by Alex Markman
Claude collapsed onto the pavement, face down, hands stretched forward. He was suddenly disoriented, his body in the tight grips of pain. By sheer effort, he managed to raise his head and look forward, hoping to find his gun and take another shot at his target before passing out. But his gun was three feet away—it had fallen from his hand when the bullet slammed into his body—and Stanley was nowhere in sight. Claude let his head drop—the right side of his face hitting the coarse surface of the sidewalk. Somewhere in the distance, he heard the growling sound of a motorcycle engine approaching. His first thought was that Stanley had come back to finish him off. But when the bike stopped nearby, he saw that it was Hans, not Stanley. Hans jumped off, the engine still running, picked up the gun, tore away Claude’s mask, hopped back on the bike, and raced away.
Claude closed his eyes, and in his mind, he saw a long, red band flying into eternity. Good, clever Hans, he thought. Now there will be no evidence against me. I will be a victim, not a hit man.
Pity, I never got trained by Techie’s guys.
That was his last thought before his mind plunged into darkness.
Claude regained consciousness with the frightening feeling that he was on the verge of passing away. Through his weakness and numbness, he saw Leila’s face, with tears and hope in her eyes, looking at him from above. He rolled his eyes toward her and blinked while his body remained still, too weak for any physical effort. The loveliest words of all surfaced in his mind: He was alive. For the first time in his life, he thought about God. He was grateful to the Creator. He was alive.
He looked beyond Leila’s face and saw clean, white curtains covering large windows. Strange display screens showed green pulsating waves and had ever-changing numbers running across them, the meanings of which he had no idea. Undoubtedly, he was in a hospital room. He smiled at Leila, and she smiled back. A tear from her cheek dropped onto his face.
“You will live, darling,” she said and shook, sobbing. “The surgeon said that. No vital organs were damaged.” Claude, in spite of his weakness, was overwhelmed with emotions. No one in his whole life had had any compassion for his suffering. No one had cared about his well-being. But this girl, his dear, dear girl, did. With some effort, he took her hand and squeezed it lightly.
“I will live—for sure.” His voice was hoarse, hardly audible. She kissed him and stepped back. Stash appeared in her place.
“Hey, buddy,” he said in a theatrically cheerful tone. “Hold onto it. We’ve arranged security, around the clock. The police won’t guard you, since you weren’t the one they could lay charges against. No witness was there to tell the story.”
An authoritative voice of a nurse interfered.
“Please don’t talk to him,” she demanded. “He’s too weak. Let him sleep.”
The next day, he was still very weak and in much pain, but he felt stronger. He even exchanged a few frivolous words with a middle-aged nurse, to show off his bravery. He didn’t know what else to do. Claude was uncomfortable in the hospital—its atmosphere was so unusual to him. Everyone was being so kind. For as far back as he could remember, any stranger had been a potential enemy with malicious intentions. How was he supposed to react to nurses, doctors, and others who genuinely cared for his life? Why didn’t he have to threaten beating the hell out of them?
At noon, he fell asleep, but an hour later he was awakened by an angry quarrel. Stash was arguing with someone, his voice irritated and aggressive.
“What the hell do you want from him?” Stash was growling. “He’s sleeping. Give him some time to recuperate.”
“Don’t block my way,” the cold, bossy voice responded. In no time, Claude realized the police had come to question him. In the next moment, the curtain slid abruptly to the wall and a man in civilian clothes appeared, a man with nasty but calm eyes in a round puffy face.
“I am Serge Gorte.” The man showed his identification card as he introduced himself. Claude didn’t look at it. He knew too well that this was the man who Marcel had mentioned more than once. Serge unbuttoned his brown jacket, which seemed larger than he needed for a good fit, and took a photograph from the inside pocket.
“I wonder if you could recognize one of your clients,” Serge said, placing the photograph in front of Claude’s eyes and watching intently what kind of effect it might produce. Claude didn’t blink. It was a picture of Norman, whose wife he had killed. Claude had almost forgotten about that job.
“Never saw him.” Claude was on the verge of fainting, but his mind was clear. The bastard knows that I killed Norman’s little bitch, Claude was pondering with surprising speed. How? Better to think about it later, when everything’s quiet. One thing is clear: The police have no solid evidence yet; otherwise, they’d have already arrested me. This pig Serge must have another card up his sleeve, I’m pretty sure.
Serge nodded in consent, but Claude knew what Serge wanted to convey. “I know the truth,” the gesture meant.
“Maybe you know this one?” Serge asked, producing another photograph. He showed Claude the smiling face of Stanley. “Old buddy, eh?”
Now Claude understood the game. The investigator was interested in Stanley more than in him. He was after the leaders of the gangs, those who instigated and ran the gang’s business and the biker’s war. After Claude’s recovery, he would likely be taken to a police station where Serge would offer him a deal: Testify against Stanley and you won’t get the maximum sentence of life in prison for killing Norman’s wife. Stanley would then be charged later with attempted murder, possession of firearms, and whatever else they had on him by that time, without a doubt enough to isolate him for ten years or more. For a biker, though, to cooperate with the police was worse than suicide. Under no circumstance would he help the police against anyone, even the gang’s—or his—worst enemy. Even if death was unavoidable, no biker would call the police for help. Breaking that biker rule could be worse for Claude than losing his life.
