by Alex Markman
The question was not necessary. Marcel always thought about what he was saying. He didn’t respond right away, which gave Stash an opportunity to continue.
“Look at the Italians. They never touch government officials. Even Lucky Luciano was against it. He was much opposed to fighting a full-scale war with the FBI. The Italians in Canada never did it, never even thought about it. Don’t you think there’s a reason?”
“There is,” agreed Marcel. “Our situation is different from theirs. They don’t control the streets. They make money from a rather small group of people, even if it is big money. They’re much smaller than us. They don’t grow in numbers. Mind you, as soon as any group grows in numbers, sooner or later it’ll reach the point when a political game on a large scale is inevitable. We have many more problems than the Italians. We have to control jails. We have to control streets, bars, and restaurants. We have to control the arms trade, the pot trade, across-the-border dealings, and tons of other businesses. Because of that, we have to influence politicians, the police, and jail guards. If our enemies control them, we are finished. If we can’t buy them off, we have to scare the shit out of them or shut them up. This is all-out war, guys. We’re still growing, and should plan to grow forever. But now, these fucking Iron Ghosts shuffle all our cards. It’s the first time in our history here in Canada that another group has appeared that we can’t cope with. This sets a bad example. They say to the whole world, ‘Fuck you, Devil’s Knights.’ Just staying alive, they kick us in the ass publicly.”
“We’ll try to find another solution,” Stash insisted. “I don’t like provoking the government. They might be slow, but when they go for something, they eventually get what they want.” Stash said this forcefully; he respected strength in any shape and form.
“I’ll do whatever you want,” said Marcel. “Just tell me what the solution is. But don’t give me any bullshit that you don’t know. In that case, I would do whatever I think is necessary. Okay?”
“You want Iron Ghosts to run this fuckin’ jail?” Machete asked Stash, losing his temper. “What would happen to you if you got put there tomorrow? Who would defend you? You’d surely ask Marcel to do something. If you happened to be alive, of course.”
Everyone was watching Stash in silence. At last he cleared his throat and looked to Marcel.
“What do you want from me?”
“You’ll have more work than all of us.” Marcel smiled in victory. “For sure, when everything goes down, there’ll be a lot of screaming in the newspapers, on the radio, and whatnot. The politicians and police will be pretty loud; every one of them will want to get credit for fighting the bikers. Some will make a career of us.”
“For sure,” Stash nodded.
“We’ll all support you. Now, guys, money matters. It gets costly, you know. Every member of our chapter has to contribute at least twenty grand for operations. Agreed?”
Everyone nodded. The bikers left the meeting one by one, watching each other’s tails for possible undercover police.
III
The ring of the phone blew away the last clouds of a lazy sleep. Stretching and yawning in the comfortable bed, Camilla let the answering machine do the talking—who the hell would be calling on Saturday morning at 11 o’clock, anyway? Now, she lingered under the warm blanket, wasting time.
The answering machine did not deter the stubborn caller; the phone was ringing again. It was probably Nick, she decided, yet another victim of her charm. He was a teacher at the medical school and had been mad about her for the last six months.
“I’m a natural blond,” she had informed him yesterday during a dance at a Latino club. “All over.” A short teasing laugh had escaped her lips. This had been in response to his remarks that natural blonds were rare these days. The scene had been too much for Nick, who raised his eyes to the ceiling and moaned. Camilla gently pulled his ear.
“Why do you like me, Nick?” she had asked. “I’m serious, I’m not playing with you. The fashion today is slimmer girls. Men are obsessed with them. There are a few very pretty ones around. Why me? You can’t count ribs on my body.”
“I’d love to try, though.” Nick had picked up the topic with enthusiasm. “Just give me a chance and I’ll be busy with this counting problem in all my spare time. Considering that I am poor at math, it may take my whole life to come up with the exact number.”
To look younger, he had removed his glasses and put them in his pocket. He’d made a great effort to read her reaction to his words.
