Messenger of Death (4 page)

“Was he nice to
you?” Claude asked.

“Yes, he was.
But I didn’t really like him.” She paused for another sip. “I liked
you at once, when I saw you. I thought I saw something very scary
in you, though.”

Claude looked
up.

“Are you scared
of me now?” Claude met the beautiful girl’s eyes.

“Not at all.”
Leila giggled. Some sparkles of joy began to flicker in her eyes.
“You turned out to be very nice. Nothing to be scared about. It was
silly of me.”

“Right you
are,” Claude laughed.

“What did you
do to Jessie, though?” Leila asked. “The police said he was badly
hurt. The ambulance picked him up almost dead.”

“I guess I hit
him a couple of times. He must’ve fallen and hit his head against
something on the ground. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t give a
fuck. I don’t want to talk about him anymore.”

“What would you
like to talk about?” Leila asked. She was getting tipsy.

“About you—I
want you to be my girl. You won’t be dancing anymore. I’ll give you
a good life. I will treat you well. Do you wish to be with me?”

“Yes, I do,”
Leila said solemnly, as women do in front of a priest at their
marriage ceremony. “I like you.”

This was the
first night in Claude’s life that he understood how happy a man
could be with a woman. The miracle of love stunned him. After the
girl had fallen asleep, tired of his insatiable hunger for her
body, he placed his rough palm on her tender breasts, kissed her
neck, and fell asleep.

In the morning,
he woke up still holding her in his arms. Her right hand was on his
shoulder, her head on his chest. Claude lay still until her lashes
trembled. He felt a strange burning in his heart when she looked up
at him with half-closed, sleepy eyes and a lazy, dreamy smile.

III

In the fall of
1995, the new head of the anti-biker squad had arrived. It was
Serge Gorte, a detective with a well-established reputation.
Nothing in his unremarkable appearance suggested he was suitable
for the task. Yes, he was a homicide detective—and a good one,
too—but to strangers, his well-used civilian clothes, his average
height, round puffy face, and expressionless blue eyes gave the
impression of a homely family man. The fact that he was only
thirty-five years old and already had a visible tire around his
waist probably did not improve this image.

Being expert in
complicated detective’s work, Serge realized that gathering
evidence against top-ranking bikers was not going to be an easy
task. These men do not commit crimes themselves: They delegate them
to subordinates. But Serge also new that they, as all humans, make
mistakes and wrong judgments, haunting their criminal careers to
the end.

Already,
information about them was flowing into police databases from
undercover agents, informants, conversation taps, and other
sources, seemingly with no connection to these individuals. The
task of the investigator, Serge thought, was to assemble these bits
and pieces into a clear picture of criminal activity, to define the
most important targets, and to concentrate major efforts on them.
That is what Serge, obsessed with his work, knew how to do best.
Written notes, photographs, copies of documents, and physical
artifacts had their proper places in his archives. He collected
data not only on the known suspects, but also on their friends,
their relatives, their acquaintances, the places they visited,
their habits, anything—even if it seemed to not have a relation to
their criminal activity. Although he had an excellent memory, he
did not rely on it with confidence. He was constantly preparing and
updating a matrix of relationships of people, events, evidences,
and logically related facts. The job took enormous amounts of time,
of course, to the great dislike of his wife and kids. But that is
what the success of any activity is about. One either devotes
himself entirely to his vocation, or he lingers around mediocre
achievements.

His
predecessor, a man who was invariably upset and unhappy, drew his
attention to a biker named Stanley Mathews, suspected of being one
of the key figures among the Iron Ghosts. The police risked their
best undercover agent to set him up. The agent was found dead in
the basement of a house under construction. A few other deaths of
valuable informants among lower bikers’ ranks were grim evidence of
corruption in law enforcement agencies.

Serge pulled
some photographs and a few documents from the tower of binders and
arranged the materials in order of importance. Everything was
related to Stanley Mathews. Serge examined his sharp features: the
skin, tightly stretched across his bony face, with no flesh in
between; hard, examining stare; neat and tidy otherwise, not much
different from an ordinary man. A very tough criminal, Serge
thought. The first thing to do was to find where he lives and his
hiding places, and install listening devices. It would be nice to
arrange surveillance around his dwelling, but a staff shortage
would likely not afford that.

