Messenger of Death (25 page)

Her thoughts
began to wander. She recalled Bertrand saying that bikers wielded
too much power and money and that their activities would soon reach
a point when coping with them would become an impossible mission.
“In our society, with its widespread notion that money is the only
measure of success,” he had said, “corruption could leap beyond
control. It all depends on the amount. If the offer were tens or
hundreds of thousands of dollars—how many in the police force or
the government would hold onto their moral grounds against a bribe
that might change their lives? Mind you, Monica, we’re fighting
with our hands tied by laws, rules, and restrictions, whereas
organized crime has nothing to slow them down at all. With
unrestricted flexibility and plenty of money, they could do
anything with our society.” The stream of her recollection was
interrupted by the ring of her telephone. Startled by the contrast
to the quiet of after-work hours and the concentration of her deep
thoughts, she reached for the phone with a nervous jerk.

“Hello?” she
said, trying to compose herself. Crunching the receiver between her
ear and her shoulder, she started gathering all the papers she
might need into her elegant briefcase.

“Hi, Aunt
Monica,” the voice on the other end said. “This is Toulouse.”

“Oh, it’s you,
darling.” Monica smiled into the space of the empty office. “How
nice of you to remember your aunt on the eve of this weekend. What
are you planning to do?”

“To hell with
the weekend,” the nephew said abruptly. She caught the unusual
notes of desperation and sadness in his voice. “I’m in trouble. I
need your help.”

“Anything you
want, Toulouse,” Monica responded. “Let’s meet tomorrow.”

“Could we meet
. . . now?” Toulouse asked rather meekly.

“What’s the
rush? Frankly, it’s not the best time for me. Where are you?”

“A few steps
from your office. Just outside the building.”

“Hmm. Could we
make it short? Say, ten minutes or so?”

“I’ll try,”
Toulouse promised. “May I come up now?”

“Yes,” Monica
consented. “I’ll make arrangements with security. Come ahead.”

She liked her
nephew and often treated him as her own son. Good looking, always
in a merry mood, gentle, and invariably optimistic, he had a strong
sense of family and tried to be of help to her whenever he could.
Regretfully, she hadn’t seen much of him in the last two months,
being too busy with political matters and the approaching
elections.

Five minutes
later, the door of her office opened slowly and Toulouse stepped
in. At his appearance, her welcoming smile transformed to a look of
frightened surprise.

“My dear,
what’s happened to you?” she cried, rushing to him. His face bore
traces of the recent brawl: a large bruise under his left eye
painted half his cheek dark blue; his lower lip on the same side
was cut, dried blood already forming a crusty red patch over the
wound. His right cheek, in its usual shape and smaller than the
swollen left one, caused his lips to be positioned at an angle to
his nose instead of being perpendicular to it. This deformity would
have prompted laughter if not for the gloom in his eyes.

“Please, sit
down . . . ,” she said, pulling him by the sleeve to a chair.
“Where have you been?” She couldn’t help but notice that Toulouse
was dressed with his customary attention to detail: a dark suit
without a single wrinkle, a well-ironed white shirt, and an elegant
tie hanging down from a perfect knot. It was odd to see such a
well-dressed gentleman as Toulouse with the beaten face of a
hoodlum.

“I was beaten
in my own home,” he explained.

“Beaten? What
are you talking about?”

“Yes, beaten.
You see . . . I owe money to the contractor who renovated our
house. I was sure that I’d be able to pay him, because, at the
time, I had sufficient money in the stock market. But then, my
shares went south. The contractor has now transferred the debt to a
collection agency. They sent their people to me—Aunt Monica, those
guys were typical gangsters. They made me sell my car in two weeks
to pay part of the debt. They demanded that I sell my house in one
month to pay the balance, but I wasn’t able to. Then they came to
my home and trashed it inside . . .” Toulouse began sobbing.

“Oh, my God,”
Monica half-whispered. It was so unusual to see this strong man in
such grief. “I’m speechless . . .” She walked around the room,
pressed her temples with the tips of her fingers, then returned to
her chair.

