Messenger of Death (28 page)

“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 world.

“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 doubt 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.

After the
government adopted its tough new law against organized crime, both
gangs began feeling some heat. Many gang members were arrested, and
the gang leaders had to ease their selection rules to recruit new
members and maintain their counts.

As spring began
wiping away the remnants of winter and replacing snow with an
assault of chaotic, violent colors, Claude’s mood finally began to
improve. Although his dependency on drugs continued to grow, his
fears and fits of depression began to subside. Shy at first, an
urge for violent distraction was growing stronger and stronger,
taking the place of his mental fatigue. A decisive wake-up call
came one day from Marcel, who invited him to a meeting.

“I’ll let you
know where and when we’ll meet,” Marcel said. “Be ready, anytime.
Got it?”

“Okay . .
.”

“Anytime,”
Marcel repeated. Something unusual was in his tone, and Claude
sensed trouble. Marcel had never made a habit of repeating his
words.

“No problem,
Marcel.”

An hour later,
an unexpected knock at the door made him reach for his gun. He had
the nasty feeling that something was fundamentally wrong, and the
feeling grew stronger as he opened the door. Beyond the threshold
stood a typical biker: a leather riding suit—but without any
insignia, Claude noticed—and high leather boots. He wore a band
around his head and sported a disorderly beard, mustache, and long
hair. Claude remembered him at once. They had been in the same jail
at one point in time. The guy had belonged to a biker gang that had
been controlled by Marcel. He handed Claude a folded piece of paper
and left, not uttering a sound.

Claude spread
the paper on the table and studied it with a frown. It was a map,
drawn by a very practiced and firm hand, with arrows pointing to a
destination and instructions detailing how to get there and what
landmarks to look for. A note from Marcel demanded that he be there
at 4 o’clock, sharp, that afternoon. Claude glanced at his
wristwatch. It was already two. What the hell was going on? He
couldn’t have done anything wrong. He hadn’t done anything.