Messenger of Death

by Alex Markman

  “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 trainin
g 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?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” Marcel took a pack of money out of his pocket and handed it over to Claude.

  “Here it is. Go back alone. I will go a different way. Have fun.”

  VII

  As the feeble light of a November morning crawled through the half-closed shutters, Claude sneaked out of the sofa bed, put a pile of money on the table, and got back to where warm, soft, and tender Leila was sleeping. Feeling his arm around her, she moved closer, still in deep sleep. He was lying motionless, waiting patiently, looking at her parted lips and closed eyes. Soon her lashes trembled and she woke up.

  “Morning,” she whispered, still in the grips of sweet dreams. Claude smiled and pushed a thick wisp of hair off her forehead. She kissed him, raised to her knees, and stretched. The first glance at the table made her utter a joyful cry.

  “Wow! This will make for good shopping!”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “How much may I take off the pile?”

  “Take it all.”

  “Kiddn’ me?”

  “Nope. Take it.”

  She hopped on him and jumped a few times, as if riding a horse.

  “Should we buy new furniture?” she asked.

  “Anything.”

  “Love you. Sweet boy. We need some clothes. I wanna buy something for you, too. Handsome guy, but dresses like a peasant.”

  “Good idea,” he agreed, although a much better plan preoccupied him at that moment. There was a bar, which was so far nobody’s territory. It would be nice to meet there with Trasher and show off his riches. Let Trasher guess who did the hit—the hottest media topic of the week. Every gangster wants fame and recognition more than money. He picked up the phone and dialled.

  “Hello,” rasped Trasher at the other end of the line.

  “Can we meet at the Brussel bar today?” asked Claude.

  “M–m–m. When?”

  “At three.”

  “Okay. Somtn’ important?”

  “Not much. Jus . . . I’m gonna be at the plaza there, while Leila shops. We can talk.”

  “Sure.”

  At the plaza, Leila changed her plan. It was the furniture store that distracted her attention.

  “Let’s buy a bed,” she suggested. “Ours is completely ruined, partly through your efforts.”

  Claude smiled and gave her a friendly, gentle, and loving tap with his fist.

  “You worked hard as well to deserve it,” he said. “Choose whatever you like, and arrange the delivery with the store. After that, go to Holt Renfrew. I’ll meet you there.”

  “You are leaving me alone?” she exclaimed capriciously.

  “I have to meet Trasher at the bar. It won’t take long.”

  Claude found him sitting at the table with a glass of beer.

  “Your hit?” he asked, when Claude took a chair.

  “Wanna drink somtn’ better?” asked Claude. “My treat.”

  “Nah. Maybe later. Doing well?”

  “Not bad.”

  They sat in silence, and when a double shot of Scotch was served for Claude, they drank, exchanging meaningless remarks. Suddenly a tight knot squeezed Claude’s stomach.

  “What’s wrong?” Trasher asked, throwing suspicious glances around.

  “Turn back, but very slowly. There is a skinny guy at the bar stand.”

  “Yes. I see.”

  “That is Stanley, the big shot at Iron Ghosts. Marcel showed me his photograph.”

  “Do you have a piece with you?” asked Trasher.

  “Nothing.”

  “Me neither. But don’t you worry. One blow of this hand,” he showed his large, hairy fist, “will break his neck.”

  “I’ll do it,” Claude said. “See, he’s skinny like a starving horse. I’ll break his jaw with one punch.”

  “Don’t,” insisted Trasher. “Stay as a cover, in case he’s not alone.”

  “He noticed us,” Claude warned.

  “You see, it’s even better for you not to move while I approach him.”

  Trasher stood up and walked, looking in the opposite direction, as if Stanley was of no interest to him. For a split second, Claude froze in horrific amazement. Stanley dove under Trasher’s assaulting hand, which was supposed to have dealt a devastating blow, but missed. Trasher took an expert punch in the jaw. While he was off balance, Stanley grabbed his jacket and threw him backward. Trasher’s head hit the bar stand with the sound of crushed bones; his lifeless body fell on the floor.

