Messenger of Death (2 page)

“What business
is it of yours?”

“You haven’t
asked our permission,” explained Marcel. Someone at the table
hissed, as if suppressing a laugh.

“And, we
won’t,” the guide responded matter-of-factly.

“What is your
name?” asked Marcel.

“None of your
business.”

“Okay, look,
None-of-Your-Business,” Marcel raised his voice slightly, hardly
able to contain his boiling rage. “You don’t even wear colors. Who
could tell who you are?”

“Nobody,” Jason
interrupted. “Neither you, nor the cops. Is that what you
want?”

Marcel let this
question hang in the air. He directed his attention to the fellow
with the small scar.

“I’d like to
talk to you,” he said. “What should I call you?”

“Stanley.”

“Stanley, then.
You should know, Stanley, that you can’t set up an outlaw
motorcycle club without our permission. You should also know what
happens to those who think differently.”

“Who the fuck
are you to tell us what we should or shouldn’t do?” Stanley asked,
shooting Marcel a look of cold steel.

Marcel turned
directly to him with a sudden jerk, his chin up, his right hand
stretched aside and slightly back, as if ready to throw a grenade
or a knife. Everyone in the room knew he was the president of the
most powerful Devil’s Knights biker chapter. Anyone speaking to him
with such disrespect should be dead on the spot.

“Who the fuck
are we?” Marcel repeated the phrase, now in a lower tone. His anger
had suddenly subsided, and he composed himself, putting on the air
of a businessman. After this pause, he added, “You should know by
now. Wanna know us better?”

“Better,”
Stanley echoed, not so irritating but with mocking contempt.

“Better,”
nodded Marcel.

Stanley
laughed. A splash of laughter from others around the table joined
him. Bikers appreciated the opportunity to show their contempt and
defiance to the “almighty” Devil’s Knights.

Marcel fixed
his frozen stare upon Stanley; his eyelids opened wide, showing
white space all around his irises. It was the look of an insane,
outraged animal whose only instinct was to bite off live flesh. And
yet, his body and gestures were calm and reflective. This
combination was so ominous and impressive that the gangsters of the
Iron Ghosts club gave him a moment of respectful silence.

“Fuck you,”
said someone at the back. All three Devil’s Knights looked at the
one who said it.

“I’ll remember
you,” promised Machete, stretching his lips in a hateful grin. He
stood up and walked toward the door; the other two followed him.
Everyone around the table understood that these guys would take
care of business. Everyone smiled.

The guard at
the door blocked their way.

“Hold on,” he
said. He looked the Devil’s Knights up and down.

Marcel couldn’t
believe what was happening. Would they dare to kill him right here,
in the club? Were they that stupid, to start a war this way?

The sound of
steps made him turn back. He saw Jason approaching in a steady,
unhurried pace.

“Let’s talk
outside,” he said to Marcel, giving a nod to the guard.

The door opened
wide, letting them out into the parking lot. Agitated guard dogs,
restricted by long leashes, jumped back and forth for a few moments
and then sat, watching the group with tongues hanging out. The sun,
lingering above the horizon, showed its red edge in the crack of
thick, black clouds. Dusk was quickly turning into darkness.

“Is this your
fucking way to negotiate?” Jason asked, fixing Marcel with a glare
of malice. “Give me an ultimatum? You think we are a bunch of
scared broads here?”

“You know as
well as I do that the guys in America press upon me. I have no
choice.”

“Look, Marcel,”
Jason began, talking in a calmer manner. “There is always a way to
cut a deal. After all, we can at least agree not to cross each
other’s domains.”

“There is
another way of doing things,” Marcel responded, “and that is for
you to work for us. We will give a name to your club, a prospect
status, you know, all that. . . .”

“Move your ass
out of here,” Jason demanded. He gave Marcel a burning glare,
turned around and disappeared behind doors. Marcel had no illusion;
Jason’s outrage meant something.

Before opening
the door of his car, Marcel turned toward his followers.

“The only thing
we can do is wait and see what the Ghosts do now. Anyway, none of
their club members should be killed without my permission. We’ll
set up a special commission, which will make decisions as to who to
take care of. Understand, Machete?”

II

Claude was
slowly coming to the end of his prison term. Placed in the wing
where the Devil’s Knights held an upper hand, he had kept a low
profile, trying not to jeopardize his timely release.

