Messenger of Death (14 page)

Claude turned
into the parking lot of a plaza across the road from Norman’s
condo. He found many vacant spots, but chose to park his Honda in
the place closest to the exit. He walked between the cars and went
inside the plaza, where it was cooler. Very few people were around.
Claude went to the public phone, looked around, drew a scrap of
paper from his pocket, and dialled the scribbled number. After the
third ring, a gentle voice answered, “Hello.”

“Hi. Is Norman
at home?” His voice was unusually soft.

“No. He’s in
Toronto. Who’s asking?”

“My name is
Bruce. I have to repay a debt to him. He promised to be home at
this time.”

“Yes. He told
me about you. He asked me to take care of this. Do you know where
we live?”

Her voice was
mellow and sweet, like an angel’s.

“Yes, I do. Is
there anyone else there?”

“No.”

“Am I too
early?”

“Never mind.
It’s time to get up. I’m a night bird, you know. Sometimes I sleep
well into the afternoon.”

“Good. See you
soon.”

“Hold on. When
you come in, you’ll see a phone with a display in the entrance
lobby to your right. It’s across from the security guard—you’ll see
him behind the glass. Use the arrows on the dialling pad to scroll
up or down to find Norman’s name, and then press the large button.
I’ll unlock the door and let you in. We’re on the seventeenth
floor, number 1703. Got it?”

“Sure,” Claude
said and hung up. Just then, he realized that Norman had not told
him his last name.

Claude was
trying to prepare as much as possible for any unforeseen
circumstances. How crowded would the entrance be? Would there be
video cameras in the staircases and emergency exits? Would the
security guard be at his post? Claude had to sneak into the
building unnoticed, without exposing his face to anyone. This time
he had to work without a ski mask.

The 25-story
building towered like a grim, silent giant above the private houses
that surrounded it. It was a very expensive condo, whose tenants
did not rush around settling day-to-day matters. The entrance was
at the back of the building. With no pedestrians in sight for
cover, approaching the front door without being noticed would be
impossible.

Luckily, there
was a tiny park, which Claude could use as an observation point,
farther down a side street. Sitting on a bench there, almost hidden
by dense bushes, he watched for human traffic. Nobody came in or
went out. A few minutes passed; tension grew inside him.

Claude couldn’t
afford to wait too long. When an elderly woman with a few shopping
bags in her hands appeared on the sidewalk leading to the entrance,
Claude saw his chance. He walked briskly and caught up with her at
the door.

“May I help
you, ma’am?” he asked and took one of her bags.

“Oh, thank
you,” said the lady, squinting her eyes as people with very poor
vision do. The bag indeed might have been a bit heavy for her.
Through the glass door, he caught a glimpse of the uniformed man,
busy shuffling papers at his desk. Claude stepped in ahead of the
old woman, positioning his back to the security guard. There was
another door that the woman would have to open with her key.
Between the doors, attached to the wall across from the guard,
stood the useless phone system.

“It’s my
pleasure to help you,” Claude said gallantly, letting her in.
“After all, we are neighbors, aren’t we?”

“Thanks a lot,”
the old lady said, opening the second door with her key. Claude
threw a quick glance at the security guard. He was still busy with
his papers. Apparently, two people chatting calmly at the entrance,
who had a key to the door, did not arouse his suspicions. Claude
went on, supporting his conversation as much as possible.

“It is very
nice to have a neighbour like you. My name is Brian. What’s
yours?”

“Rosa,” said
the old lady. “I haven’t seen you before. You are a very nice young
man. Press 15, please. Thank you. What floor are you living
on?”

She squinted
again, trying to get a better view of him. “My vision is not as
great as it used to be,” she explained.

“Twentieth,”
Claude lied.

At the
fifteenth floor, he returned her bags, said, “Good-bye,” and
pressed 17. When the elevator stopped, he stuck his head out and
looked right and left. No one was in sight. He stepped out and
knocked at the door of unit 1703. Brigitte would be allowed to see
his face. The dead—as she soon would be—could not be a witness.

