Messenger of Death (19 page)

“Safeguarding
civil rights is our fundamental principle,” Monica said. “Criminal
or not, each member of our society has to be duly protected.”

They reached
the door leading into the cafeteria where Bertrand stopped, letting
Monica enter with a gallant gesture.

“Would you like
to join me at my table?” Monica asked.

“Sure. I’d love
to!”

She chose a
table by the window, with a lot of light pouring in from
outside.

“Do you mind if
I ask you a few questions?” she said.

“Ask as many
questions as you like. I’m here to offer my expertise to the task
force.”

“I understand
that it’s a turf war between the gangs,” she started. “But all
gangs are similar in structure and mentality, as I understand it.
Why, then, couldn’t the Iron Ghosts convert themselves into Devil’s
Knights?” Monica was proud of her smart question.

“Good
question,” Bertrand said. “Only a few of the Iron Ghosts would
qualify as outlaw bikers. I won’t go too deep into that. Just take
my word for it. It means, however, that most of them would be
thrown out of business as soon as the whole turf belonged to
Devil’s Knights. But business is exactly the reason for going to
war with the Devil’s Knights, even if it means risking their lives.
Those few who choose to betray the Iron Ghosts and qualify to
convert as bikers may not necessarily remain too long in the
Devil’s Knights ranks. Most likely, they would be killed. The war
has gone too far.”

“So, Iron
Ghosts aren’t really bikers? I gather they are more like gangsters
of different sorts,” Monica remarked.

“Right you are,
Monica,” Bertrand agreed with false enthusiasm. “But they took a
lot from the bikers’ subculture, if their way of life could be
called a subculture.”

“Let me ask you
something else.” When Bertrand nodded, Monica went on. “Why can’t
you plant more informants inside the gangs? I realize that it’s not
easy, but it’s not impossible, I would guess.”

Bertrand looked
weary. He greeted her remark with a deprecating smile, disapproving
lines running down the corners of his mouth.

“It’s
impossible. You see, they have a strict selection process that any
organization would envy. Years of heavy involvement must pass
before the gang decides to give a biker any status. To gain status
in the biker’s club means a lot: One has to participate in all the
gang activities, even the criminal ones, which would be a no-no for
an undercover law officer. But even that would not be enough. He
would have to be an initiator and organizer of crimes, eventually
controlling and directing the activities of other criminals, street
gangs, or other biker gangs. And, I assure you—even taking part in
all these activities doesn’t make a biker immune from suspicion. We
couldn’t let anyone go into such an assignment and risk getting
killed.”

Monica was very
impressed with what Bertrand was saying.

“But . . .
couldn’t you recruit from those bikers who are already under
investigation?” she suggested cautiously. Noticing a trace of a
sarcastic smile, she rushed to explain her stance.

“It’s not that
I’m advising you in the area of your expertise,” she said. “It’s
for my understanding only.”

“Sure, sure,”
Bertrand nodded. “But that is a topic for a separate
discussion.”

“Yes, yes,”
Monica consented. “Let’s get back to it sometime later. Our talk
has been very informative. Thanks a lot. But now, I think it’s time
to go to the next session, Bertrand.”

III

The sound of a
door being unlocked brought Camilla from the depths of a relaxing
nap to a serene, but pleasant reality. With a deft, quick motion,
she slipped into a fuzzy, soft nightgown and hurried to the living
room. Stanley already stood there, closing the door behind him. She
threw herself upon him with the impatience of a lover who has been
waiting too long.

“You didn’t
come by yesterday,” she reproached, but did not let him speak under
the enveloping pressure of her lips. Then she stepped back and
hopped onto the sofa, sitting on her crossed legs. Her eyes shone
with happiness. How nice to see him again!

“Sit down,” she
invited. “Tea, coffee?”

“Nothing. How’d
yah like it here?”

“It’s
lovely.”

Stanley had
rented this one-bedroom apartment for her just a month ago. He’d
furnished it with one idea only: to please her. In the course of
the shopping spree to furnish the larger space, she’d urged Stanley
to consider his purchases and spend money wisely. In response, he’d
produced an impressive roll of cash and asked her to mind her own
business.

“Did I wake you
up?” he asked, turning on the television with its remote
control.

“Sort of. I
have a night shift at the hospital. You can’t last the whole night
without an earlier nap. But never mind, I’ve had enough.”

