Messenger of Death

by Alex Markman

  We wish you success in all your endeavors.

  With warmest regards,

  The Devil’s Knights

  Under the load of her busy schedule, she had completely forgotten her birthday, coming up next Sunday. And the first to remind her about it were the Devil’s Knights!

  The last thing she wanted was praise of her work coming from these professional criminals, whose very existence she deplored. Their short note, however, was quite a vivid reflection of how complicated the situation had become. It would certainly be easy to single out the Devil’s Knights or the Iron Ghosts as criminal organizations and put their members in prison. However, such a law would be a clear breach of the constitution.

  History had many examples of arbitrary rules that had been successful with picking out and locking up criminals. Mussolini, for one, Italy’s dictator during World War II, put all members of the mafia in prison. There hadn’t been a problem with identifying them because the police had created good files on everyone. Nobody else before or after Mussolini had been able to cope with this organized crime structure. But the people of Italy did not have a good memory of that dictator, nor did they praise anything he did. They’d rather live in a democracy that tolerated occasional inevitable evils than adopt a dictatorship that was an evil for all. As soon as the presumption of innocence until proven guilty was discarded, the road would be open to all excesses of undemocratic governance under the guise of constitutional laws.

  The constitution, in her firm belief, must be respected by all, no matter how inconvenient it sometimes becomes for those who rule the country or have judicial powers. Its current structure must be the foundation of a democratic society.

  Her thoughts began to wander. She recalled Bertrand saying that bikers wielded too much power and money and that their activities would soon reach a point when coping with them would become an impossible mission. “In our society, with its widespread notion that money is the only measure of success,” he had said, “corruption could leap beyond control. It all depends on the amount. If the offer were tens or hundreds of thousands of dollars—how many in the police force or the government would hold onto their moral grounds against a bribe that might change their lives? Mind you, Monica, we’re fighting with our hands tied by laws, rules, and restrictions, whereas organized crime has nothing to slow them down at all. With unrestricted flexibility and plenty of money, they could do anything with our society.” The stream of her recollection was interrupted by the ring of her telephone. Startled by the contrast to the quiet of after-work hours and the concentration of her deep thoughts, she reached for the phone with a nervous jerk.

  “Hello?” she said, trying to compose herself. Crunching the receiver between her ear and her shoulder, she started gathering all the papers she might need into her elegant briefcase.

  “Hi, Aunt Monica,” the voice on the other end said. “This is Toulouse.”

  “Oh, it’s you, darling.” Monica smiled into the space of the empty office. “How nice of you to remember your aunt on the eve of this weekend. What are you planning to do?”

  “To hell with the weekend,” the nephew said abruptly. She caught the unusual notes of desperation and sadness in his voice. “I’m in trouble. I need your help.”

  “Anything you want, Toulouse,” Monica responded. “Let’s meet tomorrow.”

  “Could we meet . . . now?” Toulouse asked rather meekly.

  “What’s the rush? Frankly, it’s not the best time for me. Where are you?”

  “A few steps from your office. Just outside the building.”

  “Hmm. Could we make it short? Say, ten minutes or so?”

  “I’ll try,” Toulouse promised. “May I come up now?”

  “Yes,” Monica consented. “I’ll make arrangements with security. Come ahead.”

  She liked her nephew and often treated him as her own son. Good looking, always in a merry mood, gentle, and invariably optimistic, he had a strong sense of family and tried to be of help to her whenever he could. Regretfully, she hadn’t seen much of him in the last two months, being too busy with political matters and the approaching elections.

  Five minutes later, the door of her office opened slowly and Toulouse stepped in. At his appearance, her welcoming smile transformed to a look of frightened surprise.

  “My dear, what’s happened to you?” she cried, rushing to him. His face bore traces of the recent brawl: a large bruise under his left eye painted half his cheek dark blue; his lower lip on the same side was cut, dried blood already forming a crusty red patch over the wound. His right cheek, in its usual shape and smaller than the swollen left one, caused his lips to be positioned at an angle to his nose instead of being perpendicular to it. This deformity would have prompted laughter if not for the gloom in his eyes.