He stood in
front of the peephole, smiling. He heard a feeble rustle in the
depths of the apartment, then the click of the lock, and the door
opened slowly. A petite, pretty young woman in a fluffy nightgown
appeared.

“Please, come
in.” She returned his smile. “I am Brigitte.” The woman stepped
back to let him enter.

“Nice to meet,
you,” Claude said, searching the distant corners of his memory for
a few extra nice words. Brigitte nodded and smiled again—a very
sweet smile, Claude thought. She looked very tempting. Her cheeks,
a bit puffy after a sound sleep, were perfectly smooth. Something
childish was dancing in her large green eyes. It would be nice to
fuck her, Claude thought, but no, business is business.

“Please, sit
down,” she invited.

“Thanks. I
didn’t expect to see such a beautiful woman.”

Brigitte smiled
again, this time with a touch of understanding and compassion.
Apparently it was not much of a surprise for her to have another
man making over her.

“Some coffee?”
she suggested.

“No. Business
first.” He pulled out an envelope and placed it on the table.
“Please, count.”

“I trust you,”
she said in her gentle voice. “I couldn’t care less about
money.”

She seemed
unable to recognize danger. Claude admired her acting skills: This
bitch played an innocent angel without a flaw.

“Please count
it and give me a receipt. Just in case, you know. I don’t want to
have any complications with Norman.”

She sat back in
a chair and took the envelope.

“Why didn’t you
call from the entrance?” she asked.

“Oh, there was
an old lady there who let me in. I helped her with her bags. Very
nice lady.”

“Sure you don’t
want some coffee?”

“I’d love to,
but have no time at all. My wife is waiting for me downstairs in
the car. We have to rush.”

“Well, then,”
she responded, seeming slightly disappointed. She removed the money
from the envelope and started counting. Claude walked behind her
back, stretched on his gloves, grabbed her chin with his right hand
and the top of her head with his left, and, with a powerful
clockwise twist, crushed her neck vertebrae. Brigitte died
instantly, without uttering a sound. Claude let her fall to the
floor and went to the room where Norman’s office was. He found
money in the top drawer, as Norman had promised. In the bedroom he
picked up some jewellery. He gathered the money that had scattered
on the table, which Brigitte had had no chance of counting, and
moved slowly into the hallway.

No one was in
the corridor.

Claude
proceeded to the fire exit door and went out, burying the lower
part of his face in his half-folded right arm, as if protecting
himself from the blow of a fist. A quick glance around assured him
that no security cameras had been installed in the staircase. Good.
Trying to make as little noise as possible, he descended to the
ground floor and left the building through a side door. The short
passage leading to the street was empty. With a brisk walk Claude
crossed the road, went to his parking space, got into his Honda,
and turned the key. A thought about Leila made him smile—she would
be beside herself with delight at the sight of the pile of money
and jewellery he brought her.

On the way home
he stopped at a small plaza with a public phone, and dialled the
pager number and then 7777, which meant to Marcel that the deal was
done. Steering the car back into the slowly flowing traffic, he
rolled down his windows and let some fresh warm air in. Life is
good, he thought—the sun was shining; money was plentiful; and his
girlfriend was really something. She was waiting for him now.

The ring of the
cell phone interrupted his pleasant chain of thoughts.

“Number twelve,
if you could,” the voice said. It was Marcel.

“When?”

“Right
now.”

“Okay.”

The café with
the code number twelve was a half-hour drive away. Why would Marcel
want a meeting on such short notice? Claude thought, already
cruising along the streets toward the meeting place. Did I do
something wrong? By the sound of his voice, Marcel isn’t angry.
What’s the damn rush?

His worries
were groundless. Sitting at a table on the sidewalk, Marcel greeted
him from afar with a friendly smile. He stretched his arm out for a
handshake.

“Everything
went well?”

Claude gave him
a detailed account of the events.

“I like it,”
Marcel nodded and took a sip from his coffee cup. “In a short while
we’ll have a meeting in a country home that belongs to one of our
members. Big house on the lake, you know. Two boats.” There was a
meaningful pause. “You’re invited. Mind you, mostly full patches
will be there.”

