Messenger of Death (31 page)

“Exactly. I’m
going to leave Canada in a few days.”

“Why?”

“This is a
troublesome time.”

“What troubles
do you expect?”

“The police are
after leaders of both gangs now. They believe that when the top
ranks are in jail, peace and quiet will be restored in the
province. They’re after you, Marcel. They’ll lock you up, one way
or another.”

“They couldn’t.
They’d never be able to bring any evidence against me in court.
I’ve never done anything wrong, not in the last ten years. The only
way to get me is to find a witness that would testify against me,
which would be a pretty tough thing to do. Do you think that there
are many who’d volunteer for that?”

“Not many,”
Raymond agreed. “But there’s always a chance, and it might only
take one. I wouldn’t take anything for granted in this game.”

“You don’t know
the people I’m dealing with. They’d rather die than roll over.”

Raymond smiled
sardonically and dabbed his lips with a napkin.

“I wouldn’t bet
on anyone except you and me,” he said. “That’s why I’m
leaving.”

“For how
long?”

“Until the dust
settles.”

“How long is
that?”

“As long as it
takes to get you in jail, I would guess. I assure you, Marcel, I
won’t be among the witnesses. I don’t want to be anywhere near this
mess. I have enough money to withstand the storm in remote places.
But I’m glad that I’ve dealt only with you.”

He stood and
threw a five-dollar bill on the table.

“Good luck,
Marcel.”

Raymond left,
but the conversation rang in Marcel’s ears long after. The warning
was impossible to ignore. He became even more jumpy after receiving
a note from Norman, begging Marcel to meet. To be as safe as
possible, Norman suggested a cafeteria in an office building in the
crowded downtown area.

Marcel agreed.
He drove to a big plaza on the outskirts of town, parked his car in
the back of the parking lot, and walked into the shopping mall.
Dodging shoppers, he quickly reached the front entrance at the far
end of the building, and rushed out. Norman’s man was waiting for
him a few steps away, sitting on a motorcycle with the engine
running. Marcel hopped onto the back seat, and the driver, an
experienced biker, rushed out of the lot, dodged cars stuck in
traffic, and in ten minutes delivered Marcel downtown. There was no
chance for a tail to follow him. Nonetheless, Marcel got off the
bike two blocks away from the meeting place and walked slowly
toward it, scanning the area to make sure he was not being
followed.

Norman was
already in the cafeteria. Looking at Marcel, he went straight to
the heart of the matter, telling the details of his conversation
with Serge Gorte.

“How the hell
do they know about Claude?” Norman kept asking. “Did he roll
over?”

“You must be
crazy,” Marcel said. “Gorte probably just wanted to scare the shit
out of you. If Claude had rolled, I’d already be in stir. Just
forget about it. Claude is one of my most trusted men. Besides,
he’s done so much . . .”

“But how do
they know?” Norman insisted. “You know what this means? If the cops
get me for my car business, I could live with that. I’ve discussed
that option already with my lawyer. He’s told me that five, seven
years at the most—that’s what’s in the cards. In four years I’d be
out. But for the little bitch I can get life.”

“You
won’t.”

“Look, Marcel.
We’ve known each other for a long time. The only witness against
you and me is Claude.” When Marcel started to say something, Norman
made a protesting gesture.

“I know, I
know,” Norman cut in quickly. “You trust him. But just for peace of
mind . . . Once he’s out of the way, we wouldn’t have to worry. Do
you know how much money you’re getting through our outlets?
Millions. Do you need troubles like this?”

“Look, Norman,”
Marcel said, “I’ll meet Claude soon. I’ll think about what you’ve
said, and—”

“Don’t think,
Marcel. Do—and do it quickly.”

Money speaks,
Marcel thought. He nodded reluctantly in agreement.

This was the
second meeting to leave a bad taste in Marcel’s mouth. Could he
rely fully on anyone when the stake was his own life? Norman was a
very tough guy, but he’d grown too accustomed to everything big
money could buy. If given the choice of life in prison or
testifying against Marcel, what would he choose? Killing him would
be easy, but not expedient. Norman had made him a shitload of cash
with the car business. And, he was not a penny pincher: He
contributed once in awhile directly to the war with the Iron
Ghosts. This was a good gesture for one who was no longer a member
of the club.

