Messenger of Death

by Alex Markman

  They gasped and begged Claude for another beer, which he ordered at once.

  “Don’t be even one minute late,” he warned.

  The next day began with a clear sky, sunshine, and the peculiar freshness of approaching fall. At 6 o’clock in the morning, the roads were almost empty and he quickly cruised toward their rendezvous. When he turned into the neighbourhood where Toulouse lived, he found the two men waiting behind the community tennis courts. They were sitting on the grass and smoking cigarettes. Their bikes stood by the curb.

  “When I rub my ear, like this, pull up to where I am,” he told them.

  “Sure,” they said together. Their faces were solemn, as if they were serious businessmen on an important errand.

  Toulouse lived in a large house with a two-car garage and a driveway that could accommodate up to four cars. The Infinity Stash had described was parked there. Claude placed his Honda right behind it, lowered the window, and lit a cigarette. He knew that it would be at least an hour until Toulouse came out, but he preferred waiting to missing the client.

  At 8 o’clock, a man with a leather briefcase came out of the house. Claude recognized him by the description and photograph that Stash had supplied. He was tall, with the figure of an athlete, a commanding posture, and a bossy hardness in his eyes. He noticed the shabby Honda behind his car and moved toward it with resolute steps.

  “Hey,” he exclaimed in a sharp voice. “What’re you doing here?”

  Claude opened the door and stepped out. He greeted Toulouse with the most menacing smile he was capable of.

  “Are you Toulouse?” he asked, and moved so close that Toulouse had to step back to distance himself.

  “Yes. What’s the matter?”

  Claude noticed a small sign of fear on Toulouse’s large face. His look became strained but retained bits of broken self-assuredness.

  “I’m from a collection agency,” Claude introduced himself. “My name is Bruce.”

  “Oh?”

  “We’ve sent you a few reminders to pay on a debt,” Claude continued. “But it seems you didn’t even care to reply.”

  Toulouse quickly regained control of himself. Claude had anticipated that.

  “Listen, Mister Bruce,” Toulouse said with poorly hidden contempt. “I can’t pay right now. However, I appreciate your reminding me. I’ll pay soon, I promise. Now move your car out and let me go, please.”

  “Mister Bruce will not move, Mister Toulouse.” Claude made another step toward Toulouse and gave him his best sadistic smile.

  “Don’t you understand?” Toulouse asked with dwindling confidence, while stepping back. Fear grew rapidly in his face. His lips began trembling.

  “I do understand,” Claude growled, “But I think you don’t understand what I’m here for. You owe us about $80,000. I won’t move my car until I get this money. Do you understand?”

  Smiling to himself, he noticed that Toulouse had gathered all his strength to withstand his stare, but failed.

  “Do you understand?” Claude repeated, raising his voice. “Don’t look at me like a cow. Give me money.”

  “I don’t have the money right now,” Toulouse half-whispered apologetically. “You see, I invested badly. I have to wait a bit—until the market picks up. I’ll pay, I assure you . . .”

  “I’ll break your legs, you stupid ass,” interrupted Claude. “Are they worth eighty grand, those fucking legs of yours?”

  “I’ll call the police,” Toulouse declared with little conviction in his voice.

  “You can’t,” Claude assured him. “I’ll chop off your tongue before you can do it. I’ll take care of your wife and kids after that. Give me money. Listen, don’t try my patience. Nobody who’s done that before has ended up very happy.”

  “Really, sir . . . ,” Toulouse mumbled. He’s almost done, Claude thought. He rubbed his right ear and stared at Toulouse in silence.

  Seconds later, two motorcycles approached at high speed and stopped abruptly in the driveway. The hired bums stepped off the bikes. Their sleeves were rolled up, displaying muscular, tattoo-covered arms. Claude smiled inwardly again. Their faces should seem brutal and disgusting to anyone who doesn’t normally deal with former cons. One of them took a position behind Toulouse; another stopped very close to him, breathing in his ear. Toulouse’s face went pale.

