Messenger of Death

by Alex Markman

  II

  The election campaign turned out to be a fierce struggle among savvy politicians, many of them new to the political landscape. Monica expected an easy victory on the huge wave of her achievements against organized crime. Instead, she had been forced to defend herself and her government for the poor handling of the biker’s war, for an inability to stop the bloodshed sooner, for negligence, incompetence, and lack of ingenuity—all the failures demonstrated by politicians and the police in dealing with gangs and the illegal drug trade. Her sharpest opponents accused her of compromising the truth and public interest in favor of political correctness.

  In an article in one of the largest newspapers, a journalist called her a chameleon. “She defends vocal minorities regardless of how just or fair their requests are,” the journalist claimed. “Initially she was against the anti-gang law on the grounds of its unconstitutionality but changed her stand later, perhaps for personal reasons.” Now, according to the journalist, she wanted to get credit for her activity, which was more like a public relations campaign than a show of the productive work of a politician guarding her constituents.

  Still, Monica did get re-elected—by a very thin margin. After all the noisy celebrations, congratulations, and speeches, she decided to relax and gladly accepted an invitation to attend a concert of a famous pianist from Europe. She entered the theatre lobby, following a crowd of people who had already gone inside to wait for the concert hall doors to open.

  Many in the crowd recognized her, some with appreciative smiles, others with intense curiosity in their eyes. Throwing casual, sideways glances, Monica noticed people talking while staring at her, likely gossiping and exchanging views about her. She recalled how, in her younger years, she had been sitting on a bench with a schoolgirl friend when they saw a prominent person—she had forgotten her name by now—walking by. No tiny detail escaped their attention then: not the dress of that woman, not her gait, her looks, or her hair. Now, Monica thought, it was her turn to be the center of attention and to feel, sometimes, not very welcome.

  Finally, the doors opened and people began pouring into the concert hall. As Monica took her place in one of the front rows, she had a strange feeling that she was being watched by someone. When the pianist came out and bowed to the public, her attention turned to the stage. After a short round of welcoming applause, the European sat at his stool and ran his fingers over the keyboard of the grand piano. The magical sounds of Beethoven, magnified by the outstanding performance of this musician, took her mind to a place of pleasure and fantasy, a place that only true art can create, in the way only true art can.

  During intermission, she went to the lobby for a glass of wine. Gently pushing her way through the crowd, she heard a soft voice behind her right shoulder.

  “Good evening, Monica.”

  She turned around. A short, stocky man stood there. His round face and cold blue eyes seemed familiar. A blonde woman was holding his hand, shy admiration on her face.

  “Have you forgotten me?” The man smiled, as if hoping Monica would more easily recognize him that way. Indeed, in the next instant, she smiled in apologetic, pleasant surprise.

  “Oh—Serge Gorte!” Monica stretched both arms towards him for a handshake. “How could I possibly forget you? You’re the expert on biker gangs in Canada. How nice to see you.”

  “That’s very flattering,” Serge bowed. “This is my wife, Miriam.” He nodded toward the lady beside him. “She must be given a great deal of credit for my career. Without her patience, understanding, and help I wouldn’t have done much.”

  “Come on, Serge,” Miriam said. She was slightly embarrassed and threw him a loving, happy glance.

  “How is Toulouse doing these days?” Serge asked.

  “Actually, very well. The collection agency stopped threatening him—perhaps after your interference. They sent him a few reminder letters but didn’t bother him much. He’s returned their money to them. Do you know what happened to the agency?”

  “Its owner was killed,” Serge said. “He was one of the high-ranking members of the Devil’s Knights gang. His own gang killed him.”

  “How awful those people are,” Monica remarked. “I’ve been busy with other matters, particularly so after you arrested so many of them in both gangs. But I know that there is much less violence lately, thanks to your efforts.”