  Claude rushed toward Stanley. This time, though, he had bad luck: Stanley’s fist stopped him. It was the punch of an expert boxer, too fast to avoid, too hard to withstand. With lightning speed, Stanley’s left hook landed under Claude’s right rib, near the liver. A wrenching spasm of pain gripped Claude’s body from head to toe. He bent over and got another blow, this time in the jaw, very accurate as well, but not as painful, although his brain almost stopped working. With inhuman effort, motivated by intense hatred and an insane rejection of defeat, Claude darted forward and clutched Stanley, like a wrestler. A few moments of wrestling gave him a break. The acute pain subsided; his sadistic rage and energy returned. He did not manage to do much, though. With a powerful twist, Stanley threw him against the bar counter. Claude felt terrible pain again, but this time at the back of his head. Blood was now running down his face and body. Claude groped forward only to encounter another blow, which, it seemed, crushed everything inside his skull. He fell to his knees, hands planted on the tile floor, spitting thick, red saliva and crumbs of broken teeth. With the detached curiosity of an outsider, he saw a tiny dark stream pouring from his face into a growing dark puddle on the floor.

  “This is the end,” he said to himself. This thought did not frighten him, but the sour feeling of defeat, mixed with the greasy flow of blood, gave him a bad taste in his mouth.

  To his surprise, the beating stopped. Somebody lifted him and placed him on a chair. He raised his head. Two cops stood in front of him, observing him with apparent hostility.

  “What happened?” asked one of them. Claude shrugged his shoulders. A few steps away another cop was helping Trasher; blood was streaming from a wound at the back of Trasher’s head, but he was still alive. Stanley was nowhere to be seen.

  “I will get you, Stanley,” Claude said to himself.

  Chapter 2

  I

  Camilla thought of herself as an extraordinary, exceptional girl, although nothing in her biography had so far been remarkable enough to defend such an inordinate notion. She was tall, blonde, and pretty, with an artistic look. She had wits and a good sense of humour, but an actress, she was not. Instead, she was on the last leg of her studies to become a registered nurse. At twenty years of age, she had already had a few lovers, all of whom she’d left behind with broken hearts. These affairs would have been of interest to her close friends and admirers, but they were not significant enough for any biographer to record. Her fate, however, was about to tak
e an unpredictable twist.

  The day was overcast, as many were in January 1996. Camilla was standing in line to board a chairlift at the Mont Tremblant ski resort. Over her shoulders, she wore a backpack with a colourful patch that read “McMichaels School of Nursing.” Next to her was her closest friend and roommate Shelly—a petite, sweet little woman with large, dark eyes like those of a defenceless gazelle. Though Shelly was a student at the art institute, her goal was a successful marriage, not a career in the arts. To that effect, she considered every male who approached her to be a potential groom.

  The long line of skiers was advancing slowly toward the chairlift. Just outside the boundaries of the stretched ropes stood a man talking on a cell phone. Camilla gave him a quick look.

  Not bad, she thought. Like Shelly, and most young women, she loved to flirt. Usually, men accepted her advances gladly, but this one stared right through her, as if she did not exist, and said something into his cell phone. Camilla could not make out the words, in spite of his close proximity. As the line moved forward and she passed by, she noticed a small scar under his left jaw and cold, ruthless rage in his eyes. She dropped her game and resumed talking with Shelly.

  The girls were getting very close to a four-seat bench on the chairlift when Camilla heard indignant, irritated voices behind them.

  “You have to stay in line like everyone else, sir,” a man was saying, reprimanding someone rather angrily.

  “Next time—,” she heard. Presumably, this was the response of the man to whom the reprimand had been directed. “I promise.”

  “Outrageous,” a woman’s voice proclaimed solemnly.

  “I will change for the better, ma’am, I swear,” promised the voice.

  “Stop him!” the woman demanded. Nobody obeyed her command.

  “This would be my last run today, ma’am,” the man said. That was easy to promise because the chairlift was shutting down in ten minutes.