Messenger of Death

by Alex Markman

  “Be careful with her,” Stanley advised Shifter. “She could break a heart of steel.”

  Shifter responded with a condescending smile.

  “Leave it to me,” he said with a confidence of Don Juan.

  With an incessantly pounding heart, Camilla led the way to Stanley’s Jeep.

  “I haven’t asked your name, you beautiful filly, you,” Shifter said playfully as he tried to catch her arm.

  “You only need a ride, don’t you?” Camilla asked, evading his advances, and pressing the remote key button. The Jeep responded from a dark corner of the parking lot.

  She climbed into the driver’s seat and put the key in the ignition with her shaking hand. Shifter jumped into the passenger seat, and, smiling in the dark, playfully commanded, “Let’s go.”

  She didn’t move.

  “So, where exactly do you live? I know my neighbourhood pretty well,” he asked.

  “It doesn’t matter where I live,” Camilla cut him off.

  “Let’s go, sweetie. Move along! Don’t be afraid of me. You have a nice car, baby. Have a rich lover?”

  “I’m a working girl,” she said. “I have my own money.”

  “A working girl!” Shifter laughed. “I like those.” He was looking at Camilla, and she was looking at him. She saw what Shifter couldn’t see behind his back: two familiar figures moving briskly across the parking lot toward the car. Stanley jerked the door on the passenger side open and stepped aside. Ogre grabbed Shifter by his hair and pressed the barrel of a gun into his face.

  “Be quiet,” he said. Shifter froze, as if paralyzed. “You’ll do whatever I say, deadbeat—Understand?”

  Without waiting for a reply, Ogre took him by the collar, yanked him out, and pushed through the back door into the middle of the rear seat. Stanley went around the car and jumped in on the other side. Shifter, squeezed between two gangsters, didn’t utter a sound.

  “Go,” Stanley commanded.

  Camilla began driving, following his turn-by-turn directions. She didn’t know this part of town and had no idea where Stanley wanted to go. They entered a huge new housing development that didn’t yet have streetlights. Under the blinking stars the unfinished homes looked like ancient ruins.

  “What do you want from me, guys?” Shifter asked at last. “What do you want? Where are we going?”

  “Go a bit farther,” Stanley kept saying. “To the end of this street.”

  “Hey, guys.” Shifter’s voice began trembling. “Are you crazy?” He made an attempt to move. Camilla heard a dull sound. Shifter screamed.

  “Stop here,” Stanley instructed when she reached an unusually large, almost finished house. She obeyed. Stanley got out and in one sweep pulled the hostage out of the car. Ogre quickly came around. They took Shifter by the arms and dragged him into the black doorway. Camilla lowered the window. As in the grip of a nightmare, she listened to the agitated, muffled voices coming from inside, probably from the basement. She recognized Stanley’s angry voice, but couldn’t make out what he was saying. Next, a yell of pain shuddered the walls of the house; Shifter began shrieking words, very quick words. His speech kept getting faster and faster, as if he was suddenly in a great rush to tell something very important for his life. Soon, his words became unrecognizable streams, and his screams became intolerable. Camilla had heard this kind of sound in her childhood when her mother had taken her to a farm—the farmer’s son had been trying to kill a pig with his knife, but obviously lacked the skills and experience to do it quickly. At that time, she had thought it funny to listen to a desperately squealing animal with a knife in its body. This time, she covered her ears with both hands, but to no avail.

  Then, the revolting sound began growing weaker and weaker.

  Until it stopped.

  In a strange way, the silence that followed was even more frightening than the commotion that preceded it. She heard the rustle of steps inside the house, and a few moments later she noticed Stanley and Ogre appearing on the porch.

  “Give me the wheel.” Stanley pulled the driver’s door open as Camilla crawled over to the passenger seat. Ogre climbed into the rear. Stanley stepped on the gas.

  “Did you kill him?” Camilla whispered. Her vocal cords failed to produce a sound.