“You are like the models of Renoir,” he had continued, squinting, which made him look menacing and ridiculous at the same time. “Don’t you think Renoir understood female beauty?”
“Renoir’s tastes run against a whole new generation of men,” she had advised, “and women, as well. I guess none of his models was on a vegetarian diet.”
He had returned her to her apartment at 3 o’clock in the morning and stopped his car in front of the entrance to her building.
“I want to be with you the rest of my life,” he had said.
“No, not with me.” Camilla had replied. “I’m not ready to tie the knot. I’m too young.” She had stopped short of saying, ‘and too good for you—a teacher at a medical school.’ What a bore to live with the rest of my life!”
Now, a bright beam of sunlight was streaming into her room through gaps in the blinds, tiny sparkling bits of dust dancing chaotically in it.
Camilla closed her eyes, trying to envision a picture of herself from above, in different positions, through the eyes of a lover, one of her choice. A burning sensation underneath the triangle of blond hair at the bottom of her stomach made her back arch and her arms stiffen above her head with clenched fists. She liked the lazy pace of her imagination in the mornings, enjoyed the fantasies of this habit. Everything was permissible in the world of fantasy—not in the real world, though, in which one had to be responsible.
Two minutes later, the telephone rang again, this time clearing her mind. Well, almost—she needed a cup of coffee to actually start a new, beautiful day. But first, she decided to pick up the phone. She sighed.
“Hello,” she mewed lazily.
“Still remember me?” the voice on the other end of the line asked.
Only one man in the world could convey the strength of his character in such a short sentence. Camilla sat up and jumped off the bed.
“Y-e-e-e-e-s!” she screamed, bells of delight ringing in her response.
“Stanley, darling. Where are you, you rascal? Why haven’t you called me for so long? Where did you disappear to?”
“I’ll explain it to you soon. I’m not far from you, in the coffee shop two blocks away.”
“What are you doing there?”
“I had a short meeting with someone.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour.” She was speaking very fast, and hung up without giving him the chance to say a word. She dressed in a hurry, consulting the mirror frequently. With one final look at her reflected image, she turned around, observing herself with merciless detachment. She looked good. She smiled.
On the way out, she noticed that the door to Shelly’s room was open. She wasn’t there. Early bird—Camilla thought with satisfaction. Good.
The street greeted her with the joyous hustle and bustle of an early summer day. She walked briskly toward the sun, taking in its energy and warmth. It was so nice. Oh, how beautiful and happy her life was!
There he was—sitting at a table on the sidewalk. Camilla ran straight into his arms, a familiar flame rising inside her. Although an enthusiastically kissing couple was not an unusual sight in St. Michel, everything has its limits, and, even here, such behaviour attracts an attention—everyone around began looking at them. Passersby smiled approvingly as Camilla impatiently pulled at Stanley’s T-shirt, raising it up and out of his jeans in search of his bare skin.
“I’m so happy to see you again,” she was saying, her mind racing. She ran her palms under his
shirt. “Where have you been all this time?”
“In the States.”
“Why didn’t you let me know?”
“I didn’t want you to wait for me. A guy never knows what might happen to him on such a mission. But I am here, now. Do you mind going to my place?”
“No, but let’s go to mine. My roommate has gone, I hope, for the whole day. You can tell me the story there.”
Holding each other, they began walking toward her apartment. While looking at his face, she almost fell, stepping off the edge of the road, but Stanley firmly caught her and lifted her into the air.
“Sorry. I’m so excited I didn’t watch where I was going,” she said with an apologetic note.
“You don’t have to,” Stanley said laughing. “I’ll take care of you.”
They spent the next few hours in tireless, almost angry lovemaking. As dusk settled, Stanley picked up his pants from the floor, fished out a pack of cigarettes, lit one up, and took a deep drag.
