by Alex Markman
Marcel’s contact expressed his suspicion that Raymond might have been involved in operations of his own, but it was more speculation than an established fact. Raymond was very secretive—no one knew more about him than he deemed necessary.
“May I sit here?” Raymond asked, bending over the table.
“Sure.” Marcel pointed to the chair. “Sit down, Raymond.”
“You recognized me at once,” Raymond stated with an amiable smile. He sat where Marcel showed him.
“I had a good verbal description of you,” Marcel explained.
“Oh—the balding head!” He responded with a note of contentment, as if the lack of hair was something he was proud of. “I recognized you at once, as well. Your photograph appears in newspapers once in awhile.”
Marcel shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “That is the price for being famous.”
A waitress appeared and stood close to their table, waiting for their orders. She was pretty: blond with very white, smooth skin and nice, full lips. Raymond stared at her with unceremonious interest. The waitress, a bit embarrassed under such unwelcome attention, took the order and left, the corners of her mouth turned down in a disapproving grimace.
“Nice girl,” Raymond commented, raising his eyebrows, as if asking, “Isn’t she?”
“Don’t pick her up here,” Marcel warned. A vertical wrinkle between his eyebrows vividly conveyed his disapproval.
“I know, I know,” Raymond sighed. “Business first. What can I do for you?”
Marcel delayed his answer until the pretty waitress, who had already come back with a tray, served their drinks and arranged flatware at their places. This time, Raymond ignored her presence, patiently regarding Marcel with a trace of curiosity.
“There is a new biker’s club in our backyard,” Marcel began, once the waitress left.
“I know,” Raymond nodded. “Iron Ghosts.”
“There wasn’t much hoopla about it,” Marcel said, wrinkles of surprise creasing his forehead.
“Until the last funeral. But I knew about them before. I have some connections . . . ” Raymond let Marcel guess what the rest of the phrase was supposed to be.
“I see. I hope they are not the same as Jason’s.”
“No, no,” Raymond assured emphatically. “I wouldn’t play such a risky game.”
“Good. We need information on all of them. The problem is that we know nothing about them, with the exception of Jason, their president. This group is not like other biker clubs. They do not wear colors that would help distinguish them in a crowd. As far as I know right now, Jason has gathered some fairly tough guys around him.”
“That is true,” agreed Raymond. “They all are businesspeople.”
“How’d yah know?”
“A friend of mine is a former cop,” Raymond whispered. “He told me that it’s impossible to penetrate Jason’s circle—as is the case with your club. But there are many sympathizers and associates that could be employed by the police.”
“What else did he say?” Marcel straightened up, impatient for an answer.
“The police believe that a biker war is imminent. They are preparing for the worst.”
“Do you know any details?”
Raymond gave him a polite, mysterious smile.
“Not yet.”
Marcel frowned.
“Any chance of gathering the information I want?” he asked.
“It would take time,” Raymond said evasively.
“You’ve made my day.” Marcel’s eyes were glowing with appreciation.
“Do you wish to visit our clubhouse this Saturday?” Marcel’s tone suggested that Raymond should accept his invitation as a great honour. But Raymond shook his head in rejection.
“You guys are under police scrutiny. Any association with you would draw their attention my way. Besides, you are a very strange lot—very unpredictable.”
Marcel raised his eyebrows.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean one never knows what offends you and what might be the reason for one of you to pick a fight. I am no contest for hoodlums. Look at my hands.”
Raymond stretched his arms out to show Marcel his long, elegant fingers and smooth skin, and placed them close to Marcel’s left hand, its hairy fingers folded into the large, heavy fist of a weightlifter.
“Hoodlums?” repeated Marcel with metal in his voice. He gave a brief glance to Raymond’s hands, and then tried to meet his eyes. The bastard across the table did not blink.
“Yes.”
Raymond folded his arms against his chest and stared back with the patience of a trainer dealing with an irritated tiger.
“What’s wrong? You guys like fighting, don’t you? That is what your culture is all about, isn’t it?
“If only one could call it ‘culture.’ But hey, that’s how poorly educated journalists hail any weird lifestyle—culture.” A sardonic, contemptuous smile appeared on his face. It was not clear whether his regrets were regarding culture, poorly educated journalists, bikers, or any of these. However, this was absolutely clear: Raymond had no fear of Marcel, not even a shade of it.
“In our business one has to have sufficient strength to defend himself,” Marcel insisted, suppressing his first impulse to hit Raymond square in the face. “Sometimes we need to silence people. Besides, physical treatment can be very convincing.” He released the tight grip of his fist and spread the fingers in a relaxed way.
“I understand,” Raymond nodded. “But modern technology is at your disposal. Works nice, if you know how to use it.”
Marcel examined Raymond’s face with keen interest. Had this bastard ever killed anyone? Marcel had a strange feeling that the snob sitting across the table would not have hesitated one split second if a murder were more expedient.
“You’ve picked up a lot of garbage from the press and literature on bikers. First of all, we never fight in the clubhouse. It’s against the rules even to curse there.” Marcel continued to stare into Raymond’s face, debating what to say or not to say. He decided to get back to the reason for their meeting. “So, Raymond, I need addresses of the Iron Ghosts, the locations of their businesses, if any, their relatives, friends, license plate numbers, anything.”
Raymond’s head was turning after a pretty girl, walking toward a distant corner of the restaurant, her shapely behind stretching her skirt into appealing curves.
“Such a broad,” he commented in apparent appreciation. “A nice girl is the worst distraction to a conversation. And, I missed something. What was your point?”