  “I told him that no human could tolerate torture for long. He didn’t believe me. It could’ve been much easier for him. The stupid ass! It wasn’t the best time for him to play a tough guy.”

  “Who was he?” Camilla asked.

  “A dealer. He worked with the Devil’s Knights.”

  “Take me back to the bar—,” she reminded him, “I left my car there.”

  Stanley nodded. They drove in silence all the way. When they pulled up beside her car, she stepped out without looking back.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Stanley said at the last moment.

  She didn’t respond.

  Back at home, she threw herself on the bed and closed her eyes. The terrifying, muffled shrieks of the tortured man rang in her ears. Her happy, adventurous world, saturated with love, interesting encounters, and the joy of being—all of a sudden had become a huge, horrific battleground, populated by monsters. The memory of a pig’s shriek—a call for mercy from a terrified, dying animal—caused spasms in her stomach. She rushed to the bathroom and bent over the toilet, vomiting violently. Exhausted, she went back to the bed and fell on it, unable to think, unable to feel anything but angst. She was in a stupor. Seeking refuge from the world, she hid her head under the pillows, and closed her eyes, but then the endless darkness became populated by the shadows of real-world savages and terrified her even more. She spent the whole night wandering between the fright of dreams and the horrors of reality. As morning neared, just as she finally grew exhausted and distanced enough to fall asleep, she heard the familiar sound of a key opening the lock of her door. When Stanley came in, she was already sitting up on the bed.

  “You didn’t sleep tonight,” he said gently, sitting beside her. She nodded her head in agreement and covered her face with both hands. Stanley put an arm on her shoulders.

  “Don’t be so upset,” he said. “You’re not in danger. If worse comes to worst, you won’t be involved.”

  “I can’t live like this anymore,” she said. “We have to split.”

  “Split?” he repeated.

  “Yes. I love you, Stanley, but your life isn’t for me. Finish with it and come back to me. I’d be the happiest woman in the world if you did.”

  After a short pause, he said, “Actually, it’s not a bad idea to split for awhile. There’s been a lot of heat on me lately. Let the dust settle, and we’ll talk later.”

  Stanley kissed her, but she didn’t respond. He rose to his feet and left.

  Chapter 5

  I

  “Here. Now, relax for awhile.” Marcel handed him a thick stack of money as payment for the last hit. “Stay low, but be ready. You deserved a rest.”

  “I feel good,” Claude objected. “No need to relax.”

  He wanted to work more so he could rent a condo in a better location and take a trip with Leila to Las Vegas. In spite of the good pay that Marcel provided, money was in short supply.

  “One has to have a rest once in awhile,” Marcel insisted. “Make it your habit. Stress will eventually take its toll. Don’t worry so much about work: there’s plenty.”

  A bit of rest wouldn’t be that bad, Claude admitted to himself. No matter what other people might think, contract hits, in his opinion, did take nerve. The target could easily become a hunter and shoot back; if the Iron Ghosts caught wind of him, they’d be after him the rest of his life; there was no way to know what evidence the police might find after a crime—he could be locked up for good. Twenty-five years in jail without a chance for parole would be a bitter pill to swallow.

  Leila welcomed the idea of a vacation with smiles and kisses.

  “Let’s travel on your bike,” she suggested. “I’ve had a few such trips
when I lived in B.C. They were fun!”

  Kicking the hell out of his mighty Harley Davidson, Claude made Leila scream and squeal on the rear seat. From the driver’s seat, he felt the warm air of late summer blowing in his face, smelled the aroma of the pine trees, and saw the fading freshness of the green leaves. They traveled through the rural part of the province where highways cut through dense expanses of forest. This was the area of summer cottages and vacation resorts, scattered on the shores of rivers and lakes. Sometimes it took them more than an hour to drive from one small village to another. In the rugged terrain, his bike could reach the top of a hill at 90 miles per hour. When he looked down, a breathtaking view of rivers and lakes spread out below him, with colorful dots of cottages and yachts that made him feel like he was flying in space. The unrestricted freedom to move in any direction was unreal and intoxicating.