“We have to go,” Camilla said, looking at him with fond eyes. “My roommate may come back any minute. Shelly and I agreed to not entertain boyfriends here.”
“Fair enough,” nodded Stanley. “I’ll find an apartment for you soon.”
“I can’t afford an apartment of my own. In a few months, after graduation, I’ll get a job, and then I’ll make enough money to pay for it.”
“You don’t have to,” Stanley smiled. “I’ll foot the bill.”
“Why don’t we . . . ”
“What?”
“Why don’t we live together? It would be cheaper.”
“No, that wouldn’t be as good as you think.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t explain it right now. You’ll understand later.” He noticed her disappointment. “I like you so much, Camilla. Truly. I’ll do anything for you. You gave a new meaning to my life. Maybe I’ll leave my club and do something else for a living. Trust me.”
Camilla kissed him and smiled.
“By the way, next Thursday we’re having a big party at our clubhouse. Would you like to go with me?”
“I’d love to!” She accepted the invitation quickly. “I’ve never been in a biker’s club.”
“Good. Now, let’s go to my house. I can’t think of spending the night without you.”
“Me, neither!” Camilla pulled his hair in passion. “Hold your breath, rascal. It’s not gonna be an easy night for you!”
They went out hand-in-hand, into the last glimmer of the day. The sun, a large red disk dropping behind a jagged line of tall buildings, shone in a futile attempt to fend off the encroaching dusk. Cars with lights on passed them by.
“Here’s my car.” He matter-of-factly pointed to a small Mercedes, parked near a meter by the roadside.
“Ni-i-i-ice,” Camilla sang, but Stanley stopped suddenly, holding her beside him.
“Please, wait here a minute.”
“Why?”
“Please.” He looked around, as if trying to detect something suspicious, and then went up to the car and pressed the unlock button on the remote control. The car greeted him with flashing lights. He got in, turned the engine on, and lowered the window on the passenger side.
“Come on in,” he invited, leaning back.
“What’s this all about?” Camilla asked, opening the door and climbing into the passenger seat.
“Habit. Nothing else,” Stanley explained. His car moved forward, like a powerful, obedient horse.
“Careful,” Camilla laughed, as she was thrown against him during a sharp turn. She locked her arms around his neck.
“Tell me more about yourself, tough guy.” She kissed him. “I don’t know much about you. Tell me about your parents.”
“Working-class people. They live in Halifax. As far as I remember, they’ve always been poor. I hated poverty. I finished high school, but that’s all my education. I began making money when I was a student. Quite a bit, I should say.”
“All in drugs?” Camilla guessed.
“Not all. As I said before, I have a muffler shop. It makes good money. I have some other businesses, too.”
“Why do you need the Iron Ghosts club then?”
“It’s interrelated—hard to explain. You’ll understand later. Let’s talk about something else. Tonight is just for us.”
IV
Camilla was trembling with curiosity to see the biker’s club. She had read plenty of newspaper articles lately about these almighty gangs, fearing no one, intimidating all. Journalists had been talking a lot about how their power and influence seemed to be increasing, as well as how the police department seemed unable to cope with them. Camilla had not, however, seen anything that frightening. With Stanley, she felt very safe; who, after all, would threaten such a powerful man? He seemed smart enough not to endanger his life, nor to harm anyone without a specific reason.
When he came to pick her up, she felt nothing but pleasant excitement. On the way to the club, when the car stopped at traffic lights, they exchanged smiles and occasional kisses.
“Please don’t close your eyes when I kiss you,” she said.
They entered a quiet street.
“Never mind, we’re here,” Stanley said. His sleek Mercedes rolled up to a sliding gate that was built into a fence, which ran from both sides of a weird two-story building. There was no entrance door on its front, but nothing else could be seen through the tall, brick fence. The gate began its slow slide to the right, giving way to a large parking lot. Only three cars were inside; the remaining space was taken up by shiny Harley Davidsons. A man in a biker’s vest waved Stanley to a vacant spot. Camilla noticed two Rottweilers running along the inside of the fence. They were on leashes attached to a cable by a metal ring, which limited their movement to a narrow path along the fence.
