Messenger of Death (13 page)

Marcel
exchanged quick glances with his bodyguards to signal them to
relax.

“Good
afternoon, Norman,” Marcel greeted the newcomer and, after shaking
hands, pointed at the menu. “Would you like to order
something?”

“No, thanks,”
Norman said, rolling his eyes. “Just coffee.”

“You’ve changed
quite a bit lately,” Marcel noticed with a smile. “The biker life
was better for you. How far back was it? Ten years, or so?”

“Close to
that.” Norman returned an agreeable smile in appreciation of
Marcel’s fond memory. “The biker life was not for me. But you know
the other reason, Marcel: I didn’t want to be on the police radar
screen. You can’t continually be in the spotlight and outsmart the
police forever.”

“Right you are.
But you know as well as I do that publicity is exactly what so
often protects us. Anyway, you left the club as a member in good
standing. There are still a few among us who recall you with
respect.”

Norman raised
his eyebrows and looked out the small window. “How is business?” he
asked.

“My traffic
crew has assembled 15 units for you. You’ll get them next
week.”

One of the
gangs that Marcel controlled specialized in the car business. This
was the “traffic crew.” Part of their activity was theft: They
stole cars in Quebec and Ontario that were sold overseas or
disassembled into parts and supplied to legitimate enterprises.
Their other activity was money laundering: They bought cars with
cash and sold them to dealers, who in turn sold them in the U.S.
market. Norman was the owner of a larger dealership to which Marcel
supplied his merchandise. The two seldom met personally—only if
there was a compelling reason for it.

“Good, good,”
Norman said, apparently in deep thought.

“Something is
bothering you, I gather,” Marcel remarked. “What’s up?”

Norman squeezed
his hands, fingers intertwined in a nervous grip.

“I have a
problem with my wife. You know, the girl I married two years
ago.”

“Yes, I
remember. She was twenty-two then. People say she’s very pretty.
Cheating on you?”

“If only that.
No, she wants half of my assets—as a separation settlement.”

“What a
bitch.”

Norman sat
quietly for a moment.

“Do you have a
man who could do a really good job, Marcel?”

“Yes, I do.
When do you wish to meet him?”

“Anytime. The
sooner, the better.”

“Okay. Let’s
talk about other business for awhile. In the meantime, I’ll call
the waitress to bring you some coffee. Want some wine? No? Coffee,
then. They make a good cup here.”

II

The furniture
store made her cheeks rosy. Without taking her eyes off a piece,
Leila asked, “How much can we spend here?”

“Five grand,”
Claude said casually, as if such an expense was a matter of
everyday life.

“Ouch! I want
this one!”

Claude’s cell
phone began playing music. He raised it to his ear and said,
“Hello.”

“Hi. Is number
seven at one okay?”

Marcel wanted
him at number seven—the Golden Griddle restaurant, located
downtown. Claude looked at his watch. It showed quarter past
twelve. He took Leila by the waist.

“I’ve gotta go.
Here’s the money.” He slipped a sizable roll of cash into her
bag.

“No-o-o,” was
her response.

“Buy whatever
you want. Arrange delivery. Take a taxi home.”

At 1 o’clock,
he found Marcel in a distant corner of the restaurant, sitting
alone at an empty table.

“Something
urgent?” Claude asked, taking a place beside him from which he
could scan the whole space as well.

“Yes.”

The waitress
came and placed two glasses of cold water on the table.

“Ready to
order, gentlemen?” she asked.

After she had
taken their orders and left, Marcel turned to Claude and
established eye contact with him. Marcel had done this the last
time before starting a business talk. Claude already knew this
meant good pay for a death sentence for someone.

“A job.” Marcel
diverted his attention to the glass. “Someone who was a Devil’s
Knight about ten years ago got into a rather big business and left
the club. Not everything he does is clean and saintly. But mostly,
it is a legal business.”

“Uh-uh,” Claude
uttered, as Marcel stopped talking.

“Yah,
legitimate business,” continued Marcel, with a note of contempt.
“Anyway, he’s developed some problems with his wife. A rather easy
job for you, isn’t it?”

Claude nodded
and raised his eyes.

“Tell me
more.”

“Okay. Ten
grand. Mind you, it’s good money, given that he’ll cooperate with
you.”

“Sure.”

