Messenger of Death (6 page)

”Is that okay?”
asked Marcel.

“Uh-huh,”
murmured Claude, his jaws working hard on too large a piece of
meat. He used his palm to wipe up a thin stream of sauce that
rolled from the corner of his mouth. He had never eaten anything
that tasty. The promised pay for his service added a sense of good
life to the conversation. Marcel picked up the napkin from his lap
and dabbed his lips. Claude swallowed, took his napkin in his fist,
and did the same.

“Good,” said
Marcel. He did not specify to what he was referring: Claude’s
improving manners or his acceptance of the pay.

“Do you have a
gun?” Marcel gave him an inquisitive look.

“Not yet. But I
have someone who will sell one to me. No sweat.”

“Don’t worry
about that. My people will give you a good one. You need a gun that
never fails.”

“Cool.”

“Now. When you
go, dress in a jogging suit. This way, nobody will recognize you by
your clothes. Take a ski mask with you. Do not put it on until you
decide to shoot. Nobody will remember your looks before the mask is
on. Clear?”

“I know that
much,” grumbled Claude.

“Of course. But
I want to make sure we are thinking alike. Drop the gun right after
the shoot. Remember to stick to the major rules. The most important
one is not to kill bystanders. We’ve had enough bad publicity
lately. Another one with innocent victims and all the newspapers
will scream and yell. Some bloody journalists are always on the
lookout for something resembling Hollywood-style murder.”

“I know,”
agreed Claude. The thought of being such a hero made him smile.

“Try to make it
quick, in a matter of seconds. Remember, if you do get caught, do
not even think about selling me out to the police.”

“What are you
talking about?” Claude interrupted indignantly. He exchanged
menacing glances with Marcel. He did not give a shit for any
authority when his own reputation was questioned.

“Devil’s
Knights will haunt you for the rest of your days,” Marcel said,
dismissing Claude’s reaction. “And I don’t think I need to mention
what would happen when they found you.”

He paused.
Claude stopped chewing and stared at Marcel as if he wanted to hit
him.

“Who are you
taking me for?” he asked, about to explode in a filthy outburst of
rage, but Marcel raised his hand as a warning sign.

“Okay, okay. I
have to tell you that, you know. Don’t take it too personally.
Let’s get back to business. People arranging the deal will be in
contact with you over a pager. They will let you know when these
two are in the restaurant. All other planning, as well as execution
of the hit, will be up to you. I do trust you.”

“I don’t have a
pager.”

“I know. We
will provide you with one tomorrow.”

“I like it.”
Claude uttered a short laugh, returning to a good mood. “Will do.
But would you promote me after that?”

“Oh, yes,”
agreed Marcel hurriedly, as if he had forgotten an important thing.
“Sure. I’ll propose to give you ‘hangaround’ status. You are a good
chap. I like you.”

Claude leaned
back in his chair and relaxed. He was pleased. This was a happy day
in his life. The leader of the Devil’s Knights had treated him to
lunch in the fanciest restaurant, talking to him like an equal.
Money, the most desirable thing in his life, would soon be in
abundance. And, also soon, maybe very soon, he would become a full
member of the Devil’s Knights motorcycle club.

VI

“I can’t
believe it,” Claude shouted, shifting his eyes from the sleek Honda
Civic to his friend’s smiling face. “This is jus’ three grand? Are
you sure, old buddy, that this is a clean car?”

“I told you, I
know how to buy wheels.” Hans pointed his finger, like a barrel of
a gun, at Claude. He was swelling with pride. “The car is clean,
don’t you worry.”

“Now we’ll make
tons of money,” Claude assured him, his eyes on the car. “Let’s
drive!”

“When can you
give me the money for it?” Hans asked, taking the passenger
seat.

“Right now. But
you have to help me, Hans.” Claude let the car leap forward, as if
they were on a racing track.

“Cool down,”
Hans grumbled.

“Will you help
me?”

“How?”

“First, we need
another car. Just for a few hours. Okay?”

“Yah. What’s
next?” Hans turned his face to Claude. He listened with grim
attention to the plan of action that Claude had thought over in
great detail. The Honda would be parked at the plaza, 5 minutes’
driving time from the restaurant. The hit must be conducted
quickly, 10 minutes at the most, including driving from the
restaurant to the plaza. Hans would get three grand for a few hours
of trouble.