Marcel had no doubt that Raymond hadn’t missed a tiny bit of what he was saying. This was a manoeuvre to win time for finding the best answer. Marcel frowned.
“Don’t give me any bullshit. How much do you want for your services?”
“It’s negotiable. Let’s postpone this topic until I find something. In my practice, I’ve found that I can open the hearts and purses of my clients by telling them what particular information I have.”
“We have other sources of information, as well,” Marcel remarked. “Hurry up.”
Raymond smiled.
“I will. I know how to make my living.”
“Okay, then. We also need to know construction sites with explosives—where they stockpile them, possibly who is responsible for their safekeeping, who will take money in exchange for goods. But remember: The Iron Ghosts will be after this stuff about us as well.”
“I’ll do my best,” Raymond said. “Let’s keep our business confidential.”
“What do you mean?” Marcel raised his voice slightly, enough to intimidate any tough guy.
“None of your colleagues must know that you are dealing with me. You may trust them as much as you wish, but I don’t have to.”
“You don’t understand how the Devil’s Knights are organized. No one knows the business of others unless it is absolutely necessary. Everyone has his own people elsewhere. Don’t worry, nobody would know ab
out your existence. Let’s agree on places to meet and what we shall call them, as well as what kinds of messages you can leave on my pager, if need be.”
Raymond was nodding in acceptance of the instructions Marcel was giving him. When the lunch was over, he got up and put his hand in his pocket.
“Don’t bother,” Marcel dismissed him with a gesture of his hand. “I’ll foot the bill.”
“Thanks,” Raymond said. Within moments, he had disappeared into the crowd.
V
Leila picked up the phone. “Just a moment,” she said, and stretched it to Claude. When the voice on the other end of the line said a cool and polite, “Hello, Claude?” he snapped, “Yes.”
“Come at 2 o’clock to the Rodeo Bar and wait outside,” was the anonymous instruction. The line went dead. Claude knew where the Rodeo Bar was. He knew who wanted him.
“I have to go,” he said to Leila, dressing in a hurry. “Will be back at night.”
At exactly 2 o’clock, he was there. A car stopped in front of the bar. The driver motioned him to get in.
“Marcel is waiting for you,” a middle-aged man at the steering wheel said. “Let’s make sure that there’s no tail, and then I’ll take you to the restaurant where Marcel is waiting for you.”
“How’d yah know it was me?” Claude asked.
“I’ve a good description of yah,” explained the driver. He made a few sudden turns and eventually pulled the car to the edge of the road.
“Here,” he said. “Get out.” The driver led the way inside the restaurant and stopped by the table where a man with a protruding bony nose was sitting. Claude recognized him from photographs he had seen before. This was the legendary Marcel.
“Sit down.” Marcel pointed with a nod at the chair across the table. Claude obeyed, making the best effort to conceal his admiration for everything around—tall and nicely draped windows, high ceilings, polished mahogany, and sparkling crystal glass. He was turning his head, trying to understand what this luxury was needed for, but stopped short when he noticed Marcel watching him with an understanding smile. Marcel gave the driver a look, and he disappeared.
“Like the place?” asked Marcel. Claude nodded and pointed his finger to the piece of snow-white cone-shaped cloth on the table to his right.
“What’s this bloody rag for?” he asked.
“It’s a cloth napkin,” explained Marcel. “Now, look at the menu. Choose what you like. In the meantime, I want to talk business to you. Do you mind?”
“What d’yah want me to do?”
“Machete told me ’bout you and Trasher. Good job, but never again do anything without my command. Got it?” Marcel sighed. “I think you’d be able to take care of two Iron Ghosts.”
Marcel began, helping himself to a glass of red Italian wine.
“We know the restaurant they have been frequenting lately. We cannot get them anywhere other than this place. That is unfortunate. I don’t like a show of force in public places. But what am I supposed to do?” Marcel shrugged his shoulders and showed his palms, as if saying. “I give up. In spite of the best of my intentions, I have to kill them in public places.”
“You wanna shoot ’em?” asked Claude. Marcel nodded.
“There is no other way, I gather. Our people will contact you when these guys are there. Usually they spend more than an hour at a table.”
“How’d I recognize them?” Claude asked. Marcel took two photographs out of his breast pocket and placed them on the table in front of Claude.
“Do you know them?”
“No.”
Their waiter brought the steak Marcel had ordered, expressing with his posture the desire to serve and please. He took the white napkin off the table, unrolled it with a swift flap, and placed it on Marcel’s lap.
“Enjoy your meal, sir,” said the waiter.
“Fuck off,” Claude said to the waiter’s retreating back. He turned back to Marcel and swallowed nervously when he noticed Marcel’s disapproving and contemptuous grimace. Claude managed to force a feeble smile on his closed lips and looked into Marcel’s unblinking, frozen stare. A few butterflies fluttered their wings inside Claude’s stomach.
“A recent blast near our clubhouse was the deed of this one,” Marcel went on talking, while pointing a finger at one of the photographs. “We need to get him, to strike back as quickly as possible. Everyone should know how we respond. We are Devil’s Knights. That means something.”
Claude nodded contentedly. The waiter now brought his steak, placed the plate in front of him, spread his napkin on his knees, and retreated with the same “Enjoy your meal, sir,” comment. This time, Claude nodded “Thank you” and Marcel granted him a short smile. He liked how quickly Claude learned.
“I will give you $15,000 bucks for the deal,” continued Marcel. “Five thousand today and ten after it’s done. Seven thousand, five hundred for each head.”
The gleam in Claude’s eyes gave the proposal a wholehearted welcome. He cut an impressive piece of steak and shoved it into his mouth.
”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 h
e 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.