by Alex Markman
“On the house.”
“Thank you.” Having said that, Raymond left.
In a short while, another visitor came in. This was a tall, very fat man in his late forties, with short, neatly groomed hair. His round blue eyes were fixed above puffy cheeks and appeared to observe everything with constant surprise. He was dressed in a seemingly expensive dark blue suit and walked with the self-assurance and composure of someone who knew his worth and power.
Marcel exchanged quick glances with his bodyguards to signal them to relax.
“Good afternoon, Norman,” Marcel greeted the newcomer and, after shaking hands, pointed at the menu. “Would you like to order something?”
“No, thanks,” Norman said, rolling his eyes. “Just coffee.”
“You’ve changed quite a bit lately,” Marcel noticed with a smile. “The biker life was better for you. How far back was it? Ten years, or so?”
“Close to that.” Norman returned an agreeable smile in appreciation of Marcel’s fond memory. “The biker life was not for me. But you know the other reason, Marcel: I didn’t want to be on the police radar screen. You can’t continually be in the spotlight and outsmart the police forever.”
“Right you are. But you know as well as I do that publicity is exactly what so often protects us. Anyway, you left the club as a member in good standing. There are still a few among us who recall you with respect.”
Norman raised his eyebrows and looked out the small window. “How is business?” he asked.
“My traffic crew has assembled 15 units for you. You’ll get them next week.”
One of the gangs that Marcel controlled specialized in the car business. This was the “traffic crew.” Part of their activity was theft: They stole cars in Quebec and Ontario that were sold overseas or disassembled into parts and supplied to legitimate enterprises. Their other activity was money laundering: They bought cars with cash and sold them to dealers, who in turn sold them in the U.S. market. Norman was the owner of a larger dealership to which Marcel supplied his merchandise. The two seldom met personally—only if there was a compelling reason for it.
“Good, good,” Norman said, apparently in deep thought.
“Something is bothering you, I gather,” Marcel remarked. “What’s up?”
Norman squeezed his hands, fingers intertwined in a nervous grip.
“I have a problem with my wife. You know, the girl I married two years ago.”
“Yes, I remember. She was twenty-two then. People say she’s very pretty. Cheating on you?”
“If only that. No, she wants half of my assets—as a separation settlement.”
“What a bitch.”
Norman sat quietly for a moment.
“Do you have a man who could do a really good job, Marcel?”
“Yes, I do. When do you wish to meet him?”
“Anytime. The sooner, the better.”
“Okay. Let’s talk about other business for awhile. In the meantime, I’ll call the waitress to bring you some coffee. Want some wine? No? Coffee, then. They make a good cup here.”
II
The furniture store made her cheeks rosy. Without taking her eyes off a piece, Leila asked, “How much can we spend here?”
“Five grand,” Claude said casually, as if such an expense was a matter of everyday life.
“Ouch! I want this one!”
Claude’s cell phone began playing music. He raised it to his ear and said, “Hello.”
“Hi. Is number seven at one okay?”
Marcel wanted him at number seven—the Golden Griddle restaurant, located downtown. Claude looked at his watch. It showed quarter past twelve. He took Leila by the waist.
“I’ve gotta go. Here’s the money.” He slipped a sizable roll of cash into her bag.
“No-o-o,” was her response.
“Buy whatever you want. Arrange delivery. Take a taxi home.”
At 1 o’clock, he found Marcel in a distant corner of the restaurant, sitting alone at an empty table.
“Something urgent?” Claude asked, taking a place beside him from which he could scan the whole space as well.
“Yes.”
The waitress came and placed two glasses of cold water on the table.
“Ready to order, gentlemen?” she asked.
After she had taken their orders and left, Marcel turned to Claude and established eye contact with him. Marcel had done this the last time before starting a business talk. Claude already knew this meant good pay for a death sentence for someone.
“A job.” Marcel diverted his attention to the glass. “Someone who was a Devil’s Knight about ten years ago got into a rather big business and left the club. Not everything he does is clean and saintly. But mostly, it is a legal business.”