  “Please, sit down . . . ,” she said, pulling him by the sleeve to a chair. “Where have you been?” She couldn’t help but notice that Toulouse was dressed with his customary attention to detail: a dark suit without a single wrinkle, a well-ironed white shirt, and an elegant tie hanging down from a perfect knot. It was odd to see such a well-dressed gentleman as Toulouse with the beaten face of a hoodlum.

  “I was beaten in my own home,” he explained.

  “Beaten? What are you talking about?”

  “Yes, beaten. You see . . . I owe money to the contractor who renovated our house. I was sure that I’d be able to pay him, because, at the time, I had sufficient money in the stock market. But then, my shares went south. The contractor has now transferred the debt to a collection agency. They sent their people to me—Aunt Monica, those guys were typical gangsters. They made me sell my car in two weeks to pay part of the debt. They demanded that I sell my house in one month to pay the balance, but I wasn’t able to. Then they came to my home and trashed it inside . . .” Toulouse began sobbing.

  “Oh, my God,” Monica half-whispered. It was so unusual to see this strong man in such grief. “I’m speechless . . .” She walked around the room, pressed her temples with the tips of her fingers, then returned to her chair.

  “I’m speechless. But it’s largely your own fault.” Her questioning eyes did not blink as they fixed on him with a blend of disapproval and fright.

  “Monica, I came to you for help, not for a reprimand. As I’ve said, I lost my money in the stock market. Anyway, I’ll be able to pay my debt, but not all at once, and not now, as they demand. How can I sell my house in a month? In such a rush, it could be done only for a price much below its value.”

  “Oh, such a mess,” Monica said, crossing her arms. “What’re we supposed to do?”

  “How can you not know what to do?” Toulouse asked. “You’re known as an organized crime expert. You speak with such authority on TV about biker’s matters. You certainly have lots of good connections—”

  “Bikers!” Monica interrupted him with a trace of contempt. “Not every crime is committed by bikers. What makes you think that these people from the collection agency were bikers?”

  “Two of them were on motorcycles. They looked like bikers. They scared me to death.”

  Rather confused, Monica did not comment.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Toulouse complained.

  “Did you call the police?”

  “No.” Toulouse looked up at Monica. Answering her silent question he said, “I’m scared.”

  “I understand.” Monica leaned back in her chair, forcing herself out of emotional chaos. The deep vertical wrinkles on her forehead were in grim harmony with the toughness in her eyes. With a clear mind and a cool voice, she told him, “Relax, dear. Tell me some more details.”

  “Like I said, he told me to sell the house in a month.”

  “Who is he?”

  “The one from the collection agency. You can’t imagine how frightening this fellow was.”

  “What was so particularly frightening about him?”

  “I can’t explain, really. It was just a feeling—I was scared out of my wit
s. Even his laugh . . . it made my stomach turn over.”

  “How did they manage to get into your house?”

  “Yesterday, I came in from work around six. Without a car, it takes more than an hour to get back and forth between the office and my home. Luckily, Valerie and the kids weren’t there. I didn’t see anybody around when I approached the door, I swear. But when I opened it, three men jumped on the porch as if from nowhere and forced me into the house. One of them had on a ski mask; the two others didn’t. Large, hairy fellows, you know, like actors from a biker movie. I thought that they wanted to kill me. But the one in the mask just punched me a few times as the others took out baseball bats and smashed the furniture in the living room. The whole episode must have been a warning, a prelude, so to speak, to more serious actions. The one in the mask was the fellow from the collection agency, I’m pretty sure about that.”

  “What makes you think so?” Monica asked.

  “He left with that peculiar, sadistic laugh. I couldn’t mistake that laugh for anyone else’s.”

  “Let me talk to someone,” Monica said, reaching for the phone. She dialed and leaned into the receiver, looking through Toulouse as if he were transparent.