Serge leaned
back and looked at his watch. The funeral of the Iron Ghost drug
dealer, killed two days ago and set up for today, must be already
over; however, no news about it had arrived yet. The gang,
according to scarce police data, was not big yet, although it was
quickly gathering strength. Where could Patrick, his help, be? He
should have been here at least an hour ago.

Thoughts
brought him back to a disgusting crime scene in a shish-kebob
restaurant two days ago.

“Two people
broke in,” said the waitress telling the story, shivering violently
as if she had malaria. “They wore masks. One of them covered only
the lower part of his face. The one in the half-mask hit the poor
guy on the head, it was with something heavy, I guess—I didn’t
notice exactly what it was. The man started to collapse, but the
other one picked him up by his armpits. They twisted his arms
behind his back, yanked him to the kitchen, and pushed his head—his
face—down, onto the grill where shish kebobs were cooking. His cry
. . . Oh, God—I have never heard such a scream. He was shaking and
twisting, but those guys held him, his face on that red-hot
grill—it was terrifying, and that awful smell of burning human
flesh . . .

“One of the
killers, I think the one with only half a mask, was laughing. His
sadistic laugh . . . there was nothing human about it. Then . . . I
don’t know how he picked it up, or where he got it . . . I just saw
that he was suddenly swinging a cleaver. And still holding an arm
of the poor man …

“He chopped off
his head—and left it on the grill . . .

“The body fell
to the floor, of course . . .

“Blood shot out
of the neck; it suddenly shrunk, got thinner—you know? It was . . .
unreal. I don’t know why I noticed it. Anyway, I think it was an
act of mercy, as I could imagine the suffering of that poor
guy.

“Excuse me . .
. , ” she sobbed.

Serge had seen
many gruesome scenes during his intense years in various special
police units: disfigured corpses in morgues; exhumed remains from
graves; assault victims dying in hospitals or at crime scenes.
Nothing was as nauseating as this cooked human head. There was no
moustache, no blue eyes, or any other features mentioned by the
waitress that could help identify it, if not for the IDs in his
wallet.

The door to his
small office opened with a metallic screeching of hinges, and
Patrick, a young detective who had recently been assigned as help,
stepped in. Tall, blond, and always in good humour, he was good
looking and nice to work with. Today, though, he had no
self-confident countenance or merry smile. He pulled up a chair,
dropped onto it, and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“You’d have to
see it to believe it,” he said with a frown. “About 200 Iron Ghosts
attended the funeral. It was quite a motorcade! They were all on
good Harley Davidsons, with their insignia on their backs. Can you
believe that they are already such a big gang? It was a show of
strength, that’s what it was.”

“Did you take
pictures of them?”

“No. It was
impossible, Serge, trust me. They took control of the streets. They
blocked some of them with pickup trucks to ensure a smooth
procession to the cemetery. They didn’t care about traffic lights:
They stopped traffic, as cops do, where they wanted. There were
only a few of us. We expected 20 to 30 people, not more, you know,
but that many . . . Gosh, it’s scary what these guys can do. . .
.”

“What do you
mean?” asked Serge.

“I mean, how
they will respond. For sure, they have already figured out that the
Devil’s Knights are involved. We don’t have enough cops to prevent
a war between them.”

Serge rubbed
his chin. Patrick was right. The fight for a $1 billion Quebec drug
market could be horrific. If the Iron Ghosts gang was that big, how
big were Devil’s Knights?

IV

They met in the
park, after dark, far away from the eyes and ears of police.
Machete was smoking pot; Marcel was pulling a cigarette out of a
pack. Tension was high, as it was well known in the club that in
the past Marcel had killed those who disobeyed his orders.

“What’s the
fuss, man?” Machete asked.

“The fuss?”
Marcel echoed Machete in a menacing, questioning voice as he
settled himself onto one of the fallen trees.