  “I’m just a small cog in a huge machine,” Serge said. Monica noticed that something distracted his attention from her. She followed Serge’s stare and saw a man passing by with a delicate woman clutching his arm. Monica remembered his neck—big and thick like a wrestler’s—and was trying to recall where she had seen him. His face radiated strength and confidence.

  “Hi,” Serge said as the couple was passing by. “What a surprise.”

  “It’s better to meet here than at your place,” the man responded sharply, obviously stopping only out of courtesy. His stare and posture were a weird mix of animosity, ridicule, and mocking obedience.

  Monica raised her eyebrows. The man had appropriate manners, but should not have spoken or acted that way.

  “This is my wife, Kathy,” the man continued more casually, looking directly at Serge. The woman beside him smiled amiably to Monica and Serge.

  “How do you like the concert?” Serge asked.

  “I’m not fond of classical music, but my wife is,” the man said. “I have to treat her, once in awhile.” He bowed slightly toward Serge, and turned, ready to depart without another word.

  “See you later,” Serge bowed in return.

  “I hope not,” the man was quick to respond, with a feigned friendly smile. He left, his wife following him.

  “He looks like a decent man,” Monica remarked, her bewildered face turned to Serge. “How could he speak that way? I’m surprised that you talked to him.”

  “That man,” Serge informed her, “is president of the Devil’s Knights, Marcel Barette. I’ve talked to him a few times in my office. He has a good reason for not wanting to see me there later.”

  Monica was astonished.

  “Unbelievable!” she exclaimed. “I’d never have taken him for a hoodlum.”

  “So far as a ‘hoodlum’ is concerned, he isn’t. If he was one, it would have been a long time ago. As to why he’s here, I’ve noticed a few other members of their club strolling in the foyer. Nobody would suspect bikers would gather at a symphony music performance. They can discuss urgent business matters here without worrying about surveillance. My guess is something important is cooking.”

  “There was a lot of ballyhoo in the newspapers about a former biker who turned informant. Is it true—that at last you have a live witness against Marcel? Yet he’s still a free man, walking around and probably getting along with his hideous crimes.”

  “Well, you see,” Serge began, “lawyers are fairly vocal about how trustworthy such testimonies are. ‘How could the judge trust the informant?’ they ask. ‘Look how many benefits the collaborator gets,’ they say. ‘He gets off the hook with his crimes; he gets money. For a criminal with no virtues, it’s an easy escape from punishment at the expense of others. Why wouldn’t he testify against everyone?’”

  “But . . . the confession this man gave makes it obvious that this . . . Marcel . . . is the one who masterminded many assassinations. You can’t, you mustn’t let him off the hook. I don’t believe that whoever the judge is, he or she could be that stupid.”

  Serge smiled.

  “It’s not a matter of stupidity, Monica. The case is gaining publicity. The judge must now enter into the political game—from now on, he’ll be dealing not only with the jury, but also with the general public. The public now becomes the jury. You see? He has to make a political decision. You know better than I do what that means. By the way, that’s where publicity helps the bikers. They challenge our adherence to the constitution, specifically to the principle of being innocent until proven guilty.”

  “I understand that,” Monica s
aid firmly. In her area of expertise, she spoke with great authority. “I assure you that the public would support the judge against the Devil’s Knights. The political climate is ripe for such a decision, even in the absence of material evidence.”

  Serge was nodding as she spoke. His eyes got shiny and kind, as if he had just finished a good dinner with a bottle of excellent French wine.

  “I’m not so sure. Mind you, publicity and public opinion are no substitutes for each other. The most vocal groups get the most attention. Who are the noisiest ones? Different kinds of leftists, libertarians, feminists, lawyers, you name it. They would kick-off a screaming campaign about the abuse of civil rights and freedoms. They would inform the public that the presumption of innocence has been trumped. No one, they would say, including the Devil’s Knights, should be denied fair justice.”

