Messenger of Death (24 page)

“I’ll give you
his address and telephone number,” Stash continued. “He lives in a
house. The trick is to sneak in when he’s alone.”

“Leave
everything to me,” Claude said.

“I like you,”
Stash said, a smile pushing up the pouches under his eyes. “Let’s
go upstairs.”

IV

Claude returned
home to discover that Hans was out of town. Because help would be
necessary with the trip to Ontario, he agreed to take the insistent
Leila with him. His only hope was that there would be no need to
kill. His mood was rather grim during the seven-hour drive.

“Why aren’t you
talking?” Leila asked him time and time again.

“Shut up,” he
snapped.

The dealer had
gotten a call from Stash already and was supposed to be expecting
his arrival. What if his bodyguards were there, though? Should he
shoot them all? Leila mustn’t be involved in anything like
that.

He stopped the
car near the dealer’s house and dialed his cell phone number.

“It’s me, from
Stash,” Claude said.

“I’ll be right
out,” the confident voice said.

“Watch me,”
Claude said to Leila. “Move to the driver’s seat and wait. When I
return, hit the gas. Clear?”

“Sure,” Leila
said.

“Do whatever I
tell you to do, no questions asked. Understand?”

Claude touched
the gun under his jacket and got out. Heavy clouds were coming in
with the darkness of the late evening, and a windy drizzle made him
wet during the short walk to the dealer’s house. On the long
driveway, a self-assured, tall man about thirty-five years old
stood waiting.

“Hi,” he said
with no note of hostility. “Long drive?”

“Sort of,”
Claude said. “You wanna talk here, or inside?”

“Better inside.
A rather nasty drizzle.”

“Anyone at
home?” Claude asked. As they stepped inside, he noticed the nicely
furnished foyer and living room.

“No, no one.
You can speak. You came for money, I gather?” He pointed to the
couch. “Would you like to sit down?”

“Yes. Any bugs
here?”

“No—for sure.”
The dealer sat back in an armchair and stretched out his legs. “I
don’t have the money right now. Like I told Stash, I need another
two or three months. Do you want something to drink?”

“No,” Claude
said, squinting grimly. “I didn’t drive seven hours for a drink. I
was told that you keep money here, in your home. Give me whatever
you have, and we’ll talk about how long you need to pay off the
rest.”

“Excuse me?”
The dealer was visibly irritated. “Didn’t you understand what I
said?”

“I did,” Claude
responded with a menacing growl. “Are you going to give me money or
not?”

“Listen,” the
dealer narrowed his eyes, “continue with that tone of voice, and
I’ll throw you out. Got it?”

Claude pulled
out his Magnum, walked over to the dealer, and pressed the barrel
into his nose.

“You do what I
say,” he said with the most frightening tone he could muster. “One
wrong move and you’re dead. Now, put your fucking hands behind your
back.”

At last, the
dealer understood the danger he was in and obeyed. Claude stuffed
the gun back under his belt, pulled out a roll of duct tape, and
began tying the dealer’s arms.

“Listen, man,”
the dealer was growing alarmed, but began talking in a deliberately
calm manner. “Listen, you’re doing something stupid. Don’t you know
that my brother is a full-patch Devil’s Knight in B.C.? Do you need
that much trouble?”

Claude paused
for a moment. Killing the Devil’s Knights associate would certainly
mean serious complications. Is this what had seemed so out-of-place
when Stash was describing this job? Was it possible that Stash had
sent him here, knowing that? Was Stash so crazy on drugs that he
didn’t understand the consequences? No—Impossible! Anyway, Stash
was a full patch. He was supposed to know things like that.

“Tell me about
your brother,” Claude said, resuming his work. “Better yet, give me
money. Then tell me about him. Otherwise, you’ll pay me in full.”
He began binding the dealer’s legs to his chair.

The dealer was
totally incapacitated and at the mercy of a rather frightening
messenger.

“What’re you
doing, man?” he began shouting. “What’re you doing? I don’t have
the money, I swear! I don’t have any money. Just a few bucks
upstairs. I’ll pay the whole debt, I swear.”