For the last
few days, Claude had stared through the grid of metal bars that
covered his window. He looked at the sky, fancying the biker’s
life, with its unrestricted freedoms and cruel, dangerous
adventures on the edge of survival. He would use his favored
weapon, a piece of metal rod, to beat the shit out of those who
stood in his way. He would obtain “hangaround” status in the
Devil’s Knights club and steal cars with his childhood friend,
Hans. Hans was a good thief, but did not have as much guts as
Claude. When someone refused to pay a debt for a stolen car or
parts, Hans used to ask Claude to “educate” the debtor in the
morality of financial obligations. In the criminal world, when
almost everyone was able to kill, it was not an easy task. Claude,
however, always got the money he earned.

Finally, the
day came when he could take his first steps on free ground again,
unsupervised by jail wardens. Outside the gate, in the dreamland of
freedom, the sun shone differently: It generously shed warmth and
welcome smiles on him. A black muscle car, an impeccably clean
Mustang, blocked his way. Its shiny surface, throwing back the
sun’s rays like a huge mirror, was adorned with polished,
black-painted, and chrome-plated parts, the metal emblem of a
leaping horse at the front edge of its frame. Leaning against the
left door stood a short, lean fellow, his head shaven and shiny
like the surface of his car. This was Hans, the only one close to
him whom he had never beaten. He wore a T-shirt and worn-out jeans
and smiled in unison with the sun. An expert in car theft, Hans
knew just as well how to buy cars, fix them up, and sell them. For
his own use, he was accustomed to keeping sports cars and taking
very good care of them.

They hugged
each other, and rushed to take seats and head down the road. Hans
stomped on the gas pedal, the motor rumbled agreeably in response
with all its 250-horsepower, and the tires screamed, pushing the
pavement under them at breathtaking speed. They laughed and
shouted.

“Where’re we
goin’?” Claude asked.

“To your
apartment,” Hans answered with a sly grin.

“Yer kiddin’,”
Claude said, and gave Hans a light slap on the neck. “I don’t have
one.”

“You do, too. I
rented one for yah. Gave the super some dough. Paid for the first
and last month.”

Claude uttered
his rowdy, barking laugh.

“Son of a gun.
Do you have any broads for tonight?”

“Of course.
That’s the first thing.”

“Is there a
telephone?”

“’Course. But
why do you need it so soon?”

“’Cause I have
to call my buddy from the slumber. Trasher his name is. A Devil’s
Knights guy, you know.” Claude spoke casually, as if he were a big
shot in the biker’s world.

“Bullshit,”
Hans said. He gave Claude a serious, questioning look, as if to
say, you’re pulling my leg, buddy.

“No kiddin’. He
wants to meet me. We’ll do big business, Hans.”

“I’m not from
the biker’s stock,” Hans said. “I’m in the car business.”

“You don’t make
much in it,” Claude noticed.

“’Cause I’m
lazy. But I do a good job, you know. And I’m not greedy. That’s why
I’ve stayed away from the joint for so long.”

“Let’s talk
later,” suggested Claude, looking out his window at fast-running
pictures of the road: green, tidy, mowed lawns; tall lampposts;
small houses under the sleepy afternoon sun; and bridges with a
rare pedestrian moving along their walkways.

Hans turned the
Mustang into a rundown quarter of the city and soon stopped at the
back of a dilapidated apartment building, where a few rusty,
battered cars were parked.

“Here we are,”
Hans said with pride, taking care not to step in the greenish
puddle of liquid that smelled like a clogged toilet. “There is an
entrance from here. I find it kinda handy sometimes to sneak in
from the back. Don’t yah think so?”

“Handy it is,”
Claude agreed. Hans unlocked the door, and led Claude to the second
floor, where he opened the first apartment on the right. Claude was
impressed: Although the furniture was old and half-broken, it was
furniture, nonetheless. The kitchen was equipped with refrigerator,
toaster, and gas stove. What else could one dream of?

“This is to
start with,” said Hans, alluding to the not-so-presentable
ambience. “When you start making money, you can buy something
better.”

“I don’t give a
damn,” Claude said with a rowdy laugh. He sounded like a mad, happy
horse. “This is good for me.”

Hans grabbed
the phone and dialled.

