Messenger of Death (10 page)

“Enough about
the truce,” he concluded. “We need to get rid of Stanley, that’s
for sure. Do you have your baseball team ready, Machete?”

“At a moment’s
notice.” Machete’s eyes glistened with pride.

“Send them to
the bar on Pearson Street. They sell a lot of pot to yuppies there.
Stanley’s guy keeps it.”

“Will do,”
nodded Machete.

“You,
Techie—send your people to arrange a small display of fireworks by
their clubhouse on St. Lucia Street. You’ll have to—”

“I know what to
do,” Techie said abruptly. “It’s not my first display.”

“But we don’t
know exactly what day he’s supposed to be there. You’ll have to
have someone watching the area.”

Stash shook his
head disapprovingly and interrupted.

“You know,
Marcel, that they’ve stocked up a huge pile of dynamite. They would
reciprocate. The newspapers would scream again.”

“That’s the
point,” Marcel admitted. He was about to say something else when
the door opened and their host appeared, carrying a tray with
sandwiches and napkins. Techie watched as their host stepped
forward.

“Looks good,”
he commented.

“My ol’ lady
did it,” the associate said with pride.

“Is there a
washroom here?” Stash asked.

“Only in my
apartment. I’ll show you.”

“I need to make
a quick phone call,” Machete said, placing a bottle of beer on the
table and standing.

“Sure,” nodded
the associate. “Follow me.”

Marcel pulled
out a cigarette, lit it, and walked to the railing. Leaning on it,
he took a few puffs while staring at the green hills, blind to the
beauty of the landscape. Techie came up to him and, with his back
against the rail, looked in the opposite direction.

“I think we
should do something about Stash,” he said and turned his face to
Marcel.

“I know. I will
talk to him.”

“Talking has
never been a cure for cokeheads,” Techie insisted.

“What do you
suggest?” Marcel kept staring toward the hills in front of him, but
he was well aware of Techie’s presence. Techie was a biker in very
good standing, with an impeccable reputation. Without such members,
any outlaw motorcycle organization would cease to exist.

“Let’s demote
him to a prospect at our next club meeting. If that doesn’t help,
let’s take his colors and let him go. Otherwise, it might be too
late and we would have to take him out. Not a good option.”

“He hasn’t done
anything wrong yet to demote him,” Marcel objected. “Don’t forget,
he’s better than all of us in public relations. Now, when we’re
heading into a real mess with the Ghosts, we need him. We couldn’t
last long against the government, the politicians, and the media
without Stash. He’s well educated and knows how to speak and
present things. It might be hard, but I’ll fix him.” He
straightened up and confronted Techie. “Trust me.”

“What do you
think about the idea of truce with the Ghosts?” he asked, changing
the discussion. The two bikers stared solemnly at each other. Their
short round of silent gangster’s diplomacy was interrupted as Stash
and Machete returned and took their places at the table.

“Let’s talk
later,” Techie suggested. Only Marcel heard him, but Stash and
Machete looked at them intensely. Marcel took his seat and
stretched out his legs.

“As you know,
the situation in the Rivierre joint is not in our favor now. We did
manage to grease some of the guards, but many still side with the
Ghosts. I have the addresses and personal information of all jail
staff.” Marcel stopped, testing the impression he was making.
Machete opened another bottle of beer and smiled. Techie remained
calm and indifferent. A few vertical wrinkles appeared on Stash’s
forehead.

“I’m going to
send a copy of it to the damned jail office and make sure that they
know who has the original. I also have an address of Serge Gorte—he
has become a pain in the ass lately. It would be nice if he goes
voluntarily, as his predecessor did.”

“What if they
just spit on us?” asked Techie, alluding to the prison guards.

“The names of
those who screw things up will be typed in bold and marked with
asterisks.”

“What if
they’re not convinced?” asked Stash.

“We’ll convince
them. After all, we offer them a good choice: either have money and
work with us, or else . . . ”

“I think you’re
going too far, Marcel,” Stash said firmly. “Slumber office, Gorte—
gosh, if it comes to that, you would provoke the government. It’s
the system, you know. Have you ever thought about that?”