“Uh-uh,” Claude uttered, as Marcel stopped talking.
“Yah, legitimate business,” continued Marcel, with a note of contempt. “Anyway, he’s developed some problems with his wife. A rather easy job for you, isn’t it?”
Claude nodded and raised his eyes.
“Tell me more.”
“Okay. Ten grand. Mind you, it’s good money, given that he’ll cooperate with you.”
“Sure.”
“He needs someone who could do a truly clean job. No shooting, no bloody spectacle in public. Not even a tiny trace of evidence can be left for the police. I recommended you.”
“How’d yah want me to do the job?” Claude asked.
“It’s up to you to decide. I’m not gonna give you instructions. Discuss it with him. His name is Norman. He works downtown, so it would be convenient for him to meet you in one of the restaurants there during his lunchtime.
“Sure.”
“Do you want him to bring a picture of his wife?” asked Marcel.
“Not necessary.”
“Sure?” Marcel raised his eyebrows.
“Not necessary,” repeated Claude.
“How do you . . . ? Never mind. It’s your business.”
The waitress came and placed dishes in front of each one. “Enjoy your meals.”
Claude took up his knife and fork the same way Marcel did. He cut a piece of meat and noticed with satisfaction Marcel’s quick glance, a mixture of surprise and approval.
“I know it’s not my business, but why does he want to…? Insurance money or something?”
“There’s nothing wrong with you wanting to know some details,” Marcel said. “Two years ago, he married a broad much younger than he was. She is now about twenty-four. Anyway, she married for money—that was no secret. But soon after, she began fucking someone she had known before. Norman didn’t want to make a big deal of it; he wasn’t a saint himself. But now this bitch demands half of his property for her agreeing to a divorce. Otherwise, she’s threatening to tell the police about some of his dealings. The stupid broad has no idea what she’s getting into.”
“Let me know where and how we should meet.” Claude wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I’ll take care of her.”
“You must be in Movenpick restaurant tomorrow at 1 o’clock. Look for a big, fat guy in a gray suit and blue tie. You won’t mistake him for anyone else. He’ll be alone at a table. Ask him, ‘Any seat available?’ He’ll respond, ‘Just one.’”
The next day exactly at 1 o’clock, Claude entered the restaurant. In an instant, he noticed a big man—close to fifty years old, well dressed and groomed—sitting by the window. He seemed to recognize Claude and then turned his attention back to the menu.
“Any seat available?” Claude asked, looking at the pale blue tie. Everything on this man looked expensive: gray suit, white shirt, diamond ring, and thick, gold Rolex.
“Just one.” Norman nodded to the chair at his right.
“It wasn’t hard to find you here,” Claude said, taking the chair.
“Yah. No problem with you, either. Marcel gave me a good description of you. I’d suggest—may I?—that you wear a long-sleeved shirt for such meetings. The tattoos on
your arms make you stand out. What would you like to eat?”
Claude opened a menu, studying Norman from the corner of his eye. The man looked quite respectable, as he was supposed to, according to his status. But there was something, not explainable in words, that only people in the underworld could recognize: This was a very tough guy, a wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing.
“What’s your wife’s name?” Claude asked, not looking at him.
“Brigitte. Why do you need her name?”
“You want a clean job, don’t you? Let me take care of everything my way.”
Norman shrugged his shoulders.
“As you wish.”
They stopped talking when a waitress came to take their orders. After she left, Claude resumed the conversation.
“Let me do the job this-coming Saturday. On Friday, you’ll tell her that you’ve got to go away on urgent business somewhere. Tell her that one of your business buddies whose name is Bruce—she doesn’t have to know my real name—will be coming by to pay a debt. Ask her to count the money she gets before accepting it. Okay?”
Norman responded with a trace of a smile, a glow of appreciation softening his eyes.
“There’s pretty tight security at the entrance to our condo,” he warned.