The joy at
having such respect shown him was more than Claude could handle. He
suppressed an urge to jump up, taking a cigarette, instead, and
lighting it.

“Why don’t you
speak?” Marcel asked.

“I don’t have a
bike,” Claude said with intonations of guilt.

“Buy one.”

“I’m still
short of money.”

“How come?
You’ve been paid well.” Marcel frowned. “Too much up your nose?” He
was hinting about cocaine use.

“No, not at
all. But I’ve had to spend some money on furniture. I have a girl.
You know. Like . . . she will be my old lady.”

Marcel’s eyes
glowed in appreciation.

“Good
girl?”

“Yah. Very
pretty. But she wants to buy all the household things, and it’s
damn costly.” Claude shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, “What
could I do? A woman.”

“I know, I
know,” agreed Marcel. “I’m convinced that having a family isn’t a
bad thing. It makes one responsible and careful. How much do you
need for a bike?”

“Another ten
grand.”

“I’ll lend you
the money.”

“Marcel,”
Claude said, overwhelmed with emotions. “I’ll do anything for you.
But . . . I don’t know if I can pay you back soon.”

“You can. There
are a few jobs waiting for you. By the way, can you ride a
bike?”

“Yes, I can. I
have a friend in the car business. He has good bikes once in
awhile, so I drive them. I already have a license.”

“Good. One of
my people will call you tomorrow and give you the ten grand.
Okay?”

The whole world
began a slow dance around Claude’s head. It seemed that the day was
an endless succession of happy events and news. This morning, he
had killed a woman. It was a nice, perfect kill. He’d gotten lots
of money for it and some jewellery for Leila. Marcel was going to
lend him money for a beautiful Harley Davidson. And now, more jobs
and money were waiting for him. Such a nice, beautiful life!

“I’m always
ready,” Claude said, lighting another cigarette. He drew the smoke
in as if it was the elixir of life. Exhaling a thick cloud, he
asked, “What are these jobs?”

“I’ll give you
the home address of an Iron Ghost. That’s the only thing I know
about him at the moment. Don’t touch his wife or kid. Make it
clean.”

“Will do. What
else?”

“Another one is
a frequent visitor of the Planetarium restaurant. We have some
people there who’ll let us know when the Ghost is there. Our guy
will be in touch with you. Be ready any minute, as time is at a
premium.”

“Sure. Anything
else?”

“Not now. But
something’s cooking.”

“What?” Claude
sensed something interesting.

“Very soon
we’ll know the exact location of the muffler shop that belongs to
Stanley.”

A sadistic
guffaw from Claude greeted the news. Marcel raised his eyebrows,
which made Claude interrupt his reaction. The waiter, who stood
nearby, noticed a disturbance and came over with a pot of
coffee.

“Some more
coffee, sir?” he asked Marcel, bowing in respect.

“Yes,
please.”

The waiter
turned to Claude.

“Something for
you, sir?”

“Only
coffee.”

“Certainly,
sir. Here you are. Enjoy.” The waiter left.

“Sorry,” Claude
apologized. “It was too good news for me. He’s mine—don’t give him
to anyone else. Okay?”

“Sure. Five
grand on top of the usual pay is what you’ll get for him.”

Claude’s head
began to swirl.

“I’ve gotta
go,” he said. “My ol’ lady is waiting for me.”

“Sure,” Marcel
nodded with a condescending smile.

By the time
Claude got home, it was late afternoon. He found the curtains drawn
to dampen the bright sunrays, Leila napping on the sofa. She was
dressed in soft jogging pants and a T-shirt, and she smiled
sleepily when she heard him enter the room. She spread her arms for
an embrace. Claude grabbed her and ran his palm over her back under
the clothes, from shoulders to buttocks, enjoying the unique
softness, smoothness, and warmth.

IV

During the next
two weeks, Claude was busy executing Marcel’s orders. The hunt for
the first target was not simple: This Iron Ghost stayed in a
different location almost every night, avoided public places, and
was accompanied by a bodyguard at all times. A special crew of
Devil’s Knights kept his house under surveillance around the clock.
Their only task was to notify Claude when the target returned to
his home.