude uttered his rowdy laugh.

  “It’s too late for making bargains,” he said in mocking regret. “How’d yah prefer me to kill yah?”

  “Stop it,” shouted Stanley again. “Stop it.”

  “He doesn’t want us to kill him.” Now Claude was pretending to address Hans. “What should we do?”

  “Forget it. Let’s finish him as soon as possible.” Hans was angry and nervous, but Claude dismissed it.

  “Actually, I know what we can do . . . ,” Claude said slowly, as if in thought. “He doesn’t want us to kill him, so let’s not kill him. Let’s bury him alive. Eh?” Claude leaned back, roaring with laugher.

  “Are you serious?” Hans asked.

  “You know me, Hans. And you know me, Stanley, don’t you?” He turned back again, as if to make sure that Stanley heard him.

  “Let me go!” Stanley sounded nearly crazy. “Let me the hell go!”

  Claude uttered his rowdy laugh again. He was very excited with this opportunity for an easy kill.

  “Drop it, Claude,” Hans insisted. “Let’s finish this. My rule is, the quicker, the better. Let’s not take a chance.”

  “You fucking idiots!” Stanley resumed his shouting. “What do you want? Tell me what you want. Maybe we could make a deal.”

  Claude turned back.

  “You can’t bargain your way out of your grave,” he said. “But if you tell me where you keep your money, I’ll shoot you in the head—a nice, quick death for such a pig as yourself.”

  “At home. In the basement. Let me go, guys, and I’ll give you all my money.”

  “Where in the basement?” Claude asked. To his surprise, the response was silence.

  “I’ll make him talk,” Claude announced, as if speaking to himself. “He’ll talk. Stop the car.”

  “Hold it!” Stanley resumed talking. “In the right corner of the basement. The last three tiles cover a metal case. The money’s there.”

  Hans uttered a gurgling sound, as if rinsing his throat.

  “How much is there?” Clau
de asked.

  “Four-hundred thousand and something.”

  Claude and Hans fell silent.

  “Where do you live?” Claude asked. This time there was no sadistic note in his voice.

  “187 Parkdale Crescent. But you couldn’t get in there. It’s a tricky system. Take me there and I’ll get you the money.”

  Claude looked back at the rear seat, where Stanley was wrapped in the sleeping bag. Hans drove in silence. In the meantime, Claude was thinking hard and fast. A new, completely different game had started. He had no doubt that Stanley was telling the truth. The punishment for such a lie would be horrific. It was unlikely that Stanley would want to complicate his predicament further. What Stanley was probably hoping was that once Claude and Hans had their hands on his money, they would kill him quickly and painlessly, a much better end than going through the horrors of being buried alive.

  On the other hand, Stanley might also be hoping that with such temptation, Claude and Hans would fight with each other for the treasure.

  “Go that way.” Claude pointed a finger to the left.

  “Why?” asked Hans in surprise. “I know where Parkdale Crescent is, and it’s not that way.”

  “Go that way,” Claude repeated, irritated. “We’re going to bury this jerk first.”

  Looking back at Stanley, he warned: “We will bury you—alive.”

  Stanley began shouting again; this time the shouts were desperate and incomprehensible.

  “I can’t stand it,” Hans said. “I can’t.”

  “I’ll calm him down,” Claude growled. “I know what to do. I’ll break his nose.” Claude looked back with a hoarse laugh.

  “Shut up, corpse.” Claude was delighted with his joke. “Corpse. Ha, ha! Shut up!”

  He opened the toolbox between the seats and fished out a dirty rag, probably used by the owner to wipe his greasy hands.

  “Stop the car,” he commanded. When the Jeep stopped, Claude stepped down, opened the rear door, and began stuffing the dirty cloth into Stanley’s mouth. Stanley vigorously resisted, turning his head quickly and forcefully from one side to the other and trying to shift himself back and forth.