  “Hello—Bertrand,” she said. “This is Monica.”

  “Good evening, Monica. What can I do for you?”

  “Could you spare a few minutes for me?”

  “Certainly. Go ahead.”

  “My nephew is here and he’s in trouble. Briefly, he didn’t pay a debt in time to a renovation company. A collection agency, apparently run by criminals, is now stepping on his heels. They went so far as to beat him and destroy some furniture in his house. My nephew thinks the attackers were bikers. Do you know any collection agency that’s run by bikers?”

  “Yes, there’s one,” Bertrand confirmed. “We know that he’s very successful at it, too, mostly because his guys intimidate the debtors. So far, no one has been willing to be a witness against the agency in court. If you wish to know more, I suggest you talk to our biker expert, Serge Gorte. I’ll give you his direct number.”

  “That’s fine. I certainly will. But for now, what can be done?”

  “That’s rather a tough call.” Bertrand made a long pause. “He could file a formal complaint to the police, of course, but . . . consider the situation, Monica. Your nephew does have the debt to repay, right? What would his complaint be about? Their methods? He would have to admit to several acts in public. And, everyone is scared to be a witness against bikers. Is your nephew interested in being a witness?”

  “Of course not,” Monica answered quickly. “After so many unsolved murders, who’d have the guts to stand up against their threats?”

  He chose to ignore her retort and pursued another line of thinking. “So, tell me, Monica, what would you like me to do? Close down their agency?”

  “Why not?”

  “What a good suggestion, Monica. But aren’t you the most ardent proponent of protecting bikers’ constitutional rights? If you and the like-minded members of the task force had listened to us, we could have gathered up these crooks and locked them away long ago. Give us a law that makes membership in criminal gangs illegal, and we’ll be able to shut down this agency and all the other businesses that operate using criminal methods.”

  “But—Bertrand—you’re talking about suspending the constitutional rights of people.”

  “Not people, Monica—criminals.”

  “Stop it. We can’t suspend the freedom-of-association provisions . . .”

  “C’mon, Monica,” Bertrand interrupted. “Criminals are already in your own backyard. I think you’ve stretched your liberal sentiments far enough.”

  “Let’s discuss that at the next meeting,” Monica suggested. “Going back to the subject at hand: My nephew needs more time to sell his house, but they won’t let him have it. What do you think he should do?”

  “I’d advise him to call this agency and ask for some more time. When they see that he’s serious about paying his debt, they might soften their stance. In the meantime, talk to Serge Gorte. I’ll talk to him, as well. Maybe we’ll find a way to close this agency your way. Still, just between us, it would be easier and quicker if we could use methods that do not agree with the existing laws, regulations, and constitutional rights.”

  “I see your point. Perhaps your arguments do make more sense than I originally thought.”

  “In a week or so, I’ll let you know what our options are.”

  “But . . . for now, could you provide some protection for my nephew?”

  “I’m surprised that you asked for that, Monica. We don’t have sufficient funds to protect even primary witnesses against gangs. And, honestly, we don’t have any formal cause to spend money on his protection.”

  Monica sighed as she realized she was stuck.

  “Our final meeting is in two weeks. If we approve the draft that the police and the RCMP have proposed, what would you be able to do in such cases?”

  “We could obtain financial records. We could get lists of clients and victims. In the course of investigations, we would likely find enough evidence to close such businesses. I’m pretty sure that we’d be able to lay formal charges, and it’s quite possible that we would find someone who would cross over and become an informant. Many things might happen . . .”

  “Thanks, Bertrand. See you in two weeks.” She hung up and glanced back at Toulouse.

  “Try to talk to the agency,” she said, answering his silent question. “Ask them to let you have some more time.”

  “And if they don’t agree?”

  “In any event, you and your family move into my house. There’s plenty of space. I’d be happy to have you with me. It’s distressing to be alone in such a big house.”

  “That wouldn’t solve the problem.”