“He needs
someone who could do a truly clean job. No shooting, no bloody
spectacle in public. Not even a tiny trace of evidence can be left
for the police. I recommended you.”

“How’d yah want
me to do the job?” Claude asked.

“It’s up to you
to decide. I’m not gonna give you instructions. Discuss it with
him. His name is Norman. He works downtown, so it would be
convenient for him to meet you in one of the restaurants there
during his lunchtime.

“Sure.”

“Do you want
him to bring a picture of his wife?” asked Marcel.

“Not
necessary.”

“Sure?” Marcel
raised his eyebrows.

“Not
necessary,” repeated Claude.

“How do you . .
. ? Never mind. It’s your business.”

The waitress
came and placed dishes in front of each one. “Enjoy your
meals.”

Claude took up
his knife and fork the same way Marcel did. He cut a piece of meat
and noticed with satisfaction Marcel’s quick glance, a mixture of
surprise and approval.

“I know it’s
not my business, but why does he want to…? Insurance money or
something?”

“There’s
nothing wrong with you wanting to know some details,” Marcel said.
“Two years ago, he married a broad much younger than he was. She is
now about twenty-four. Anyway, she married for money—that was no
secret. But soon after, she began fucking someone she had known
before. Norman didn’t want to make a big deal of it; he wasn’t a
saint himself. But now this bitch demands half of his property for
her agreeing to a divorce. Otherwise, she’s threatening to tell the
police about some of his dealings. The stupid broad has no idea
what she’s getting into.”

“Let me know
where and how we should meet.” Claude wiped his mouth with a
napkin. “I’ll take care of her.”

“You must be in
Movenpick restaurant tomorrow at 1 o’clock. Look for a big, fat guy
in a gray suit and blue tie. You won’t mistake him for anyone else.
He’ll be alone at a table. Ask him, ‘Any seat available?’ He’ll
respond, ‘Just one.’”

The next day
exactly at 1 o’clock, Claude entered the restaurant. In an instant,
he noticed a big man—close to fifty years old, well dressed and
groomed—sitting by the window. He seemed to recognize Claude and
then turned his attention back to the menu.

“Any seat
available?” Claude asked, looking at the pale blue tie. Everything
on this man looked expensive: gray suit, white shirt, diamond ring,
and thick, gold Rolex.

“Just one.”
Norman nodded to the chair at his right.

“It wasn’t hard
to find you here,” Claude said, taking the chair.

“Yah. No
problem with you, either. Marcel gave me a good description of you.
I’d suggest—may I?—that you wear a long-sleeved shirt for such
meetings. The tattoos on your arms make you stand out. What would
you like to eat?”

Claude opened a
menu, studying Norman from the corner of his eye. The man looked
quite respectable, as he was supposed to, according to his status.
But there was something, not explainable in words, that only people
in the underworld could recognize: This was a very tough guy, a
wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing.

“What’s your
wife’s name?” Claude asked, not looking at him.

“Brigitte. Why
do you need her name?”

“You want a
clean job, don’t you? Let me take care of everything my way.”

Norman shrugged
his shoulders.

“As you
wish.”

They stopped
talking when a waitress came to take their orders. After she left,
Claude resumed the conversation.

“Let me do the
job this-coming Saturday. On Friday, you’ll tell her that you’ve
got to go away on urgent business somewhere. Tell her that one of
your business buddies whose name is Bruce—she doesn’t have to know
my real name—will be coming by to pay a debt. Ask her to count the
money she gets before accepting it. Okay?”

Norman
responded with a trace of a smile, a glow of appreciation softening
his eyes.

“There’s pretty
tight security at the entrance to our condo,” he warned.

“Let me deal
with that. But give me some advance money. I’ll need her to start
counting.”

Norman looked
inquisitively at Claude, but not for long. Even for a former biker,
it was not easy to contest the stare of a killer.

“Here’s what
we’ll do,” suggested Norman. “Today I’ll give you five grand. In my
apartment, go to the bedroom where I have my home office. In the
top drawer of the desk there’ll be an envelope with another five.
Fair?”

“Good,” nodded
Claude. Indeed, he thought. After the broad is done with, I’ll get
the balance. Smart, good . . . Norman.

Norman plunged
his hands into his large suitcase, manipulating something in its
depths. Finally, he produced a thickly stuffed envelope.