But Marcel
clearly saw where the danger could come from. If Norman cracked,
Claude would be arrested.

In the midst of
the gang war, the cops, desperate to arrest gang leaders, might
offer Claude a good deal, one that they wouldn’t have contemplated
in earlier times. A life sentence without parole in a high-security
prison would be a tough break for anyone. Claude was a tough guy—no
doubt. He was one of those who would accept the blows of Lady Luck
without complaint, Marcel believed. But he was in love with his
girl—possibly too much in love. Marcel wondered if she might mean
even more to him than the gang. When offered a reduced sentence,
during which he could have access to his girl, Claude might turn.
Nobody could predict how many other hits the police would discover
then.

Removing him
would solve the problem.

A way to be rid
of Claude had to be found.

Disposing of
hit men was not an unusual practice for the Devil’s Knights, but
the reason for such a decision had always been more solid than just
a safeguard against likely defection. It was usually because they
made unforgiving mistakes. Most professional killers were not
clever people. Inevitably, successful hit men developed a feeling
of infallibility, sometimes killing the wrong people for trifling
reasons. Sooner or later they did other stupid things or started
bragging about their heroic acts. Former cons usually cannot keep
their mouths shut for long, and when a killer cannot keep his mouth
shut, tracks eventually lead back to full patches, which endangers
the well-being of the whole gang. Claude, though, had not done
anything stupid or wrong so far, which was quite remarkable.

Marcel knew he
would not have a chance to get the approval of other members of the
gang. So, how could he arrange a hit? What if Claude could be
killed by an Iron Ghost?

Marcel recalled
a strip bar that had recently fallen into the hands of the Iron
Ghosts. Stanley was a frequent guest there. His people, surely
armed, were usually around, expecting retaliation from the Devil’s
Knights baseball team. Why not ask Claude to kill Stanley there? No
doubt Claude would take the risk without thinking twice. There was
a tiny chance of his success in killing Stanley. But there would be
no chance for him to dodge bullets in an escape from the Iron
Ghosts.

III

Leila and
Claude were having a good time on the balcony, taking advantage of
a warm evening. They watched the brightness of the day give way to
the spotty glow of streetlights. After snorting a few lines of
pure, uncut coke, they exchanged smiles and stupid remarks, and
then laughed as if they had made some very witty jokes.

“I gotta go to
the bathroom,” Claude said, rising drunkenly to his feet. Leila
giggled; this triggered Claude to burst into laughter, too. He did
his best to aim his finger at her, and then stumbled gracefully
into the room. A casual glance at the pager, which he had left at
the dinner table before their snorting session, dragged him down
from dreamland to harsh reality: The pager displayed the secret
code number that meant to meet Marcel at a designated park outside
of town, where they would be out of reach of any police
surveillance gadgets. When Claude returned from the bathroom, Leila
was still laughing.

“Wan’ another
snort?” she asked.

“Nah. I’ve got
a meeting tonight.”

“A meeting?”
Leila laughed again.

“With Marcel,”
Claude whispered. She stopped laughing.

“Anything
happened?” she asked.

“I don’t know.
For sure, I’ve got a job to do.”

“Maybe I could
help you with something?”

“Nah. Stop
it.”

A few minutes
later, he was on his Harley. On it, he could lose any tail, take
dangerous shortcuts, or dodge cars if need be. It was easier to
escape at night, anyway, when the headlights of a car behind him
could trigger his suspicions. Before he knew it, he was on the
final leg of his journey to the park, a rural country road with no
cars anywhere in the darkness.

A nice place to
kill, he thought, steering his bike toward the entrance. Nobody
would dare come to this place at night. What was Marcel up to
now?

As he
approached the end of the road, the bike’s headlights captured the
black bulk of a Jeep. He pulled up beside it, turned the ignition
off, and sat motionless for a few moments, disoriented by sudden
darkness and silence. The jeep door flew open and the light inside
went on. Marcel stepped down and walked up to him. The bikers shook
hands and exchanged greetings.