“I’m
speechless. But it’s largely your own fault.” Her questioning eyes
did not blink as they fixed on him with a blend of disapproval and
fright.

“Monica, I came
to you for help, not for a reprimand. As I’ve said, I lost my money
in the stock market. Anyway, I’ll be able to pay my debt, but not
all at once, and not now, as they demand. How can I sell my house
in a month? In such a rush, it could be done only for a price much
below its value.”

“Oh, such a
mess,” Monica said, crossing her arms. “What’re we supposed to
do?”

“How can you
not know what to do?” Toulouse asked. “You’re known as an organized
crime expert. You speak with such authority on TV about biker’s
matters. You certainly have lots of good connections—”

“Bikers!”
Monica interrupted him with a trace of contempt. “Not every crime
is committed by bikers. What makes you think that these people from
the collection agency were bikers?”

“Two of them
were on motorcycles. They looked like bikers. They scared me to
death.”

Rather
confused, Monica did not comment.

“I don’t know
what to do,” Toulouse complained.

“Did you call
the police?”

“No.” Toulouse
looked up at Monica. Answering her silent question he said, “I’m
scared.”

“I understand.”
Monica leaned back in her chair, forcing herself out of emotional
chaos. The deep vertical wrinkles on her forehead were in grim
harmony with the toughness in her eyes. With a clear mind and a
cool voice, she told him, “Relax, dear. Tell me some more
details.”

“Like I said,
he told me to sell the house in a month.”

“Who is
he?”

“The one from
the collection agency. You can’t imagine how frightening this
fellow was.”

“What was so
particularly frightening about him?”

“I can’t
explain, really. It was just a feeling—I was scared out of my wits.
Even his laugh . . . it made my stomach turn over.”

“How did they
manage to get into your house?”

“Yesterday, I
came in from work around six. Without a car, it takes more than an
hour to get back and forth between the office and my home. Luckily,
Valerie and the kids weren’t there. I didn’t see anybody around
when I approached the door, I swear. But when I opened it, three
men jumped on the porch as if from nowhere and forced me into the
house. One of them had on a ski mask; the two others didn’t. Large,
hairy fellows, you know, like actors from a biker movie. I thought
that they wanted to kill me. But the one in the mask just punched
me a few times as the others took out baseball bats and smashed the
furniture in the living room. The whole episode must have been a
warning, a prelude, so to speak, to more serious actions. The one
in the mask was the fellow from the collection agency, I’m pretty
sure about that.”

“What makes you
think so?” Monica asked.

“He left with
that peculiar, sadistic laugh. I couldn’t mistake that laugh for
anyone else’s.”

“Let me talk to
someone,” Monica said, reaching for the phone. She dialed and
leaned into the receiver, looking through Toulouse as if he were
transparent.

“Hello—Bertrand,” she said. “This is Monica.”

“Good evening,
Monica. What can I do for you?”

“Could you
spare a few minutes for me?”

“Certainly. Go
ahead.”

“My nephew is
here and he’s in trouble. Briefly, he didn’t pay a debt in time to
a renovation company. A collection agency, apparently run by
criminals, is now stepping on his heels. They went so far as to
beat him and destroy some furniture in his house. My nephew thinks
the attackers were bikers. Do you know any collection agency that’s
run by bikers?”

“Yes, there’s
one,” Bertrand confirmed. “We know that he’s very successful at it,
too, mostly because his guys intimidate the debtors. So far, no one
has been willing to be a witness against the agency in court. If
you wish to know more, I suggest you talk to our biker expert,
Serge Gorte. I’ll give you his direct number.”

“That’s fine. I
certainly will. But for now, what can be done?”

“That’s rather
a tough call.” Bertrand made a long pause. “He could file a formal
complaint to the police, of course, but . . . consider the
situation, Monica. Your nephew does have the debt to repay, right?
What would his complaint be about? Their methods? He would have to
admit to several acts in public. And, everyone is scared to be a
witness against bikers. Is your nephew interested in being a
witness?”