  Monica’s stare hardened. She happened to lean toward all the groups Serge had mentioned. She was a civil rights activist, a feminist, and a prominent supporter of minority group rights.

  “I appreciate your comments, Serge,” she said, grimacing in displeasure. “I suspect we should be getting back inside. Have a nice evening.”

  III

  Claude was kept in a cell at the police station, under the watchful eyes of police guards. He was too valuable a witness to risk his life in jail, where both the Devil’s Knights and the Iron Ghosts would be able to carry out numerous ways to kill him. To allow Claude to feel better about his new position as a traitor, a rat despised by all in the criminal world, he was allowed privileges far beyond the normal limits.

  For example, Leila was allowed to visit him in his room—a depressing, confined space with bare walls, dirty stains of unidentifiable origin, a filthy floor, a small bed, a toilet, and a single plastic chair, which was not strong enough to withstand the abuse of two sex-obsessed lovers. Claude used the furniture to its fullest: He turned Leila this way and that on it, arranging the parts of her body into positions that could have been used in a textbook for a yoga class. His love for this girl, his physical intimacy with her, became more blissful and thrilling than all the adventures of his brutal life.

  She smuggled in some pot for him—thoughtful girl that she was. He enjoyed it immensely because it sharpened all his senses. When she left, he felt the pain of separation and loneliness. This feeling grew stronger from visit to visit. There was a period of a week or more—he lost track of the passing days because they were dull and uneventful—when, for some reason, the police did not grant them their date. One of those nights, she came to him in his dreams. She was sweet, as usual, but did not yield to his passion, or speak. In fact, she slipped out of his hands, like a snake. The following morning, he fancied himself in the future, at the end of his fifteen-year sentence, as agreed upon in his deal with the justice system. That future was wonderful, and Leila was an integral part of it.

  It may not be that bad, after all, to spend only fifteen years, he pondered. Of course, there was a risk of being killed by bikers, but who cares? Death had been his everyday reality. The dead feel nothing. Life, that’s what counts. He would come out of the system almost a millionaire, a rich man, with a different identity, and, perhaps, a different mentality. His life would become an endless journey of love with Leila, travel to different lands, motorcycle rides, and a secluded home somewhere on the ocean shore of British Columbia.

  A sudden thought tossed him from his dreamland: What if she didn’t wait for him? What if she found another love?

  Leila was the only human in his life who had ever cared about him. She was not only his lover but also his friend. His parents were dead, and he had no relatives or genuine friends. Without her, loneliness would be his destiny to the grave. This thought terrified him more than death. He jumped up from the bed and pounded the door.

  “I wanna talk to Serge. Now. It’s important,” he said, when a policeman came to the door.

  When such a witness says that he has something important to say, guards don’t wait long. Serge came at once, this time without a smile. With the instincts of a wild animal, Claude sensed that something serious had happened. But there had been thousands of serious things happening since he’d gotten involved with the Devil’s Knights. He couldn’t care less for anyone else’s trouble in his current situation.

  “I wanna meet Leila,” he said.

  “We can’t do that anymore,” was the response. Serge stared at him with a blank face.

  “Listen. This is very important. I’ll help you a lot. I know that it’s against the rules to let her in, but let me have just one last exception.”

  “It’s not my decision. I never minded . . .” Serge cleared his throat.

  “Leila is dead.”

  “What?” Claude stood still. “You said ‘dead’?” he screamed. “Is that what you said? What are you talking about?”

  Serge bent his head, as if studying the cracks in the wooden table. Claude stood, dumbfounded. A professional killer, who had seen many deaths from his own hands, he was unable to comprehend that Leila could be dead.

  “Sit down.” Serge cleared his throat, again. His invitation was timely because Claude’s legs could not have supported him much longer. He collapsed on a stool and placed his elbows on the table, grasping his face with his large hands.

  “When did it happen?” he croaked, coming to grips with reality.

  “Two days ago. Three men were there, allegedly from the Iron Ghosts. They spent a few hours with her.”