  “But I really don’t have the money right now.” Toulouse was begging, tears swelling in his eyes. He made an attempt to step back, but the man behind him blocked his way. “Believe me—I’d have to declare bankruptcy . . .”

  “There’s no time for bankruptcy,” Claude said. “Better to pay up. What about the forty-five grand you have in your retirement account? What about your car? What about your house? Or your wife? You do have a pretty wife, don’t you? A very good broad for fucking, I bet. We can go inside and ask her if you really have money or not.”

  Toulouse stared at him with terrified eyes, on the verge of fainting.

  “How do you know all this?” he asked without blinking.

  “You’ve got two kids, too, from what I hear,” Claude went on “Two nice kids. If you don’t want to take care of them, we can. Understand?”

  “But . . . Truly, guys, how do you wish me to pay? I have no money. Even if you threaten to kill me, I will still have no money.”

  “Nobody has threatened to kill you—yet,” Claude objected. “Tell me, how much is your car worth right now?”

  “My c-car?” he stammered. “About fifteen thousand, I guess. But I can’t sell it. How would I go to work?”

  “That would be your problem, wouldn’t it?” Claude asked. “Don’t fool around with me, man. Pay the debt.”

  “Okay, okay,” Toulouse finally agreed. “But it may take a couple of weeks before I can sell it for that price. I can’t give you the money right now.”

  “That’s okay,” Claude nodded. “You can give me a post-dated check for fifteen grand. You see—we are reasonable people. We can talk business.”

  With pale, watery eyes, Toulouse glanced at the “reasonable” people around him and then looked beyond them, as if expecting miraculous help from somewhere. He opened his briefcase on the hood of the car, pulled out a check book, and scribbled a check for $15,000. His hands were shaking.

  “Can I go now?” he asked. Claude put the check in his pocket.

  “You must be crazy, Mister Toulouse,” he said. “What about the remaining sixty-five grand?”

  “But—”

  “No ‘but.’ How much is your house worth now?”

  “Please, guys,” pleaded Toulouse. “I have to live somewhere.” The three men laughed.

  “I didn’t come here to help you with your financial problems,” Claude said calmly. He had no doubt that he had crushed the will of this debtor. “When are you going to put your house up for sale? I can’t wait longer than a month. Mind you, this is the only help that I can offer. Otherwise, we’ll not speak on friendly terms, as we are doing now.”

  “It’s a good offer, man.” The one who stood behind Toulouse tapped him on his shoulder. Claude gave him a warning look.

  “Let me talk to my wife first,” Toulouse said. “I’ll try to sell it as soon as possible.”

  “How soon?”

  “Within a month, as you’ve said.”

  “Good. Nice to do business with earnest people.” Claude uttered a rowdy laugh. “Have a good day.” He looked back over his shoulder as he opened his car door. “Good luck with your house.”

  He gave a look to his companions. They obediently rattled away on their noisy motorcycles as he backed up his Honda and turned back onto the street. From the rearview mirror, he saw Toulouse walking back inside, bent and limping like an old, crippled man.

  III

  For as far back as he could remember, Claude had had a keen interest in reading the body language and facial expressions of those he dealt with. Long years in prison had made it a necessity: Anyone there could be a possible ally, a potential fo
e, a traitor, or an informant. An opponent’s demeanor had to be evaluated moments before the fight in order to decide whether to kill or not. The toughest ones, if they recovered, would return to even the score.

  Most important of all, though, was the need to identify and understand the faults and strengths of allies and associates in crime: to determine how reliable they were, what they were capable of, and what they were up to at any given moment.

  No one was at ease under his sharp stare, except perhaps for Marcel. Stash apparently did not like it at all. Listening to Claude’s account about dealing with Toulouse, he stared back with an unusual mixture of contentment and irritation. Claude understood well what was going on in Stash’s head. Although Stash agreed with the way he had handled the matter, Claude was still aggravated by what he considered to be too much attention to his face, which bore traces of drug abuse, sleeplessness, and chaotic indulgences—to broads.