“Let me deal with that. But give me some advance money. I’ll need her to start counting.”
Norman looked inquisitively at Claude, but not for long. Even for a former biker, it was not easy to contest the stare of a killer.
“Here’s what we’ll do,” suggested Norman. “Today I’ll give you five grand. In my apartment, go to the bedroom where I have my home office. In the top drawer of the desk there’ll be an envelope with another five. Fair?”
“Good,” nodded Claude. Indeed, he thought. After the broad is done with, I’ll get the balance. Smart, good . . . Norman.
Norman plunged his hands into his large suitcase, manipulating something in its depths. Finally, he produced a thickly stuffed envelope.
“Here is the five,” he said, holding the envelope under the table. “Take it.”
He was glancing stealthily around. Claude quickly took the envelope and stashed it in a pocket.
“Thanks.”
“Something else,” Norman said. “She has some jewelry at home. Take it. It’s a bonus for you. Let’s make it look like a robbery. I don’t need that crap anymore.”
Claude couldn’t wait until lunch was over.
“I’ve gotta go,” he said, throwing his cloth napkin on the table. “Gimme your address, phone number, and a spare key from your apartment. Just in case.”
Norman nodded in agreement. He produced a notebook from his suitcase, scribbled the address on a piece of paper, detached a key from a key chain, and handed it over to Claude.
“Good luck,” he said.
Life is good, Claude thought on the way out, elated by a fat down payment from Norman. Driving home, he fancied Leila, her joyful surprise at the sight of the money, her smiling lips and white teeth.
The first step over the threshold of his apartment brought him from one fantasy world to another, the kind that existed, he believed, only in glossy magazines.
New furniture, affordable only to the wealthy—he had become one of them—was thoughtfully arranged in the room in a harmony of colors, convenience, and space. Leila had bought a shiny dinner table with four chairs, a dark wood and glass coffee table, and an entertainment center that included a television set, radio, and CD player. Semi-transparent curtains, hanging from the top of the window down to the floor in smooth vertical folds, dimmed the bright light of the sun. Pleasing music filled the room, and in the middle stood Leila, his beautiful Leila, in a light summer dress. If paradise ever existed, it must be this room. Never before had he had such a home. Never before had he had a woman waiting for him to share with him the joy of life.
“Wow,” he growled.
“Like it?”
“Very. Who fixed the curtains?”
“The superintendent. I gave him fifty bucks. He helped me a lot. Where have you been so long?”
“Business.”
“Was it good?”
Claude pulled out a thick envelope and threw it on the sofa. It opened up and money slid out. Leila giggled, jumped like a kid, and threw herself into his arms. Claude felt the irresistible urge to please this woman more.
“What would you like, what do you want?” he asked. “I can buy you anything. More money is coming.”
“I need to buy some dresses. Some jewellery.”
“Good. I need some good clothes, too. Next Saturday I have another business meeting, from which I’ll bring more money. But for now, take off what you have on.”
Leila began to undress, taking her time and demonstrating the techniques she had learned as a stripper.
III
Saturday morning arrived, and Claude looked in the mirror, observing his new clothes. Selected with Leila’s discriminating taste, he thought that he looked like a decent young man from a middle-class family. His dark gray shirt, made of fine cotton, had long sleeves, concealing the tattoos on his forearms. Black, casual but dressy pants, pleated in the latest fashion, were a good fit for his tall figure. Finishing the ensemble were shiny black shoes, sturdy as well as comfortable. In addition to his new wardrobe, a friendly smile looked back at him, a final touch to his new image. Everything in the mirror was to his liking. A successful man in his trade, he thought, must be a good actor. If people took him for what he was, he would never go too far.
“You’re dressed more for a date than for a business meeting,” Leila said, flapping her sleepy eyelids.
“Dates never happen this early,” Claude remarked, looking at his new wristwatch. “Nine o’clock. Time to go.”