“Let’s stretch
our legs a bit,” Marcel suggested. “Just in case my car’s
bugged.”

“What’s up?”
Claude asked, walking alongside.

“There’s a very
big fish to fry.” Marcel stopped, staring fixedly into Claude’s
eyes.

Claude
responded with one of his best tough-guy looks, but said nothing,
preferring to listen.

“You know the
Madrid bar in the South End?” Marcel asked.

“Sure. It’s in
the industrial area. Lot’s of truckers stop there.”

“Right. The
Iron Ghosts have taken it over. For now we can’t do much about
that. It’s the Ghost’s territory, and we don’t have enough manpower
to take it back, let alone keep it for long.”

“What’s the
deal, then?” Claude asked.

“Hold
on—Listen. To keep our baseball teams out, they’ve posted guards
inside and outside the bar. I’d guess that all of them have guns.
It wouldn’t make sense for us to turn that place into a shooting
gallery at this time. I wouldn’t mention this to you for nothing,”
Marcel paused, “but your old friend visits this place very often. A
stripper working there told us that.”

Claude’s
muscles stiffened. His hand moved instinctively to his gun, but it
wasn’t there. His eyes had adjusted to the feeble light of the
night, and he could now see Marcel’s face, with its appreciative
smile.

“Our hit teams
are busy elsewhere,” Marcel continued. “I can’t provide you with
much help, other than to let you know when he’s there. The stripper
will send me a signal.”

“I don’t need
any help,” Claude growled. “Leave it up to me.”

“If you’re
going to shoot him inside, make it fast. Two, three seconds at the
most, then rush out and fire away.”

“I don’t need
your instructions,” Claude responded rudely.

Marcel
smiled.

“It’s a risky
job, Claude.”

Claude uttered
his customary rowdy laugh.

“I don’t give a
fuck.”

“Here’s five
grand for now. I’ll give you twenty more after the hit.”

“Thanks.”
Claude was impressed. He took the thick roll of cash and stashed it
in his breast pocket, smiling contentedly.

“That’s all for
now,” Marcel said. “I’ll leave first. You leave in a little while.
Good night.” He stretched out his hand and after a brief, firm
handshake walked back to his car. The door of the Jeep slammed, and
its engine roared to life. As its lights swept across the road and
the vehicle rolled off, Claude climbed aboard his bike and sat,
waiting until the hum of the Jeep engine died and quiet returned to
the park. A rustle in the forest behind him grabbed his
attention—the throaty cry of an animal, probably fighting a
predator and pleading for mercy and help. From the depths of the
forest, a bird responded with an agitated shriek, and then silence
was restored. Claude turned the ignition on. The Harley obediently
drowned all sounds of the night forest. Claude steered the bike to
the road and took off with such powerful force that the front wheel
jumped into the air, a foot above the surface. A few seconds of
maddening acceleration, with only the rear wheel touching the
ground, gave him the feeling of riding a wild, bucking horse.

The excitement
of the risk associated with this hit and the chance of revenge
against Stanley was overwhelming. His mind, like the bike’s engine,
was firing on all cylinders. Making dangerous turns on the dark
roads, he fancied different scenarios for the kill. His first
impulse was to enter the bar quickly, shoot Stanley, and then run
back out, trusting his life to Lady Luck once more. But his last
meeting with Stanley had taught him to appreciate life a little
more. The chance of escaping the bullets of so many Iron Ghosts on
their own turf simply did not exist. Even if those inside didn’t
react quickly, the guards at the door, who observe customers coming
in and going out, would kill him. And if not them, then those on
duty outside the bar would. So, what about waiting for Stanley
outside? This might not be easy, either, as observing the site to
make preparations for the shooting and escape would not pass
unnoticed by the Iron Ghosts. All of a sudden, a more sophisticated
and practical scheme began taking shape in his mind. Baring his
teeth in a wolf’s smile, he lifted the front wheel of the bike
again, speeding up as if for a takeoff.

“We’ll settle
the score, Stanley,” he said out loud. “I promise.”

Back at home,
he found Leila still in cocaine haze.

“I took another
snort,” she said with a stupid giggle. “Wan’ some?”