Claude finished
and straightened up.

“I’m asking you
for the last time: Will you give me money or not?”

“You, joker!”
the dealer screamed. “What’re you doing? Don’t you understand that
I have no money? Don’t you understand that my brother is a full
patch—”

“Stop it, you
jerk,” Claude interrupted him. He went to the kitchen and took a
narrow, sturdy knife from one of the drawers. When he came back, he
wasted no time turning its sharp point toward the left eye of the
dealer.

“I don’t know
anyone still alive who has called me a joker,” he said. “Now’s your
last chance. If you don’t give me the money, I’ll poke your left
eye out. If that doesn’t help you find your money, I’ll poke out
the right one. If that doesn’t help, I’ll kill you. So, where’s the
money?”

“I have no
money . . .” whispered the dealer, scared beyond sanity. He
pleaded, “I swear. I’ll give you money . . .”

Claude didn’t
let him finish. His rowdy laugh rang with sadistic pleasure as it
mingled with the deafening shrieks from the tortured dealer.

When Claude
left ten minutes later, the corpse of the dealer was still tied to
the chair, a knife deep in his eye socket. Climbing into the
passenger seat, Claude commanded with his customary laugh, “Full
speed ahead!”

Leila smiled
back and hit the gas pedal, letting the tires screech.

“You see,” she
said, making a sharp turn, “I can be of help to you.”

When the thrill
of the torture had wound down and clarity had taken its place,
Claude started to play back the ordeal with the drug dealer. What
if the man had been telling the truth? What if, indeed, his brother
was a full-patch Devil’s Knight? Was it possible that Stash had
been so desperate for money that he’d demanded pay-off from a
Devil’s Knights associate? Would Stash make him a scapegoat when
someone had to take responsibility for the kill?

“You’re so
quiet now,” Leila interrupted. “You haven’t said anything for an
hour. Did something go wrong?”

“I’m in no mood
to talk,” Claude said curtly. “Everything’s okay.”

A few days
later, Claude was called to perform some duties at the Devil’s
Knights clubhouse. Anyone who was not a full patch had to do them
occasionally. Besides the task of security guard, which he didn’t
mind at all, he had to do cleaning, because inviting any kind of
cleaning service to this most sacred place was out of the question.
The very thought of cleaning up after someone else disgusted him.
But the most aggravating part was the fact that anyone of higher
rank could give him an order or issue him a penalty. At these
moments, his mind went fuzzy with an insane urge to kill the
superior. Unfortunately, the only choice for those who wished to
climb the ranks of the gang was to obey without a single objection,
not even a trace of disobedience or displeasure; any promotion had
to be approved by 100 percent of the voters.

This evening,
the clubhouse had too many visitors. The high ranks had invited a
few ladies and indulged in plenty of drinking to ease the stress of
intensified fighting with the Iron Ghosts, stepped-up police
pressure, and an increase in media attacks. Although business
discussions had been strictly prohibited in the clubhouse, some
members deviated from this rule, albeit with many precautions such
as gesturing, and using biker’s slang and secret codes.

Stash was
there, too. He took Claude by the sleeve and pulled him to the
bar.

“Here’s five
grand for now,” he said with the weak smile of an addict. Claude
noticed the disapproving glance that Marcel threw their way. Claude
quickly stuffed the envelope into his pocket.

“Why not all
ten?” he asked.

“I’ll give it
to you a bit later. What’s the rush? By the way, a month has passed
since that chickenshit Toulouse promised to sell the house. Go kick
his ass.”

“Will do,”
Claude nodded. “Can I fiddle a bit with his furniture? That’ll
impress his wife.”

“Go ahead. But
make it when his wife and kids aren’t at home. Don’t overdo it,
though. Make him clear that he has no choice but to pay.”

When Stash
left, Marcel took his place.

“Let’s go out,”
he suggested. “I need to talk to you.”

The parking lot
was empty, but Marcel threw a quick glance around, more from habit
than necessity. A bit tipsy, he drew his unusually grim face close
to Claude’s ear.

“We found out
where Stanley’s muffler shop is. It’s time to take care of your
friend.”