“Of course
not,” Monica answered quickly. “After so many unsolved murders,
who’d have the guts to stand up against their threats?”

He chose to
ignore her retort and pursued another line of thinking. “So, tell
me, Monica, what would you like me to do? Close down their
agency?”

“Why not?”

“What a good
suggestion, Monica. But aren’t you the most ardent proponent of
protecting bikers’ constitutional rights? If you and the
like-minded members of the task force had listened to us, we could
have gathered up these crooks and locked them away long ago. Give
us a law that makes membership in criminal gangs illegal, and we’ll
be able to shut down this agency and all the other businesses that
operate using criminal methods.”

“But—Bertrand—you’re talking about suspending the constitutional
rights of people.”

“Not people,
Monica—criminals.”

“Stop it. We
can’t suspend the freedom-of-association provisions . . .”

“C’mon,
Monica,” Bertrand interrupted. “Criminals are already in your own
backyard. I think you’ve stretched your liberal sentiments far
enough.”

“Let’s discuss
that at the next meeting,” Monica suggested. “Going back to the
subject at hand: My nephew needs more time to sell his house, but
they won’t let him have it. What do you think he should do?”

“I’d advise him
to call this agency and ask for some more time. When they see that
he’s serious about paying his debt, they might soften their stance.
In the meantime, talk to Serge Gorte. I’ll talk to him, as well.
Maybe we’ll find a way to close this agency your way. Still, just
between us, it would be easier and quicker if we could use methods
that do not agree with the existing laws, regulations, and
constitutional rights.”

“I see your
point. Perhaps your arguments do make more sense than I originally
thought.”

“In a week or
so, I’ll let you know what our options are.”

“But . . . for
now, could you provide some protection for my nephew?”

“I’m surprised
that you asked for that, Monica. We don’t have sufficient funds to
protect even primary witnesses against gangs. And, honestly, we
don’t have any formal cause to spend money on his protection.”

Monica sighed
as she realized she was stuck.

“Our final
meeting is in two weeks. If we approve the draft that the police
and the RCMP have proposed, what would you be able to do in such
cases?”

“We could
obtain financial records. We could get lists of clients and
victims. In the course of investigations, we would likely find
enough evidence to close such businesses. I’m pretty sure that we’d
be able to lay formal charges, and it’s quite possible that we
would find someone who would cross over and become an informant.
Many things might happen . . .”

“Thanks,
Bertrand. See you in two weeks.” She hung up and glanced back at
Toulouse.

“Try to talk to
the agency,” she said, answering his silent question. “Ask them to
let you have some more time.”

“And if they
don’t agree?”

“In any event,
you and your family move into my house. There’s plenty of space.
I’d be happy to have you with me. It’s distressing to be alone in
such a big house.”

“That wouldn’t
solve the problem.”

“It wouldn’t,”
agreed Monica. “You’d still have to repay your debt. You’ll have to
start building your fortune all over again. But you’ll have a safe
place to live while you’re doing that.”

“Thanks. Your
birthday is soon—”

“We’ll
celebrate it together in my home. Now, I’ve got to go, Toulouse. I
have a live television interview at eight. I can take you home, if
you wish. Don’t be so depressed, darling. It’s not the end of the
world.”

II

Cruising at a
deliberately slow speed to the television station, Monica mentally
ran through questions the interviewer would likely ask. Even a
short delay with an answer could diminish the value of her
argument, no matter how clever and convincing the response was.
Unfortunately, she knew that the general public trusts appearance
over substance, a confident look over an outstanding mind. Her
frequent appearances on television and radio had prepared her well
for the unexpected. Yet, she was a tiny bit nervous this evening:
Her interviewer was a quick-witted journalist, notorious for
putting the sharpest interviewees into a tough corner during his
shows. She had learned that the best thing she could do in such
circumstances was to stay cool and alert. That was another reason
for her concern: A rage against bikers was boiling in her heart and
head. The fear for Toulouse and his family made her frown. But the
time for meditation and soul-pacifying exercises had run out.
Whatever will be, will be, she thought.