“Hey—hey—hey,”
Hans began protesting after Claude had finished speaking. “You
know, Claude, I’m in a different business. I’m not a biker and
never wanna be. Besides, hits are not my bread and butter. I’m in
the car business, you know.”

“That’s right,”
Claude insisted. “I’ll do the hitting. Just driving, that’s what I
need from you. C’mon, Hans. Three grand for a few minutes. Good
dough, eh? I’ll pay you next day. Okay?”

Hans shrugged
his shoulders.

“Fine.”

As promised, a
man on an errand from Marcel brought a pager. Then, on the day that
the hit was to take place, Hans stole a car and parked it in the
chosen plaza, not far from Claude’s Honda. Claude was waiting for
the signal in his Honda, just an extra precaution in case the
police were already in search of the stolen car. A few minutes past
1 o’clock in the afternoon, the pager beeped. Claude glanced at the
display, got out of his car, and went to Hans.

“Let’s go.”

Hans was
apparently nervous, but drove well. His eyes were pale; his lips,
tight.

Claude was
edgy, as well. Murder did not worry him—he had killed people
before. But in the past, except for the hit at the shish-kebab
house, it had happened in fights, sometimes premeditated, sometimes
not. This time the game was different. The shooting would be in a
public place and follow strict adherence to Marcel’s rules.

This
son-of-a-bitch Stanley might have a gun, he suddenly thought. His
face on the photograph wasn’t the one of a college boy: He would
react quickly at the first sight of a masked man. He would likely
sit in a place from which he could observe the whole restaurant.
The bastard might pull out his own gun and shoot, for sure, with
deadly precision.

Claude touched
the gun under the top of his jogging suite. The exhilarating
feeling of its strength and uncontested power over other people
overwhelmed him. A tide of energy stiffened the muscles in his
hands; he held the card that beats all other odds.

I’ll do my
best, he said to himself with tight lips. The train of his thought
was crushed by another beep of the pager.

“They are
there,” he told Hans. Hans nodded, drove to the restaurant, and
stopped the car at the entrance.

“I’ll wait for
you over there, by the parking meter.” Hans pointed to a short
metal post half a block down the road.

“It won’t take
long.”

Claude pushed
the door open and went inside. To his left was a sign in a frame,
fixed on a thin metal pole: “Please wait to be seated.” Nobody was
around, as all the waitresses were busy. Almost every table in the
spacious dining room was taken. To find Stanley in such a crowded
place and not draw his attention would take a stroke of good luck.
But Claude had a pretty good idea where to look for him. He and the
other man would likely choose a table in one of the corners to
secure their rear with two walls. At the same time, the place would
have to be in a good observation point from which any suspicious
move would be immediately detected.

He was right.
Three men were sitting at the far end of the room, to the right, at
a large square table. One of them was for sure one of those in the
photograph Marcel had shown him. But Claude had never seen the
other two. That meant that they should not be shot at. However, the
most wanted target—Stanley—was not there. In an instant, Claude
changed the plan. With a steady pace and a carefree, absent-minded
air, he proceeded to the washroom, where Stanley most likely would
be. Kill him there, he thought, then rush back and try to kill the
other one. Even if the second man, alarmed by the sound of a shot,
managed to escape, the hit would be good enough; without Stanley,
though, the task would not be completed.

He entered the
washroom. Nobody was there. Claude put on the ski mask—it was a
cylindrical cloth covering only the lower part of his face—and went
back, holding the handle of the gun under his jogging jacket.

The target was
very quick to react. As Claude had suspected, at the first sight of
a masked man, he jumped from his seat at the table and rushed to
the exit door. Claude fired. The bullet hit the man somewhere and
made him stumble. Screaming, twisting, and shivering in agony, he
ran again, but Claude let a few more bullets fly toward him.
Someone else shrieked in horror and pain. The wounded target fell.
Claude darted to him, fired two more shots into his head, and
briskly walked off to the exit. He turned around at the door to
make sure that nobody was following him. Nobody was. Claude
stretched his arm, released his grip, and let the gun drop. It hit
the floor with a metal sound, bounced, and landed again, this time
immobile and quiet. Claude rushed outside, took off the mask on the
way to the car, jumped into the passenger seat, and commanded,
“Full speed!”