Claude uttered
his rowdy laugh. He even went so far as to impulsively embrace
Marcel. His gesture was not well received.

“This son of a
bitch is like mercury,” Marcel continued when the distance between
them had grown to an appropriate space for his rank. “Mind you,
it’s not going to be an easy task. But I won’t give you any
instructions. After you’ve done with him, I’ll propose to promote
you to Prospect.”

“Thanks,
Marcel. I’ll do it. I couldn’t die in peace if he were still alive.
His death will be a good lesson for all the others.”

Marcel’s grim
face relaxed at last in an agreeable smile.

“I trust you.
You’re my messenger.”

Chapter 6

I

Monica threw an
anxious glance at the face of the clock on the table and saw that
its hands pointed at 4:30—almost the end of another workweek. But
on Friday nights, when everyone else rushed home to begin a
weekend, she was one of a few workaholics who usually remained in
the building. Not in the least concerned with having leisure time
anyway, tonight she had a special reason for staying: She was
mentally rehearsing her speech for a television interview scheduled
at 8 o’clock.

As a
politician, and a very active one at that, she had to respond to
the media outcry about the escalating biker’s war. Particularly
troublesome for her constituents were the deaths of innocent
bystanders who had had the bad luck of being in the crossfire. The
public at large was concerned that the streets of the city were no
longer safe. Explosions and shootings in this time of peace were
more frightening than in times of war.

Monica was sure
that a few questions would be about her stance on the proposed
laws. Inevitably, the interviewer would ask her: “Why are you
against a law declaring the outlaw motorcycle clubs criminal
organizations?” “Why do you oppose giving the police special powers
to detain and interrogate their members who are under suspicion?”
“Why do you oppose giving police the authority necessary to curb
the biker’s war?”

Indeed, her
arguments against the proposed measures, which she saw as
contradicting Canada’s constitution, were becoming less and less
convincing in light of the recent numbers of deaths, amount of
destroyed properties, and threats to businesses, journalists,
police, and government officials. Tension was reaching the point at
which politicians had to do something to ease public rage and
fear.

At the far end
of her desk was a large tray, filled with mail that she had
intended to read at the end of the day. With her mind already far
away on the television show, she eyed the first few pieces. It was
probably just the usual crap, she figured. She unfolded the first
one, which was typed on a very fine paper with watermarks. Its
content quickly cleared her mind. She read it twice, still not
believing her eyes. It had only a few lines:

Dear
Monica,

Happy
birthday!

We appreciate
your position on any proposed law against motorcycle clubs. We
praise your efforts to defend the constitutional rights of
minorities. Without people like you, our democracy would plunge
into a dictatorship.

We wish you
success in all your endeavors.

With warmest
regards,

The Devil’s
Knights

Under the load
of her busy schedule, she had completely forgotten her birthday,
coming up next Sunday. And the first to remind her about it were
the Devil’s Knights!

The last thing
she wanted was praise of her work coming from these professional
criminals, whose very existence she deplored. Their short note,
however, was quite a vivid reflection of how complicated the
situation had become. It would certainly be easy to single out the
Devil’s Knights or the Iron Ghosts as criminal organizations and
put their members in prison. However, such a law would be a clear
breach of the constitution.

History had
many examples of arbitrary rules that had been successful with
picking out and locking up criminals. Mussolini, for one, Italy’s
dictator during World War II, put all members of the mafia in
prison. There hadn’t been a problem with identifying them because
the police had created good files on everyone. Nobody else before
or after Mussolini had been able to cope with this organized crime
structure. But the people of Italy did not have a good memory of
that dictator, nor did they praise anything he did. They’d rather
live in a democracy that tolerated occasional inevitable evils than
adopt a dictatorship that was an evil for all. As soon as the
presumption of innocence until proven guilty was discarded, the
road would be open to all excesses of undemocratic governance under
the guise of constitutional laws.

The
constitution, in her firm belief, must be respected by all, no
matter how inconvenient it sometimes becomes for those who rule the
country or have judicial powers. Its current structure must be the
foundation of a democratic society.