The question
was not necessary. Marcel always thought about what he was saying.
He didn’t respond right away, which gave Stash an opportunity to
continue.

“Look at the
Italians. They never touch government officials. Even Lucky Luciano
was against it. He was much opposed to fighting a full-scale war
with the FBI. The Italians in Canada never did it, never even
thought about it. Don’t you think there’s a reason?”

“There is,”
agreed Marcel. “Our situation is different from theirs. They don’t
control the streets. They make money from a rather small group of
people, even if it is big money. They’re much smaller than us. They
don’t grow in numbers. Mind you, as soon as any group grows in
numbers, sooner or later it’ll reach the point when a political
game on a large scale is inevitable. We have many more problems
than the Italians. We have to control jails. We have to control
streets, bars, and restaurants. We have to control the arms trade,
the pot trade, across-the-border dealings, and tons of other
businesses. Because of that, we have to influence politicians, the
police, and jail guards. If our enemies control them, we are
finished. If we can’t buy them off, we have to scare the shit out
of them or shut them up. This is all-out war, guys. We’re still
growing, and should plan to grow forever. But now, these fucking
Iron Ghosts shuffle all our cards. It’s the first time in our
history here in Canada that another group has appeared that we
can’t cope with. This sets a bad example. They say to the whole
world, ‘Fuck you, Devil’s Knights.’ Just staying alive, they kick
us in the ass publicly.”

“We’ll try to
find another solution,” Stash insisted. “I don’t like provoking the
government. They might be slow, but when they go for something,
they eventually get what they want.” Stash said this forcefully; he
respected strength in any shape and form.

“I’ll do
whatever you want,” said Marcel. “Just tell me what the solution
is. But don’t give me any bullshit that you don’t know. In that
case, I would do whatever I think is necessary. Okay?”

“You want Iron
Ghosts to run this fuckin’ jail?” Machete asked Stash, losing his
temper. “What would happen to you if you got put there tomorrow?
Who would defend you? You’d surely ask Marcel to do something. If
you happened to be alive, of course.”

Everyone was
watching Stash in silence. At last he cleared his throat and looked
to Marcel.

“What do you
want from me?”

“You’ll have
more work than all of us.” Marcel smiled in victory. “For sure,
when everything goes down, there’ll be a lot of screaming in the
newspapers, on the radio, and whatnot. The politicians and police
will be pretty loud; every one of them will want to get credit for
fighting the bikers. Some will make a career of us.”

“For sure,”
Stash nodded.

“We’ll all
support you. Now, guys, money matters. It gets costly, you know.
Every member of our chapter has to contribute at least twenty grand
for operations. Agreed?”

Everyone
nodded. The bikers left the meeting one by one, watching each
other’s tails for possible undercover police.

III

The ring of the
phone blew away the last clouds of a lazy sleep. Stretching and
yawning in the comfortable bed, Camilla let the answering machine
do the talking—who the hell would be calling on Saturday morning at
11 o’clock, anyway? Now, she lingered under the warm blanket,
wasting time.

The answering
machine did not deter the stubborn caller; the phone was ringing
again. It was probably Nick, she decided, yet another victim of her
charm. He was a teacher at the medical school and had been mad
about her for the last six months.

“I’m a natural
blond,” she had informed him yesterday during a dance at a Latino
club. “All over.” A short teasing laugh had escaped her lips. This
had been in response to his remarks that natural blonds were rare
these days. The scene had been too much for Nick, who raised his
eyes to the ceiling and moaned. Camilla gently pulled his ear.

“Why do you
like me, Nick?” she had asked. “I’m serious, I’m not playing with
you. The fashion today is slimmer girls. Men are obsessed with
them. There are a few very pretty ones around. Why me? You can’t
count ribs on my body.”

“I’d love to
try, though.” Nick had picked up the topic with enthusiasm. “Just
give me a chance and I’ll be busy with this counting problem in all
my spare time. Considering that I am poor at math, it may take my
whole life to come up with the exact number.”