  A minute of thoughtful silence made Claude look twenty years older. His face grew pale, almost green.

  “How could you let that happen?” Claude asked. Serge said nothing. A trace of compassion, unusual for a crime crusader, flickered in his eyes.

  “Take me back to my cell,” Claude said, hardly moving his lips. “I need to rest.” He was afraid of asking more questions. He didn’t have to have much imagination to guess what had happened during Leila’s final hours. He walked, blind, to his cell, and threw himself on the bed. In a fit of depression, Claude pulled the blanket over his head, covering himself from head to toe, seeking refuge from the terrible reality, and then lay motionless, as if in a coma.

  He longed to be magically taken to a desolate, distant land where no human existed to watch his misery, where he could die hopeless and defeated. Instead, memories took him back to his childhood, which was devoid of anything even remotely resembling love. His mother, an alcoholic prostitute, performed her sex trade in broad daylight, just across from his bed. Everyone abused, kicked, and humiliated him, including his mother. She’d died when he was ten. By that time, he had already reached the point of no return. As far back as he could remember, there had only been one source of light, warmth, and tenderness: Leila. Now, that light had been put out. Disoriented, he could see neither present nor future. A message from heaven had been brought to him, to the Messenger of Death: “You have nothing to do on Earth anymore. You have no place among normal people, no place even among outcasts.”

  Epilogue

  This meeting of the Ministry of Justice was to be devoted to summing up the government’s efforts to curb the activities of organized crime. All members of the task force who had worked on the anti-gang legislation had been invited. As had become her habit, Monica arrived fifteen minutes early to have a cup of coffee and chat with colleagues and acquaintances. The first person she saw was Bertrand, who was consuming a Danish with the determination of a hungry soldier.

  “Nice to see you, Monica,” he said while she settled in across the table.

  “We’re having dinner after the session,” she reminded him.

  “True. That’s why I’m eating a Danish. It whets my appetite.”

  “I’ve heard that you locked Marcel in jail for life,” she said. “Congratulations on the huge success in fighting organized crime, Bertrand. I hope that the anti-gang law that was adopted by the government helped to achieve this goal.”

  “It sure did,” Bertrand nodded. A mocking smile appeared on hi
s face.

  “You’re one of the speakers tonight,” Monica said. “Your speeches are always interesting and informative.”

  Bertrand gave her an appreciative nod.

  “Thanks.”

  “As I understand, the judge did accept the testimony of the informer, Claude Pichette,” Monica said. “Otherwise, it would not have been possible to convict him, I guess?”

  “It’s not quite that simple. There was another witness against Marcel by the name of Norman Vincent. You must have read about him in the newspapers.”

  “Yes, I did,” Monica confirmed.

  “The informer admitted to killing Norman’s wife. After Norman’s testimony corroborated that part of the informer’s story, all allegations from the informer were accepted at face value. But there were numerous pieces of other evidence, of course, that also supported the fact that he was telling the truth. Many crimes and many mysteries have been solved with his help, and each of those resolutions gave even more credibility to his testimony against Marcel.”

  “Very interesting. Who’s the leader of this gang now?”

  “A very remarkable personality, I’ll admit. Techie is his nickname. He’s—” Bertrand didn’t get to finish his sentence because an announcement was being made directing them to enter the hall. They moved inside, and Monica took a seat at one of the tables in front of the podium.

  The first speaker was a representative of the Ministry of Justice. In a monotonous, dull speech, he drowned the audience in countless facts and statistics, supporting the view that the government had achieved great success in fighting organized crime. “Gangs are not fighting on our streets anymore,” he concluded. “We broke their spines. Seeing as life in our city has returned to normal, we’re reducing police funding to the level that existed before the war between the two gangs erupted. I believe that we taught a good lesson to the whole underworld. It won’t be very soon, if ever, that they return to their former capacity.”