The black
television screen flashed with the sight of a passionate French
kiss, and, after a few nervous blinks and jumping horizontal
stripes, it stabilized into the image of a good-looking female
broadcaster.

“Our guest,”
she was saying, looking straight ahead with unblinking eyes, “is a
well-known politician and member of a special task force that has
been assigned to deal with biker gangs—Monica Godette. What are
your comments on the latest development in the biker’s war,
Monica?”

A small square
at the right top corner of the screen popped up and then grew
rapidly to full size, showing a woman in no-nonsense business
dress, with an air of aggressive strength that a woman was not
supposed to possess.

“The latest
rampage between the rival biker gangs has caused great concern in
the government,” Monica responded. “The bikers think that they have
the world at their feet. They make shooting galleries out of our
bars and restaurants. Their Hollywood-style murders terrify the
public. In spite of all the police warnings to stop the war, they
have intensified it, rather than terminated it. This only shows how
deep this problem in our society is, how insatiable our appetites
are for their illegal products and services. But punishment will
come eventually, and it will be harsh. The shooting yesterday
enraged both the public and the government. I can assure you . .
.”

Stanley
chuckled and turned the set off.

“Do you know
anything about that shooting?” Camilla asked.

“Sure. I was
there.”

“Are you
serious? You scare me.”

“There’s
nothing to be scared about. This is my life. I can’t live a
different one.”

“What happened
there? Could you tell me?”

“Of course. You
know the Black Penguin bar, don’t you? That’s my territory. The bar
was almost full. Everyone there was ordinary nine-to-five folks,
dropping by for a glass of beer or a blow of coke. I was sitting
with Ogre—do you remember him? Of course, you do. He’s the one with
guts made of steel. He looks ugly to the girls, but he’s good
company. He weighs over 220 pounds—all muscle, you know. Ogre’s
always alert, and so am I. There was nothing to worry about. All of
a sudden, Ogre says, ‘I have fifty grams of coke in my car.’”

“‘Not bad,’ I
said. I looked around, but nothing seemed suspicious. ‘Who’d you
bring it for?’ I asked.”

“‘A guy from
the West End is going to come and pick it up,’ he says. ‘I’ve been
dealing with him a lot. So far, so good.’”

“‘How’d yah
call him?’ I asked.”

“‘Shifter,’ he
said. ‘Do you know him?’”

“‘His name
rings a bell,’ I said. I asked Ogre to tell me what the guy looked
like. Sure ’nuf, he was the one I saw once in the joint. The guy
was spinning some tale about the Devil’s Knights. I asked Ogre,
‘Does he know that I’m supposed to be here?’ And Ogre says, ‘Yah.
As a matter of fact, he wanted to talk to you. Why not?’”

Stanley paused,
reached for a cigarette, and lit it in a seemingly calm manner. He
drew in a huge puff and exhaled with force. Camilla, though
impatient, did not dare to interrupt.

“‘Be ready,’ I
said to Ogre. ‘Something’s cooking here. Do you have a gun?’”

“‘Of course I
do,’ he said.”

“‘Then give it
to me,’ I said. ‘I don’t have one on me.’”

“But this
stupid ass didn’t want to part with his beloved toy. He said, ‘I’m
your bodyguard. I’m supposed to take care of you. Why’d you want to
take this gun from me?’”

“‘Because I
shoot better than you do, knucklehead’ I said. ‘You’d better get
some training sometime, yah lazy bum. For now, don’t say a word
until everything’s over. Now, give it to me—now!’”

Stanley took
another nervous puff.

“And, did he?”
asked Camilla, holding her breath.

“Luckily, he
did. I took it just as three jerks entered the room, one behind the
other. Even if I hadn’t known them, I’d have understood who they
were after. With a little practice, you learn to recognize those
who come to kill.”

A quick thought
ran through Camilla’s mind: What kind of frightening life has this
man had to live to gain such experience? Stanley noticed her
strained face, but apparently mistook her fear for admiration.

“One of them I
knew well: Machete is the name of this son of a bitch.” Stanley
kept talking, encouraged by a new look of attention on her face.
“For sure, he and his buddies had killed a few of us. I knew that
he was out on bail. As he stepped in, he put on a ski mask. But
we’d already been moving toward the rear exit. You see, this bar is
my territory. I know how to get in and out of it. Had it been
anybody but me, Ogre would’ve been dusted; he would never have run;
it’s against his rules. But now, he followed me, without giving it
a second thought. There were a few loud shouts behind us, someone
in the bar screaming like hell.”