“We found an empty cartridge beside you on the pavement,” the detective continued. “There was another cartridge, of course, fifty feet away. From the bullet that hit you.”
“Fuck off,” Claude growled.
“I don’t need your answers right now.” The photographs were returned to their inside pocket. “Take your time.”
“Get the fuck out of here,” Claude said.
Serge Gorte sighed.
“I know that my words fall on deaf ears. Lots of troubles are waiting for you around the corner. We’ll see each other soon. Think about this, Claude.”
“Fuck off,” Claude repeated with his eyes closed. Gorte left. Stash came in and sat on the bed.
“What did he want?”
“He showed me Stanley’s photograph,” Claude said.
“Get it out of your mind,” Stash advised. “Let’s solve problems as they come.”
Claude closed his eyes. What if . . .
He shivered.
What if the cop wasn’t bluffing? More long years in jail, this time perhaps for the rest of his life. Dark cells, disgusting smells, slow-moving, depressing days.
And, good-bye Leila—what woman in her right mind would wait for someone with a life sentence?
His thoughts began drifting to the past. His youth had been wasted behind bars, lost—the best years of his life. He was beating inmates, getting beaten, many times with the sadistic cruelty of lifelong cons, and watching grim, boring days drag on in unremarkable succession. Would this be his way of life until his death?
It would have to be different now, wouldn’t it? Claude was trying to soothe himself. At least, I might be a Prospect by then. In jail, that would put me at the top. There would be lots of broads, pot, cocaine, hash. It depended, he knew, in what joint he got placed. If it was one controlled by the Iron Ghosts, or any group besides the Devil’s Knights, there would be the same rough zoo.
And now, too, he had a life with Leila to lose—
The voice of a nurse dragged him back to the real worl
d.
“How do you feel today?” she asked. The woman was looking at him with compassionate eyes. “I have to give you some shots,” she told him. “If you’re still in pain, I can give you painkillers.”
“Can you give me some morphine?” he asked.
“Yes, of course. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Should I tell Marcel about Norman’s photograph? Probably not. Marcel might decide to get rid of all potential witnesses. It wouldn’t be easy for him, though. The destiny of a club member is supposed to rest in the hands of a collective gang decision, not the whims of an individual leader. But Marcel had his authority and a host of servants, and could make anything happen when his life was at stake. Well, well. I should listen to Stash. He may have been right: We should solve the problems as they come.
II
By his fifth day in the hospital, Claude was fit enough to sit on the bed. With envious eyes he looked out his window at the routine, day-to-day life outside. An endless stretch of bumper-to-bumper traffic was converting the highway into a huge parking lot; pedestrians on the street were rushing to get somewhere special; a clear, cloudless sky overlooked them all. The air must be fresh and crisp, he thought. It would be nice to ride on his bike with Leila on such a day. But it might also be nice to simply walk, or to sit on their balcony, smoking pot and drinking beer. A simple, uneventful, wonderful life, it might now be beyond his reach. He had never felt such a nostalgic desire to be outside, even when he was in jail looking at the world through iron bars.
“It’s nice out there,” he said, pointing at the window. Leila, who sat beside him, put her arm around his waist.
“The doctor promised to release you in two days,” she said. “At home you’ll recover quickly. I’ll take care of you.”
A huge wave of warm feelings almost drowned him. He had never thought she would stay with him so faithfully at a time of such a misery. Women like strong, rich men, he believed. Such a beauty as Leila could easily find another man who had tons of money.
“Why don’t you just drop me?” he asked.
“I can’t. I love you.” These frighteningly gentle words sounded like music from her lips. Claude had to lie down to calm his racing heart.
On the seventh day, Leila came to pick him up. Two club members accompanied them all the way home to their parking lot, where they found Hans waiting.
“You’ll out-survive all of us, old buddy,” Hans said. “How d’yah feel today?”
“Okay.”
“Wanna smoke a bit, or do some blow? I brought everything.”
“Smoke will do. And some beer.”
“Anything you like,” Leila said.
Hans offered him his hand for help, but Claude dismissed it with an angry gesture. In the apartment, he walked straight to the balcony and sat down in an easy chair. He leaned back and stretched his legs. Hans was soon at his side. Leila, happy and moving around the apartment gracefully, was busy fixing and serving them whatever they wanted.
“I jumped on the bike right after you crossed the street.” Hans was talking rapidly, almost in a whisper, leaning forward, impatient to share the thoughts and feelings he had accumulated since the day of the near-fatal shooting. “You know, everything went so fast. I heard the shots. When I turned the corner, this guy was still there. He was about to sneak into the small alley between the houses when I pulled up near to you. His gun was still in his hand. He stood and watched me. I took your mask off and picked up the gun you dropped. He could’ve killed me, anytime, if he’d wanted to. But he just kept watching me. I got back on the bike, and sped past him. I threw your gun and the mask into a dumpster near a large apartment building, and then I called Leila. She said that she knew how to contact your club. I couldn’t have done much more at that time.”