Zigzagging her way between motorcycles, Camilla noticed the entrance to the building. It faced the parking lot, where a back door was supposed to be. Stanley led her inside, through a small lobby and into a spacious hall with a long bar along the opposite wall. The crowd around it sent up a roaring cheer when Stanley appeared at the entrance. A man in his middle forties, with a neatly groomed beard and short hair, blocked their way. His well-fitting blue shirt and pants emphasized his athletic shape.
“This is our president, Willy,” Stanley said, and then, turning to Willy, he added, “This is Camilla.”
“So, here she is,” Willy nodded. “I’ve heard about you.”
He shook Camilla’s hand with a rather strange look on his face: His lips stretched in an inviting smile, but they contrasted with frozen, suspicious, piercing blue eyes. A moment later, the wrinkles on his forehead smoothed out when his eyes took a quick rollercoaster ride on the feminine curves of her body.
“Have fun,” he said to her, waving his hand toward the bar. “We have plenty of everything.” He gave Stanley a brief hug and winked at him in recognition of his choice of girlfriend. Stanley led Camilla through a short corridor to another spacious hall. This one held plenty of cozy chairs and coffee tables, mostly arranged along its walls. All of them had been taken, but one was vacated as soon as Stanley stopped by.
“It’s a weird place,” Camilla said.
“Why?”
“All windows face the parking lot; none look out on the street.”
“There is another set of rooms, whose windows face the street,” Stanley said. “You have to go through that door to get there. But the door is locked.”
“Why?”
“Just a precaution.”
“Precaution against what?”
“Never mind. What would you like to drink?”
“What do you have?”
“Everything.”
“Baileys, then.”
“Just a sec. I will be right back.” When Stanley left for the drinks, she listened to the crowd. Splashes of laughter and agitated shouts soared from time to time above the murmur of many conversations. She decided to sit down and look around.
A few guys had the unpleasant look of hoodlums, but the majority appeared to be quite normal people. She wouldn’t have singled any one of them out as a suspicious or unwelcome guest at one of her medical school parties. Four men wore formal biker vests, with patches on the back showing all the insignia of their club. Women hustled about, drinking and smiling, talking with men nearby, excited by the very fact that they were there. Some of them seemed very young, eighteen or even less, and wore vulgar, tasteless, makeup and clothes; they appeared to belong to a lower social class. On the street, Camilla would have taken them for whores.
A huge man stopped momentarily near her table, holding a bottle of beer in his hand. He wore a vest with biker gang patches. His arms, bare to his shoulders and thick with bulging muscles, had been densely decorated with bluish tattoos, which filled up all the available space. Long, untidy hair fell onto his shoulders; a beard hid his throat. He was smiling, but his unfriendly eyes made him look like a “typical” biker from a movie. He made his way toward a petite woman; the length of her miniskirt was not enough to hide her bikini underwear.
“Harry,” he introduced himself. The woman giggled.
“I’d love to be taken for a ride,” she said, wiggling her hips.
“I’ll take you,” promised the biker and put his huge hand on her buttocks to finalize their deal.
“Oh, Gary, you always cheat me,” the woman said, her backside swaying in the hand of a man she was meeting for the first time in her life. She was already drunk; her lips moved slowly, as if frozen by anaesthetic at a dentist’s office.
“Harry. My name is Harry,” corrected the biker, kneading her behind like a piece of dough.
“Right. That’s what I thought.”
Harry produced a pack of Marlboros and pulled out a cigarette.
“D’yah mind if I give yah something in yah mouth?” he asked, pushing the cigarette filter between her thickly painted lips.
“M-m-m-m.” The woman chuckled. Her lips parted, opening for the cigarette. “Ha, ha. You’re funny, Terry.”