  This was the first vacation in his life. Yet, even in the midst of all this wonder, he sometimes wanted to take immediate action without thought of consequences; to release brutal force; to unleash his sadistic temper at the slightest suspicion of disrespect from a stranger. Years at the bottom of society and in jail, where he had been treated with neglect and humiliation, made his pride the sorest spot of his being. Revenge against all humanity was the feeling that stayed inside him at all times.

  In the evenings though, sitting with Leila along the quiet shore of a secluded lake, he was peaceful and relaxed. They smoked pot, swam in refreshing lake waters, and enjoyed each other in their motel room. Leila knew too well how to please him to exhaustion.

  “What a good life,” Leila said once.

  “For a short while,” Claude nodded. “It’s getting boring, though. I already want to be back where the action is.”

  “I wanna piece of the action, too. Is there anything I can do for yah?”

  “Nah. Not, now. Maybe later.”

  “We spend your money pretty fast,” Leila warned. “I could push lots of stuff in the bars, if you’d let me.”

  “Never.”

  “Did you know we have only $500 left from what we brought with us?” she asked.

  “Shit. How—?”

  “You don’t count money when you spend it. It’s that simple.”

  “We have lots of money back home. But you’re right. Money goes fast. Let’s go back tomorrow morning. Maybe a job’s already waiting for me.”

  When they returned home, he found that nobody from the club was looking for him. Marcel had gone on vacation with his family and had left no instructions for Claude.

  He decided to visit the Devil’s Knights club, hoping that some of the full patches would need a gun for hire. Nobody did. In fact, a rumour was circulating that some of the bosses were secretly negotiating a truce with the Iron Ghosts. If that ever happened, Claude thought, he would be in deep shit: Contract killing was the only job he really liked to do. A truce with the Ghosts would mean fewer jobs and less money.

  In the evenings, he kept busy assembling his own crew for whatever might come up. He searched for former inmate pals, and made new acquaintances, as well. Most of his meetings were in bars, where he impressed his buddies with the rolls of cash he used to pay for drinks. Flattered by their respect, Claude nonetheless kept in mind that the purpose of these expenses was to understand who was who among them: who was reliable, who was not; who was good for something, who was good for nothing.

  By the end of the third week, his finances had been depleted more quickly than expected. He stared blankly out the window of their apartment, sitting at the table and drinking coffee. It was a late sunny morning at the beginning of September. The foliage was still green but had lost its luster of youth and vigor of growth. The fragrance of the approaching fall was in the air.

  “You don’t look happy today,” Leila observed. She was sitting across the table, looking at him with the anxious attention of a loving woman.

  “Very little left of my money.” Claude frowned. “I have to think what to do next.”

  “Let’s do something together,” Leila suggested.

  “Again this crap? Stop it. You get on my nerves.”

  “I can do many things,” Leila insisted. “I like doing things. It’s boring to do nothing.”

  “I’ve already heard that. What would you like to do? Dance?”

  “What’s wrong with that? If you like, I could sell coke. I’d find people who’d buy it from us.”

  The telephone rang. Still looking at Leila with wondering eyes, he picked up the receiver.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Can we meet today?” It was Stash.

  “Sure. Where and when?”

  “In my office,” Stash said. Claude smiled. What kind of damn office did this biker have?

  “Jot down the address,” Stash continued in a businesslike tone. “You’ll find me on the second floor.”

  The receiver clicked. Claude stood up and began to dress.

  “It seems that I won’t need your help for awhile. But we’ll get back to it later.”

  With very little effort, he found the 2-storey building at the address Stash had given him. A small plate above the door bore a sign: Business Center. Claude pushed the handle and stepped into a small hallway that had a desk placed by the wall. On the desk, an “Information” sign had been affixed. The man sitting behind it stared at Claude with a blank face, as if requesting an explanation for his intrusion.