“Here is the
five,” he said, holding the envelope under the table. “Take
it.”

He was glancing
stealthily around. Claude quickly took the envelope and stashed it
in a pocket.

“Thanks.”

“Something
else,” Norman said. “She has some jewelry at home. Take it. It’s a
bonus for you. Let’s make it look like a robbery. I don’t need that
crap anymore.”

Claude couldn’t
wait until lunch was over.

“I’ve gotta
go,” he said, throwing his cloth napkin on the table. “Gimme your
address, phone number, and a spare key from your apartment. Just in
case.”

Norman nodded
in agreement. He produced a notebook from his suitcase, scribbled
the address on a piece of paper, detached a key from a key chain,
and handed it over to Claude.

“Good luck,” he
said.

Life is good,
Claude thought on the way out, elated by a fat down payment from
Norman. Driving home, he fancied Leila, her joyful surprise at the
sight of the money, her smiling lips and white teeth.

The first step
over the threshold of his apartment brought him from one fantasy
world to another, the kind that existed, he believed, only in
glossy magazines.

New furniture,
affordable only to the wealthy—he had become one of them—was
thoughtfully arranged in the room in a harmony of colors,
convenience, and space. Leila had bought a shiny dinner table with
four chairs, a dark wood and glass coffee table, and an
entertainment center that included a television set, radio, and CD
player. Semi-transparent curtains, hanging from the top of the
window down to the floor in smooth vertical folds, dimmed the
bright light of the sun. Pleasing music filled the room, and in the
middle stood Leila, his beautiful Leila, in a light summer dress.
If paradise ever existed, it must be this room. Never before had he
had such a home. Never before had he had a woman waiting for him to
share with him the joy of life.

“Wow,” he
growled.

“Like it?”

“Very. Who
fixed the curtains?”

“The
superintendent. I gave him fifty bucks. He helped me a lot. Where
have you been so long?”

“Business.”

“Was it
good?”

Claude pulled
out a thick envelope and threw it on the sofa. It opened up and
money slid out. Leila giggled, jumped like a kid, and threw herself
into his arms. Claude felt the irresistible urge to please this
woman more.

“What would you
like, what do you want?” he asked. “I can buy you anything. More
money is coming.”

“I need to buy
some dresses. Some jewellery.”

“Good. I need
some good clothes, too. Next Saturday I have another business
meeting, from which I’ll bring more money. But for now, take off
what you have on.”

Leila began to
undress, taking her time and demonstrating the techniques she had
learned as a stripper.

III

Saturday
morning arrived, and Claude looked in the mirror, observing his new
clothes. Selected with Leila’s discriminating taste, he thought
that he looked like a decent young man from a middle-class family.
His dark gray shirt, made of fine cotton, had long sleeves,
concealing the tattoos on his forearms. Black, casual but dressy
pants, pleated in the latest fashion, were a good fit for his tall
figure. Finishing the ensemble were shiny black shoes, sturdy as
well as comfortable. In addition to his new wardrobe, a friendly
smile looked back at him, a final touch to his new image.
Everything in the mirror was to his liking. A successful man in his
trade, he thought, must be a good actor. If people took him for
what he was, he would never go too far.

“You’re dressed
more for a date than for a business meeting,” Leila said, flapping
her sleepy eyelids.

“Dates never
happen this early,” Claude remarked, looking at his new wristwatch.
“Nine o’clock. Time to go.”

“Don’t be too
late,” Leila pleaded mockingly in the tone of a small, spoiled
girl. “I don’t like to be alone for long.”

“It won’t take
much time,” Claude promised.

“Maybe I could
help you?” she asked.

Claude
laughed.

“My job is not
for girls.”

Leila gave him
a kiss in the air.

Driving to the
other end of the city, where Norman’s condo was, he rolled the car
windows down to let in some of the morning’s fresh, crisp air. The
hour was early enough; very few cars were on the road. Many people
had probably left for their weekend destinations, whereas
compulsive shoppers had not yet awakened. Contrary to the peaceful
look of the streets, his anxiety grew. Even a tiny mistake could be
fatal, or worse—for this kind of murder, he could get life in jail,
with no chance of parole. He had to respond to any unexpected
circumstances instantly and make the right decisions.