Stanley stopped
talking and lit another cigarette from the butt of the first.

“Do you have
any whiskey?” he asked. Camilla jumped up and brought a bottle from
the kitchen, with a glass. Stanley filled it halfway and drank.

“Outside,
around the corner, there’s a narrow passage that leads to the rear
parking lot.” He kept talking, his eyes grim. “We barely dodged the
waiter, who was coming from the kitchen with a load of dishes. When
we leapt through the rear door, we heard the rattle of broken
plates—they knocked the waiter down. The commotion was good for me.
I didn’t have to start shooting on the run. I know too well that
shooting on the run can never be accurate, no matter how much
training one gets.

“The parking
lot at the back was damn dark. Not a single street lamp was lit,
although usually there’s at least some light. I stopped about
twenty meters from the rear exit and turned around. At that very
moment, the door flew open and the first of them rushed out. I was
already standing still, aiming at the target: the doorway.
Machete—it was certainly him—was shooting very well. Bullets flew
just a few inches from my right ear. But I had the advantage of
being prepared for the shot, because I could stand still and take
aim at him. I fired, he shrieked like a frightened woman, and fell
down. Two others bolted in different directions. Machete, however,
turned out to be a hard nut: He kept shooting from the ground, in
pain. One of his bullets hit Ogre’s left shoulder, but it wasn’t
serious—the bullet just scratched his skin. I fired two other
shots, which calmed the shithead for good. Then I ran. Ogre
followed, holding his left shoulder with his right hand.”

“‘What’s that?’
I asked.”

“‘I was hit,’
he said. ‘Don’t worry; it’s just a scratch. I’ll drive
myself.’”

“‘You sure?’ I
asked.”

“‘I have the
stuff in my car,’ he said.”

Stanley poured
more whiskey into his glass and took a sip. He finally noticed that
Camilla was looking at him strangely. “Why are you staring at me
like that?”

“I . . . I
don’t know if I should tell you—,” she started.

“What? You
should tell me everything.”

“This . . .
this, Machete . . . he’s at our hospital.”

Stanley leaned
back on the sofa, examining her as he would a complete stranger. A
moment later, he stood up, took off his jacket, and, pacing to and
fro in the limited space of the living room, rolled up his
sleeves.

“Where in the
hospital?” he asked.

“Stanley,
darling.”

“Where?” He
threw her a no-nonsense glance, raising his voice.

“On the fourth
floor. Room 419. Look, darling, let it pass. There’s a police
officer on guard 24 hours a day outside his room. Because the guy’s
out on bail, the police didn’t let Devil’s Knights guard the room.
They want to interrogate him because the gun was found beside
him.”

“Will he
survive?” Stanley asked.

“Yes. No vital
organs were hit. He’d lost a lot of blood, but he’ll survive.”

“Okay,” Stanley
said after a silent conversation with himself. “Let’s forget about
that. When are you leaving for your shift?”

“In two
hours.”

“Good. Come
here. You won’t need that nightgown for awhile.”

“That’s
better,” Camilla said after her clothing fell to the floor. It was
lovely to feel his warm hands running over her body. “I love you,
darling.”

An hour later,
after glancing at her wristwatch, she placed both her hands on his
cheeks in a gentle, affectionate pat and said with a sigh, “I’ve
gotta go. Will you stay here?”

“Yes,” Stanley
said, his eyes half closed. She giggled happily.

“I’ll sneak
under the blanket with you tomorrow morning, when you’re still in
bed. You like it in the morning, don’t you?”

“Sure do.”
Stanley kissed her. “Any time of the day, for that matter, any
season, any weather condition.”

On the way to
the hospital, she smiled at the recollection of his last remark.
She liked it the same way Stanley did. Anticipating the joys of the
following morning, she went to the fourth floor, only to notice a
police officer at the end of the corridor, sitting on a chair
outside a patient room. That’s where the man who’d been wounded in
yesterday’s shootout, a man she now knew as Machete, was
recovering. Camilla walked a short distance to the nursing station,
and was immediately absorbed in the busy hospital schedule. Her
first priority was to check patients who were in serious condition.
Machete was one of them. At the entrance to his room, the police
officer was dozing in his chair, fighting desperately to stay
awake. When his chin hit his chest, he threw his head back with a
jerk, as if frightened by a dream. He opened his eyes for a moment,
and then, after seeing Camilla in her white medical gown, let his
head drop back onto his chest.