  “It wouldn’t,” agreed Monica. “You’d still have to repay your debt. You’ll have to start building your fortune all over again. But you’ll have a safe place to live while you’re doing that.”

  “Thanks. Your birthday is soon—”

  “We’ll celebrate it together in my home. Now, I’ve got to go, Toulouse. I have a live television interview at eight. I can take you home, if you wish. Don’t be so depressed, darling. It’s not the end of the world.”

  II

  Cruising at a deliberately slow speed to the television station, Monica mentally ran through questions the interviewer would likely ask. Even a short delay with an answer could diminish the value of her argument, no matter how clever and convincing the response was. Unfortunately, she knew that the general public trusts appearance over substance, a confident look over an outstanding mind. Her frequent appearances on television and radio had prepared her well for the unexpected. Yet, she was a tiny bit nervous this evening: Her interviewer was a quick-witted journalist, notorious for putting the sharpest interviewees into a tough corner during his shows. She had learned that the best thing she could do in such circumstances was to stay cool and alert. That was another reason for her concern: A rage against bikers was boiling in her heart and head. The fear for Toulouse and his family made her frown. But the time for meditation and soul-pacifying exercises had run out. Whatever will be, will be, she thought.

  She arrived at the studio just in time, and the interview started almost immediately.

  “You’re among the few members of the Provincial Parliament who still stand against adopting the new measures that law enforcement agencies have proposed,” he began.

  Monica judged by his relaxed appearance that he didn’t have anything nasty up his sleeve. This would probably be just another question-and-answer session to entertain and pacify the public, she concluded. If only her previous answers to those questions could remain the same tonight. If only her own circumstances had not changed.

  “Actually, in light of some late developments and some recent considerations, I tend to think that, with the removal of some extreme language, much of this law could be adopted.”
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  “Isn’t this a different stance than what you’ve been saying?” The interviewer was fast thinking, she admitted, and knew his stuff. “How would you single out biker’s clubs from other organizations? There is no proof that their clubs have any purpose other than to provide places for social gatherings. They publish their rules and even the minutes of their meetings, which can be obtained—granted, with some effort—by the media. How could you call an organization ‘criminal’ if its formal goal is not crime and if they have neither structure for nor rules governing criminal activity?”

  “Circumstantial evidence exists, in abundance, to prove otherwise,” Monica said, for she had been thinking about this point. “The club members help each other in crimes, in prisons, and in all sorts of conflicts with the law. Each member has to provide unconditional help to the organization in all its activities and its troubles, be it the war with other gangsters, the intimidation of our institutions, the disruption of our public lives, whatever. Their organization is obligated to provide help for its members no matter how hideous the crime they commit. The issue of biker gangs has to be addressed as soon as possible. I tend to think that a tough new law, with a few temporary compromises to the constitution, has to be adopted, rendering our police agencies the proper instruments to fight this new form of organized crime.”

  The eyes of the interviewer got sharper. He asked a question that Monica had not foreseen.

  “But any association renders help to its members, including legal and financial help,” the interviewer said with a malicious flicker in his eyes. “Take a look at religious institutions, professional or political associations, trade or financial organizations, you name it. Do you think that motorcycle clubs should be denied the rights so common to other organizations?”

  It took only a moment for Monica to find her answer.

  “There is no generality that could be a common denominator in this issue,” she said with a frown. “From coast to coast, bikers need legal help of only one nature: criminal defense. Murders, drug trafficking, money laundering, intimidation—that’s what all their chapters need help for. I don’t know any religion whose communities need legal help like that regardless of where they establish themselves. The same with associations of professional engineers, architects, writers, or nonprofessional groups with political orientation—they might need occasional legal help for a civil dispute. But it would not be fair to compare any of these organizations to outlaw biker clubs whose cases are, with few exceptions, criminal in nature, and related to their ‘profession.’ I don’t know any non-criminal organization that actively and consistently helps its members when criminal charges are laid against them.”