“Do I need to
get news of your hits from the TV?”

“I meant to
talk to you about that,” Machete said. “I was busy, kinda. What’s
the fucking difference?”

“Shit!” Marcel
hissed emphatically, clicking a cigarette lighter. In its feeble
flame his narrowed eyes glowed in rage. “Don’t you remember our
decision not to clash with the Ghosts, yet? We have to wait until
Jason is locked. They’ll put him in the cooler for good soon—after
all, seven tons of coke is not easy to shake off.”

“My guys talked
to this jerk three times before.” Machete lit up again, his
handmade cigarette dying and the tart smell of marijuana spreading
over the area. “The last time, when he was told to beat it, he told
’em, ‘fuck yah.’ You think, Marcel, that I’ll let any chickenshit
talk this way in my backyard?”

“How’d yah set
it up?” asked Stash from the darkness. “Who did it?”

“One of the
kitchen help in the Greek Delight tipped us off that the shithead
was there. At first I wanna dispatch my hit brigade, but then
Trasher, the man whose territory it is, you know him, tells me that
he has a good guy, just out of the slammer, who wants to join our
club. Trasher said to him, ‘Do something to prove your worth.’”

“What’s the
name of the guy?” Marcel asked.

“Claude. Claude
Pichette.”

“Doesn’t ring a
bell.”

“Trasher called
me and asked to let him do the job. I said ‘yes.’ I said, scare the
shit out of those who even think of working in our territory.
Trasher said, ‘Don’t you worry; Claude will do a good job.’ He did,
actually.”

“I wanna talk
to him,” Marcel said.

“These bloody
Ghosts are on my heels,” Machete said. “What are we waiting for,
Marcel?”

Marcel was
quick to respond.

“You are a
piece of shit, Machete. Piece of shit. We either have to wait for
their blow, or do it first. There is no other option, thanks to
you.”

Next day,
Marcel set up a very important meeting at a restaurant in Submarine
Plaza. The busy food court was crowded at lunchtime, and he could
easily disappear among the massive influx of noon diners. He
arrived early so he could choose a table with a good observation
angle, from which he could capture any unusual detail that might
provoke his suspicion. He was about to meet an insurance agent—“the
Golden Boy,” as the head of the Mafia family had dubbed him.

The place he
had chosen was the most expensive one among the eating
establishments. It had only a single entry point where guests had
to wait to be seated. The spacious booths had soft benches and
comfortable chairs, and hid everyone inside. No sooner had he taken
a seat in the far corner than a tall, lean figure appeared across
the table. Having never seen the man before, Marcel easily
recognized Raymond Jacques by his description.

This rascal had
rather respectable looks. At twenty-eight years of age, he gave the
impression of a much older and more mature man, a serious and
responsible professional. His balding head helped—his hairline was
retreating from his temples like soldiers in a disciplined army,
which in turn made his forehead appear much larger than it was.
But, it was his manner that made him seem like a trusted lawyer or
a family physician with a successful practice. He had been in
business 6 years and had learned all the tricks of the trade. Large
round glasses enhanced the image of a learned person, though Marcel
had been told that they were a sheer decoration—the lenses were
made with clear glass, as his vision was quite normal. This was the
face of a thinker, observant and attentive to tiny details. What
could be better for a financial advisor?

Marcel’s
connection, who was close to the Italian Mafia, had privately
revealed a few details of Raymond’s biography and career that would
never be recorded in his professional resume. After graduating from
a secondary school with good credits, he had been admitted to the
most prestigious university in the city. He had wanted to become a
criminal lawyer, but found that 6 years of study and hard work
would be a fairly boring proposition. The third year finally broke
his patience. He left the university and chose, to the great
surprise of all who knew him (if only anyone knew him well), the
career of an insurance agent.

The decision
appeared to be a stupid choice for such a good and promising
student. But Raymond new what he wanted. With a clear understanding
of his goals and how to achieve them, a good memory, an analytical
mind, and an aptitude for all adventures in life—no matter how
risky they might be—he rolled up his sleeves and took the matter
into his own hands.