During the speech he rolled a joint and offered it to Claude.
“All the newspapers printed stories about us.” Hans was beaming with pride. “I’ve saved a few with photos. The police contacted the newspaper reporters. They said it was, for sure, a fight between two bikers, but they had no clue who shot at you. They all said that no gun was found on or near you, only an empty cartridge.” Hans moved closer, staring at Claude with the intensity of an accomplice contemplating a multimillion-dollar deal. He was swelling with self-esteem and self-importance.
“The police suspect that there was another biker who helped you. Everyone was stunned—yes, they said exactly that, stunned—at how fast all the material evidence disappeared. They said that the bikers staged a great show, only with real bullets and blood.”
Hans smiled at last and took a huge, nervous puff. Claude understood Hans well, if only because they shared fully their feelings and egos. Although this was not the first time newspapers had printed articles about their hits, all the previous ones had been about anonymous, unknown killers. Now, Claude’s name was at the center of attention. Hans probably thought he would be famous soon, as well.
Claude was happy, too, in spite of his pain and weakness. Any criminal worth something wants to be famous. When his actions, no matter how dreadful they might seem to the public, became the subject of media attention, the respect for him in the underworld would grow beyond all proportions of the crime. Nothing makes a gangster happier than fame.
“You did a good job, Hans. I’ll pay you for it as soon as I can.”
“Forget it,” Hans said. “Money’s nothing. You don’t owe me a penny.”
“We’ll have plenty of money, Hans.”
“I know. Forget about it, though. Tell me something—can I join your club? I can get a Harley anytime—” He looked around and changed the subject quickly. “Here’s a beer. She’s a nice girl, your Leila.”
“Don’t you even look at her. I’d kill anyone for her.”
“Enough killings for today,” Leila said, looking back over the threshold to the balcony. “You’d better go, Hans. He has to rest.”
“Let’s talk a bit longer,” Claude protested.
“No.”
“C’mon, Leila.”
“I said no,” Leila insisted. Her tone was firm and uncompromising. Claude was surprised, but said nothing.
“I’ve gotta go, anyway.” Hans stood up. “Be well, Claude.”
When he left, Leila took Claude by the arm and led him inside.
“Take a rest, honey,” she said. “I with you.”
III
The wound in his body was healing well. In less than a month, he had recuperated a great deal and was able to return to all his usual activities, except for his work as a contract killer: That demanded much better physical and mental fitness. His other wounds were not recovering so well or so quickly, however. The bullet had dealt a devastating blow to his spirit, his mood, and his gut. These invisible wounds were bleeding day and night, their torture eased only when he could lose himself in a haze of cocaine or marijuana. Never before had he been scared of death, even in those brief moments before the deadly fights in jail. He hadn’t given a damn what life was about and figured that hell would probably not be much worse than Earth. Now, he was afraid of dying at the hands of an Iron Ghost, and gruesome nightmares woke him and forced him to peek into the dark corners of his bedroom in desperate attempts to make out a hidden assassin.
Swarms of thoughts, annoying and biting like large mosquitoes, attacked his mind. Life in the past had been stupid, useless, meaningless. But what was in his past? Only an ugly childhood and a youth as a hoodlum, for which he had been awarded a total of eight years in jail. If he died now, would it have been worth living such a short and stupid, worthless life? Was there any way out of it? Any way to turn to another life? Certainly not. So, what was next, then? Damn the bullet that had made him realize what death was about.
Or was it Leila who had brought these new thoughts into his mind?
He visited the club a few times, claiming to all his buddies that more time was needed for a full recovery. He bumped into Marcel once, but all he got was the cold shoulder. Marcel no d
oubt noticed the effect that drugs were taking on Claude’s face, because after this encounter, the Devil’s Knights terminated their financial support.
The cold days of winter were saturated with the intensified heat of the biker’s war. The number of deaths on both sides had grown far beyond one hundred, with others missing and deemed dead by police. Hundreds of explosions shook the city and provided huge headlines for the media.
Marcel was growing impatient. He called Claude a few times, hinting that he needed his services. But Claude still insisted that he needed more time to recuperate.
When the last of his money had disappeared like the smoke from a joint, Leila told him that she couldn’t pay the rent for the next month.
“Don’t worry, Claude.” She ran her palm over his head, trying to soothe him. “We’ll survive. I’ll just dance for awhile. I’ll make good money there until you’re well. I could even sell stuff there, too.”
In the past, the very thought of Leila dancing naked in front of other men would have driven him mad. But now, his mind was so clouded with the effect of the drugs that he only nodded in consent after a brief moment of hesitation.
“I’ll place you in one of our bars,” was all he said. “Nobody there will hit on you. And if they do dare, I’ll take care of ’em.”
He arranged Leila’s job rather easily as the owner of the bar looked Leila over with glowing eyes.
Claude never attended a performance. He only came at the end of the shows to pick her up. Successful as expected, she soon began selling pot and coke, which was supplied by Devil’s Knights dealers. Claude resumed paying his club membership fees, but he still declined Marcel’s business offers.