Hans was
waiting with the engine idling. He sped up until the car reached
the street speed limit and then drove smoothly, obeying road rules
and street signs.

“Right, Hans,”
Claude said, slapping his shoulder. Hans knew very well that many
were caught when tough guys like Claude, trying to leave a crime
scene as quickly as possible, provoked a police chase.

Hans was about
to stop at a traffic light when both of them noticed a police car
in the rearview mirror, flashing its warning lights. It was far
away, but approaching fast, in an apparent rush to get
somewhere.

“They may be
after us,” Claude growled. “Someone in the restaurant could’ve made
a call. Push it, Hans.”

And Hans did.
He made a very dangerous turn. The tires of oncoming cars screamed,
but they escaped a seemingly inevitable collision. He manoeuvred
past a few cars on the way to the next turn, then twisted the
steering wheel to the right, and kept moving toward the plaza. The
police car had disappeared from the rear-view mirrors. Hans turned
into the parking lot.

“Good,” Claude
said. “It’ll be much harder for them to find the car in the plaza.
They may block roads, thinking that we are on the run, but they
shouldn’t look in a parking lot.”

Hans knew his
part of the game well. He stopped at the first available vacant
spot, not far from Claude’s Honda. Now, the police would have a
nearly impossible task. There was little, if any, chance of them
seeing the car if it was not moving.

They left the
stolen car and walked to the Honda. Nobody paid attention to two
guys in jogging suits striding leisurely along the rows of cars.
Claude took the driver’s seat in the Honda and turned the key. The
engine came to life, and he steered the car to the exit, past the
incoming police car, whose deafening siren made all traffic stop.
Claude made another turn, then another one, and in a few minutes
entered the highway.

“Good job,
Hans,” he said and roared with laughter. “Good job! You’ve made
three grand in a few minutes, as I promised. Not bad, eh?”

Hans did not
share Claude’s merry mood. He sat, his face without a trace of a
smile, still not recovered from the fear of the police chase.

“It’s over,
Hans, over,” Claude shouted again and gave his friend a pat on his
back. “There is nobody on earth who could point a finger at you.
Take your gloves off and give them to me. It’s over.”

Hans forced a
feeble smile onto his face.

“Let’s go to my
place. I’ll give you three grand now. Good job, Hans.”

Marcel met
Claude the next day in a park located on the outskirts of the city.
The sun had already sunk below the horizon and darkness was making
the woods dangerous to both the police and the public. They walked
along a narrow path among the trees and bushes, speaking in low
voices and listening to the silence around them.

“All the
newspapers are screaming about this hit,” Marcel was saying. “The
problem is that a woman was hit by one of your bullets. Don’t you
remember what I said? Under no circumstance were you to harm anyone
except those two. Bad publicity—that is what will eventually get
us.”

“I did my
best,” Claude said in a slightly apologetic tone. “There was no
choice.” He gave Marcel a detailed account of what had happened.
Marcel listened with intense interest. When Claude finished, Marcel
gave him a hug.

“Now I see.
It’s good that you wanted to find Stanley. But you’ve gotta get
some training in shooting. I’ll arrange that.”

“I just . . . ”
Claude stopped, apparently hesitant to continue.

“Go ahead,”
Marcel demanded. “What’s up?”

“You promised
seven-and-a-half grand for each.”

“Oh, that. I
know. I will give you five, two-and-a-half extra. After all, it was
not your fault that Stanley was not there. Good enough?”

“Thanks.”
Claude was very grateful. He felt that he could kill anybody for
Marcel.

“There will be
plenty for you to do soon,” Marcel promised, as if answering his
thoughts. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Do you sniff?
Smoke pot?”

“Yes. But not
much.”

“Good. We don’t
need anyone who uses those things too much. They become useless.
Remember: you will never become a Devil’s Knight if you take too
much stuff up your nose. Better yet, stay away from it altogether.
You have to have a firm hand and a clear mind. You need to work
with the precision of a surgeon. Understand?”