  “Do you think he’ll sell the house in a month?” Stash asked. He turned his face away to observe a small kid on the playground who was under the watchful supervision of an elderly woman. The city park, rather lonely during this late weekday afternoon, could be well observed from their bench. The sun was already low and shot its blinding rays directly into their faces. Stash was squinting, too lazy and too apathetic for any effort to shield his eyes.

  “I’ve scared the shit out of him,” Claude said with a note of pride in his voice. He also uttered one of his rowdy laughs. “But it’s hard to say if he’ll be able to pay in a month. What am I supposed to do if he doesn’t? Treat him well?”

  “Wait, and let’s see how it goes. In the meantime, I’ll give you three grand now, for his check. You’ll get the rest after his final payment.”

  Stash counted the money and handed it to Claude. The heavy pouches under his eyes and the premature wrinkles on his gray skin were signs of a hangover, which could be erased only by a new doping session. Claude knew the whole story. Marcel will probably take care of him soon, Claude thought.

  “There’s another deal coming in two weeks,” Stash promised, pointing his bleached, watery eyes at Claude.

  “Good,” Claude nodded, this time casting his glance down. After all, Stash was a gangster who likely had the same, or better, ability of reading people that he did.

  “See yah then,” Stash promised and walked away, his legs stiff, as if lacking the strength to support his body.

  Claude arrived home an hour later to find Leila busy preparing dinner.

  “Stop cooking!” Claude commanded, settling on the couch. “Let’s go out to a restaurant tonight.” He pulled some cash from a pocket and threw it on the table.

  “But dinner is almost done,” Leila said.

  “So, stop,” Claude repeated. Watching her with an apron, worn like a good, devoted housewife, he mellowed. “Take five hundred from that. Spend it on yourself. Much more is coming.”

  Leila’s smile pierced his body from heart to groin. She had a power over him, which he was not able to resist.

  “I love you, I love you,” she said, and then sat on his knees, kissing him on the lips. Choking in his rough and passionate embrace, she pleaded, “Oh, let me get back to the stove. You’ll squash my bones with your beastly arms. Ah-ha, that’s hard . . . but I know how to handle it.”

  She jumped from his knees, turned the stove off, and came back to treat him to what he liked. A few minutes later, sitting beside him, she put her head on his shoulder and caressed his face with her soft, warm hands.

  “We talked about going to Las Vegas,” she reminded him. “I’ve seen an ad in the newspaper. Prices are very low right now.”

  “Good idea,” Claude said with his eyes closed. “Could you book the trip?”

  “Yup, I could. I’ve already called a travel agency. They have a few packages left for this-coming Thursday.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  On Thursday, a few hours prior to departure, Claude was sitting on the small balcony of the apartment, smoking a cigarette and drinking beer. He was daydreaming about Las Vegas, a place he had heard so much about from his fellow inmates. They had told him about high rollers placing terrific bets as bystanders watched them in awe and envy; about broads, beautiful and affordable; fabulous restaurants, shows, and blazing signs below illuminated giant buildings. Now, it was his turn to go. Today he would be there.

  Leila appeared at the balcony door.

  “I just saw one of your guys on a news clip. He’s going to speak after the TV commercial,” she said excitedly, as if announcing a great new show. Claude stood up and went inside.

  “Who is it?” he asked, settling on the sofa near the television set.

  “The redhead with the pony tail, remember the cottage party? I forgot his name.”

  “Stash. I wonder why . . .”

  The commercial ended with the joyful cry of a cute kid, face smeared with greasy junk food.

  A female broadcaster, experienced and confident, appeared on the screen.

  “We have very unusual guests with us today,” she said, looking intently at an invisible object in front of her. “A police expert on biker gangs, Bertrand Tremblay, will comment in support of the latest police actions against a huge biker gathering in the Eastern Townships. His opponent is a representative of the Devil’s Knights motorcycle club, Stash Roark. My first question is to the police representative.”