To look
younger, he had removed his glasses and put them in his pocket.
He’d made a great effort to read her reaction to his words.

“You are like
the models of Renoir,” he had continued, squinting, which made him
look menacing and ridiculous at the same time. “Don’t you think
Renoir understood female beauty?”

“Renoir’s
tastes run against a whole new generation of men,” she had advised,
“and women, as well. I guess none of his models was on a vegetarian
diet.”

He had returned
her to her apartment at 3 o’clock in the morning and stopped his
car in front of the entrance to her building.

“I want to be
with you the rest of my life,” he had said.

“No, not with
me.” Camilla had replied. “I’m not ready to tie the knot. I’m too
young.” She had stopped short of saying, ‘and too good for you—a
teacher at a medical school.’ What a bore to live with the rest of
my life!”

Now, a bright
beam of sunlight was streaming into her room through gaps in the
blinds, tiny sparkling bits of dust dancing chaotically in it.

Camilla closed
her eyes, trying to envision a picture of herself from above, in
different positions, through the eyes of a lover, one of her
choice. A burning sensation underneath the triangle of blond hair
at the bottom of her stomach made her back arch and her arms
stiffen above her head with clenched fists. She liked the lazy pace
of her imagination in the mornings, enjoyed the fantasies of this
habit. Everything was permissible in the world of fantasy—not in
the real world, though, in which one had to be responsible.

Two minutes
later, the telephone rang again, this time clearing her mind. Well,
almost—she needed a cup of coffee to actually start a new,
beautiful day. But first, she decided to pick up the phone. She
sighed.

“Hello,” she
mewed lazily.

“Still remember
me?” the voice on the other end of the line asked.

Only one man in
the world could convey the strength of his character in such a
short sentence. Camilla sat up and jumped off the bed.

“Y-e-e-e-e-s!”
she screamed, bells of delight ringing in her response.

“Stanley,
darling. Where are you, you rascal? Why haven’t you called me for
so long? Where did you disappear to?”

“I’ll explain
it to you soon. I’m not far from you, in the coffee shop two blocks
away.”

“What are you
doing there?”

“I had a short
meeting with someone.”

“I’ll be there
in half an hour.” She was speaking very fast, and hung up without
giving him the chance to say a word. She dressed in a hurry,
consulting the mirror frequently. With one final look at her
reflected image, she turned around, observing herself with
merciless detachment. She looked good. She smiled.

On the way out,
she noticed that the door to Shelly’s room was open. She wasn’t
there. Early bird—Camilla thought with satisfaction. Good.

The street
greeted her with the joyous hustle and bustle of an early summer
day. She walked briskly toward the sun, taking in its energy and
warmth. It was so nice. Oh, how beautiful and happy her life
was!

There he
was—sitting at a table on the sidewalk. Camilla ran straight into
his arms, a familiar flame rising inside her. Although an
enthusiastically kissing couple was not an unusual sight in St.
Michel, everything has its limits, and, even here, such behaviour
attracts an attention—everyone around began looking at them.
Passersby smiled approvingly as Camilla impatiently pulled at
Stanley’s T-shirt, raising it up and out of his jeans in search of
his bare skin.

“I’m so happy
to see you again,” she was saying, her mind racing. She ran her
palms under his shirt. “Where have you been all this time?”

“In the
States.”

“Why didn’t you
let me know?”

“I didn’t want
you to wait for me. A guy never knows what might happen to him on
such a mission. But I am here, now. Do you mind going to my
place?”

“No, but let’s
go to mine. My roommate has gone, I hope, for the whole day. You
can tell me the story there.”

Holding each
other, they began walking toward her apartment. While looking at
his face, she almost fell, stepping off the edge of the road, but
Stanley firmly caught her and lifted her into the air.

“Sorry. I’m so
excited I didn’t watch where I was going,” she said with an
apologetic note.

“You don’t have
to,” Stanley said laughing. “I’ll take care of you.”

They spent the
next few hours in tireless, almost angry lovemaking. As dusk
settled, Stanley picked up his pants from the floor, fished out a
pack of cigarettes, lit one up, and took a deep drag.