  “May I help you?” he asked Claude, looking him up and down, as if ready to pick a fight.

  “My name is Claude.”

  “Oh, yes.” The tone of the information man changed at once. “Please proceed to the second floor, room 219.”

  Claude climbed the stairs and entered the corridor, which had a few doors on both sides. At the end, Stash stood waiting for him.

  Took two seconds for the security man to notify him, Claude thought.

  “Come in,” Stash invited. Dressed in a long-sleeved white shirt and well-ironed pants, he had the appearance of an eccentric businessman.

  “This is my office,” he said with a note of pride, letting Claude in. After closing the door, he settled into a chair at the large wooden desk. The surface was littered with papers, stationery, and plastic cups. Two large pictures, one with a winter landscape and another with a summer one, decorated the walls to the left and right. Behind Stash was a window that overlooked a backyard.

  “This building belongs to me,” Stash said. The pouches under his eyes were a bit smaller than they had been at the time of the midsummer party. “Most of it is leased to different companies. I took only two rooms at this end.”

  “What’s up?” asked Claude.

  “You forgot? I told you at the party that I have a collection agency. Remember? It is called ‘Comfort Collections.’ Most of my clients are very happy with the job we do.”

  “Yes, I remember. What do you want me to do?”

  “Let’s go out and talk it over. I like fresh air.”

  He pulled open a drawer, removed a small binder, stood up, and led the way out. They passed the information man, who gave them a nod of respect, and then went out to the street. After a short walk, they turned in to a small park with a few vacant benches. Stash sat on one of them and invited Claude to take the place beside him.

  “As I mentioned, you don’t use your hands until I say so,” he continued the interrupted conversation. “The client for whom you’ll do this job is a builder. He did fairly large renovations for a guy he trusted. But the deadbeat claims he can’t pay now. He’s been begging to postpone payments, but this crap has been going on for more than a year.”

  “How much does he owe?” Claude asked.

  “About eighty thousand bucks. We have fairly good information about his finances. He has about twenty-five grand in a retirement account, about ten grand in a margin account, a good car, and about a hundred grand in remaining equity in the house, if you subtract the mortgage from the average price in his area.”

  “How’d y
ah know all that?” Claude asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “It’s none of my business, though,” he rushed to add, as if apologizing for his out-of-place curiosity. Stash smiled contentedly.

  “We have people everywhere, even in financial businesses. Anyway, this guy had had plenty of money in his margin account, but lost almost everything in the stock market. He’s hoping that the stocks he holds will eventually appreciate in value. That’s fine. But my client wants his money. Going through the legal system is a rather lengthy and in most cases a useless procedure. We have to make him pay.”

  “Sure,” Claude nodded. “Will do.”

  “Now,” Stash continued. “His name is Toulouse. He works for the government. Has a nice wife and two kids. Here are a few papers, your business card, and photographs of his kids and wife.”

  Claude couldn’t help but smile.

  “Like it?” Stash asked.

  “Very much.”

  Stash spent another fifteen minutes with him, discussing some likely scenarios.

  “I can see that you pretty well understand what to do. Any questions, Claude?”

  “No.”

  “When do you want to start?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “Good luck.”

  II

  Claude liked the assignment. Scaring the shit out of people was one of his favorite passions. Being paid for it was a bonus. That evening, he met with two former inmates from the jail. They looked like bikers in poorly produced documentaries. He knew they weren’t worth anything—the stupid knuckleheads could only deal with people like themselves; they would no doubt run at any sign of real danger. But he also knew that these bums would kill their own mothers for a gram of coke. Both of them had bikes, cheap ones but good enough for his purposes.

  “Don’t touch the deadbeat,” he instructed them in the bar as he paid for their beers. “Just show up where I tell you when I give the signal. Two grams of coke, each, for that.”