  The face of Bertrand Tremblay appeared on the right side of the screen in a small frame.

  “Bertrand, there have been numerous protests from lawyers representing the Devil’s Knights about police harassment of bikers, particularly during your infamous checkpoints on the roads. They claim that the police have gone so far as to search them without warrants, confiscate their property, and take some into custody. They claim that you break the constitutional right for freedom of meetings and associations by doing so. What is your comment?”

  The frame with Bertrand’s face leapt forward and took the full screen. Without blinking, and hardly moving his lips, Bertrand spoke firmly, as appropriate for a tough and confident police officer.

  “These checkpoints provide us with valuable information on the identity of gang members,” Bertrand responded. “We have, in the past, found bikers carrying illegal firearms, drugs, and fake documents. Formal charges have been placed against some of them. In a nutshell, these checkpoints prove to be very efficient in investigating and fighting biker gangs.”

  The face of the female broadcaster replaced the image of the police expert.

  “And, what is your comment on that, Stash?” she asked the biker. Now, Stash’s face took over the screen. Traces of pouches still showing under his eyes, he didn’t look as awful as he had in the park during their last meeting. His stare was firm, and he spoke with no less confidence than the policeman had. Claude took a huge swig from the beer bottle to refresh his drying mouth.

  “This is typical talk from a law enforcement agency that is attempting to present its illegal actions under the guise of unfounded allegations. Without legitimate proof, they call us gangsters, our associations and clubs become gangs. Their illegal searches during the road checks are now called ‘efficient ways of fighting gangs.’ If you take their comments at face value, you’d think that the only troublemakers in our society are motorcycle clubs and their members.

  “Don’t fall into the trap of thinking that our society is made up of saints and devils. The majority are in between. By resorting to illegal procedures, you discover a lot of people breeching the law one way or another, no matter what group or association they belong to. Government agencies have no right, however, to label them using inappropriate terminology or to harass them because of their association. Single out any group, be it homosexuals, feminists, Green Peace or anti-abortion activists, you name it, and you’ll find that many of them use illegal drugs, possess firearms, hide their income from the government, and many other things.

  “Why don’t you target them?

  “Or may
be it will be their turn after the police have finished with us? Go that way, and you’ll find out that our country does not have enough jails to keep them all, not enough courts, and not enough judges to deal with all the cases. With motorcycle clubs, police harassment is an easy task. On Harley Davidson and in biker vests, we become a visible minority, easy to target, easy to persecute because of bad publicity around us. But bad publicity, created by unscrupulous journalists, should not be a solid foundation for persecution and harassment. Our constitution, and only our constitution, must be the governing law for all, including law enforcement agencies.”

  Leila diminished the sound.

  “Not bad, eh?” she asked.

  “Yes. Now I understand why Marcel puts up with him.”

  He glanced at his expensive wristwatch. “Time to go, Leila. Shut off the box.”

  A few hours later they exited the Las Vegas airport and walked into the dry, pleasant heat of the desert. They rented a car and drove into the dense traffic of the Las Vegas Strip. The street swarmed with people, as if a demonstration or riot was going on, only most of them smiled. Huge hotels towered as giants, welcoming newcomers to the city of fun and sin.

  Two days in Las Vegas passed as in a fairy tale. In the hottest hours, they swam in the cool water of a huge swimming pool. In the evenings, they played roulette, blackjack, craps, or walked the street past hundreds of thousands of lights, which covered some buildings from the bottom to the very top. Claude found surprises at every step: the simulation of a volcanic eruption at the Mirage, a symphony of dancing fountains at Bellagio, jumping and blinking lights of the most illuminated city in the world.

  Looking at the happy crowd, Claude thought about his years in prison and how much he had missed in his life, virtually for nothing. Now, the time had come to make up for his lost years. The only disturbing factor was the nightmares, in which he was again in jail, fighting for his life or killing someone. Leila had woken him a few times, when his shouts and convulsions got too disturbing.

  On the last night before their departure, Leila lost more than $1,000 at the roulette table.