“I’ll have a
couple of broads here ASAP,” he explained, while waiting for the
response.

Indeed, two
plump, short-legged birds arrived soon, not bad for the first day
after three years in a high-security jail, although any would have
done for such an occasion, even one from an old-folks home. And a
real, beautiful life began: plenty of booze, pot smoking, fucking,
pizzas, and Chinese food, delivered from the local restaurant. Two
days later, after the crazy smokes and fires had settled a bit,
just when he needed a break, Trasher, his former cellmate, dropped
by. Claude didn’t even remember calling him, but it didn’t matter;
they had business to discuss, anyway.

Trasher, tall
and lean, dressed in a black jacket and leather trousers, came in
without a knock on the door, which was not locked. Claude reasoned
that no thief in his right mind would break into an apartment that
had no valuables inside and was guarded by a former con from a
high-security prison. Claude jumped up from the sofa and exchanged
strong, friendly hugs with the guest.

“Hay, old
buddy,” Trasher said, placing a big bottle of whisky on the table
with a knocking sound. At thirty-three, he was seven years older,
and yet he called Claude “old,” alluding to years in jail. “Life’s
good?”

He fell into a
dilapidated easy chair that complained against such abuse with a
squeaking sound of its wooden joints.

“Getting
better,” nodded Claude, settling on the sofa. “And you?”

He observed
Trasher with friendly interest, but with a touch of envy. Trasher
dressed well, which meant that he had money. His thin, but long
bony nose and dark questioning eyes gave him a hawkish look. His
suntanned skin, untidy beard and thinning, receding long hair made
him look like an Indian chief.

“Not bad
either,” assured Trasher, with a nod. “Not bad at all. Let’s crack
the bottle.”

“Naw,” refused
Claude. “Can’t take it anymore.”

“No rush,”
agreed Trasher. He stood up, took off his jacket, and hung it on
the easy char. On the back of his T-shirt was a huge sign, looking
like a corporate seal, with his club insignia along its edges:
“Devil’s Knights.”

“So, what are
you gonna do now?” Trasher asked, returning to the squeaking chair
and leaning back. “Any plans?”

“Naw. Any
suggestions?”

“’Course.”
Trasher stretched his legs, as if preparing for a long
conversation. “I’m selling stuff, you know. Lots of money. That’s
what I wanna talk about.”

“Naw, Trasher.
I’m not cut for selling. Can’t do it, man.”

“What do you
wanna do?”

“Action. Rob
banks, beat the hell outta somebody. You know me, Trasher.”

Claude stood
up, went to the refrigerator, and took out a jar of tomato
juice.

“Wan’ some?” he
asked Trasher. Not getting a response, he began drinking from the
container.

“I need exactly
your type of man,” Trasher shouted cheerfully, and hit the table
with his bony fist. Empty bottles and dirty dishes jumped noisily,
as if sharing their excitement with Trasher. “That’s what I’m gonna
suggest to you.”

“Shoot.”

Claude returned
to the sofa and stretched his legs, as well.

“Some jerk from
the Iron Ghosts visits my territory. This chickenshit sells stuff
better than mine. I told him to fuck off, but he doesn’t. He has
his backup, too, you know. I gotta beat the shit outta this
fuckhead to make others think twice before coming to my place.” He
clenched his fists. “Wanna help me?”

Claude uttered
a sadistic guffaw.

“’Course! What
and when?”

“In two days.
I’ll pick you up. In the meantime. . . .” He pulled his jacket from
the chair, removed a roll of money from the inner pocket, and threw
it carelessly on the sofa.

“Two grand,” he
said. “To start with.”

“Shit,” Claude
exclaimed in pleasant excitement. “Let’s go to a good bar tonight.
Ah? May be we could hook up with a good-looking broad.”

“Sure, Claude.
I have to rush now, though. I’ll be back at eight.” He stood up.
“See you soon.”

And he did. The
destination that night was one of the strip bars close to downtown,
about half an hour from where Claude lived. As Trasher explained,
the place had a reputation for having the best girls in town, young
and pretty, and a fairly peaceful crowd of professional men. With
this well-to-do clientele, security was tight. Claude, however, had
his own notions of security. He knew too well that fights sought
out those who had no intention of avoiding them. His favourite
weapon, a short and heavy metal rod, was stashed behind his belt
and hidden under his jacket.