“Don’t be too late,” Leila pleaded mockingly in the tone of a small, spoiled girl. “I don’t like to be alone for long.”
“It won’t take much time,” Claude promised.
“Maybe I could help you?” she asked.
Claude laughed.
“My job is not for girls.”
Leila gave him a kiss in the air.
Driving to the other end of the city, where Norman’s condo was, he rolled the car windows down to let in some of the morning’s fresh, crisp air. The hour was early enough; very few cars were on the road. Many people had probably left for their weekend destinations, whereas compulsive shoppers had not yet awakened. Contrary to the peaceful look of the streets, his anxiety grew. Even a tiny mistake could be fatal, or worse—for this kind of murder, he could get life in jail, with no chance of parole. He had to respond to any unexpected circumstances instantly and make the right decisions.
Claude turned into the parking lot of a plaza across the road from Norman’s condo. He found many vacant spots, but chose to park his Honda in the place closest to the exit. He walked between the cars and went inside the plaza, where it was cooler. Very few people were around. Claude went to the public phone, looked around, drew a scrap of paper from his pocket, and dialled the scribbled number. After the third ring, a gentle voice answered, “Hello.”
“Hi. Is Norman at home?” His voice was unusually soft.
“No. He’s in Toronto. Who’s asking?”
“My name is Bruce. I have to repay a debt to him. He promised to be home at this time.”
“Yes. He told me about you. He asked me to take care of this. Do you know where we live?”
Her voice was mellow and sweet, like an angel’s.
“Yes, I do. Is there anyone else there?”
“No.”
“Am I too early?”
“Never mind. It’s time to get up. I’m a night bird, you know. Sometimes I sleep well into the afternoon.”
“Good. See you soon.”
“Hold on. When you come in, you’ll see a phone with a display in the entrance lobby to your right. It’s across from the security guard—you’ll see him behind the glass. Use the arrows on the dialling pad to scroll up or down
to find Norman’s name, and then press the large button. I’ll unlock the door and let you in. We’re on the seventeenth floor, number 1703. Got it?”
“Sure,” Claude said and hung up. Just then, he realized that Norman had not told him his last name.
Claude was trying to prepare as much as possible for any unforeseen circumstances. How crowded would the entrance be? Would there be video cameras in the staircases and emergency exits? Would the security guard be at his post? Claude had to sneak into the building unnoticed, without exposing his face to anyone. This time he had to work without a ski mask.
The 25-story building towered like a grim, silent giant above the private houses that surrounded it. It was a very expensive condo, whose tenants did not rush around settling day-to-day matters. The entrance was at the back of the building. With no pedestrians in sight for cover, approaching the front door without being noticed would be impossible.
Luckily, there was a tiny park, which Claude could use as an observation point, farther down a side street. Sitting on a bench there, almost hidden by dense bushes, he watched for human traffic. Nobody came in or went out. A few minutes passed; tension grew inside him.
Claude couldn’t afford to wait too long. When an elderly woman with a few shopping bags in her hands appeared on the sidewalk leading to the entrance, Claude saw his chance. He walked briskly and caught up with her at the door.
“May I help you, ma’am?” he asked and took one of her bags.
“Oh, thank you,” said the lady, squinting her eyes as people with very poor vision do. The bag indeed might have been a bit heavy for her. Through the glass door, he caught a glimpse of the uniformed man, busy shuffling papers at his desk. Claude stepped in ahead of the old woman, positioning his back to the security guard. There was another door that the woman would have to open with her key. Between the doors, attached to the wall across from the guard, stood the useless phone system.
“It’s my pleasure to help you,” Claude said gallantly, letting her in. “After all, we are neighbors, aren’t we?”
“Thanks a lot,” the old lady said, opening the second door with her key. Claude threw a quick glance at the security guard. He was still busy with his papers. Apparently, two people chatting calmly at the entrance, who had a key to the door, did not arouse his suspicions. Claude went on, supporting his conversation as much as possible.