Messenger of Death (3 page)

Half an hour
later, Trasher parked his Harley Davidson close to the bar entrance
and the two buddies went inside. Two grim fellows examined them at
the door with menacingly narrowed eyes. Claude chuckled. They had
chosen the wrong targets for their intimidation tactics.

A few moments
later, they were seated at the far end of the first row of
chairs.

In the middle
of the stage, a narrow pillar had been erected, and around it, a
very pretty young woman was dancing with almost professional grace,
completely naked. In the next round of the show, she lay down on
the floor and, moving her knees and thighs in impossible twists,
exposed herself to the fullest. Then, she stood up and began
weaving her legs and arms around the pillar, like a liana around a
tree, holding it from time to time close to her loins and gliding
up and down it in a very suggestive manner. In one of her turns,
she noticed Claude’s inflamed eyes and paused for a moment to give
him the sweetest smile he had ever seen. An invisible needle
pierced him from his groin to his throat, causing a strange feeling
of acute itching and sweet pain. He took two big gulps of beer to
wet his dry mouth. Never before would he have dreamed of
approaching such a beauty. But now, with plenty of money filling
his pocket, she might be affordable. He smiled back. She winked.
His heart began pounding against his ribs.

“Hot little
pussy,” commented Trasher with an approving smile.

The girl
finished her show and nodded to the enthusiastic applause of her
spectators. She smiled into space, to no one in particular, and
threw her arms up and backward, behind her neck, her elbows
pointing to the ceiling, to make her breasts push forward in a
seductive way. She then began walking out while another girl
stepped in for the next performance.

Claude stood up
and quickly reached the stairs leading to the stage. The beauty
descended confidently, like a woman dressed in the most decent
outfit.

“Hi,” Claude
said.

“Let me pass,
please.” She gave him a friendly smile.

“I’m Claude,”
he introduced himself, stepping aside. “I wanna meet you
tonight.”

“I’m Leila, and
I can’t.” She rejected his advances with a promising smile.
“Someone already takes care of me,” she explained in an apologetic
tone. “You’d better run from here. It could be too dangerous for
you.”

She passed by
and climbed the short flight of stairs leading to the dressing
room. Claude stared greedily at her pretty bum, which swayed
femininely at each step. After the girl disappeared behind the
door, somebody tapped him on the shoulder. Claude looked cautiously
around. Who the hell dared to touch him?

“Don’t hit on
that girl again.” A rather tall and strong-looking black guy stood
there, his brutal face matching his powerful physique. His advice
came with a frown.

“Why not?”
Claude asked mockingly; then, he laughed. The fellow was visibly
perturbed by the fact that someone was not afraid of him.
Apparently he had not expected any resistance.

“Don’t ask
questions, you son of a bitch,” he said, slightly raising his
voice. “Beat it. Or I’ll hang you by your balls.”

His stare was
heavy. He was a real brute, Claude recognized at once. His
attention was diverted momentarily to the changing room door, where
the beauty was coming out again, this time with a light,
transparent piece of cloth over her shoulders. She flashed Claude a
short and scared smile. That was Cupid’s last arrow, and it hit his
heart with deadly accuracy.

“Why don’t we
go outside and discuss that idea?” Claude suggested. In reality, he
was trying to feign naivete and friendship to disorient his
antagonist. He could hardly contain a boiling fury that had risen
inside. How good it would be to tear this bastard to pieces here,
on the spot, and run away . . .

If not for the
girl.

The guy looked
at him, puzzled.

“Are you
stupid, or what?” he asked, and then exchanged quick glances with
two other men who had rushed to his side. He shrugged his shoulders
and led the way to the back door.

“I’m with you,”
said Trasher from behind his right ear.

“Go to your
bike. I don’t need you.”

“There are
three of them.”

“Do it. It’s
more important to get outta here fast. Turn your bike on and
wait.”

Claude didn’t
look back and didn’t know whether Trasher had gone or not. He
followed the one who led the way, feeling with his sixth sense the
two others behind him.

It was already
dark outside, but the streetlights made sufficient illumination for
a fight. Claude pulled the metal rod from under his belt, and with
a quick twist of his body, he hit the black man in an attempt to
crush his skull. The man dodged; the rod missed the right spot but
landed on a shoulder. The blow was still devastating, and the man
collapsed, uttering a desperate, roaring sound like a mortally
wounded large animal. Though the other two guys had already jumped
out of the rear door toward him, Claude indulged himself in a
second blow, which landed with a cracking sound on the head of his
opponent. The man fell silent onto his back and stretched his arms
wide, as if dead.

Claude hit the
second man, but received a hard blow from the third, who then
grasped Claude by the arm that was holding the rod. Claude hit the
man’s face with his forehead and felt the bones of the guy’s nose
crush; he collapsed, screaming. The second man had recovered and
jumped to his feet, but did not dare attack alone. He limped away
in awkward, jerky movements.

Not in the mood
to chase him, Claude went back into the bar, where he found the
beauty standing in a transparent bikini by the door of the dressing
room, anxiously looking around. At the first sight of him, she
approached the decorative fence that separated the showgirls from
the public.

“You have blood
on your mouth,” she said, her eyes opening wide from fear. “Where
are they? Where is Jessie?”

“Who is
Jessie?” asked Claude, wiping his lips where he figured the blood
was.

“The black
one.”

“Jessie, son of
a bitch, won’t come back today,” Claude said. “He will be busy with
health problems.” He laughed rowdily. “I have to go, though. When
do you finish?”

“Soon. I want
to leave at midnight.”

“Very good.
I’ll catch you. Just walk slowly along the street.” Claude paced
briskly out of the bar and disappeared into the darkness, like a
raccoon in the forest.

When he went
out, Trasher gunned the engine, filling the quiet street with
rough, growling sounds. Claude hopped onto the back, and the mighty
bike jumped forward like a mad horse. Nobody chased them though. As
they mingled with the other cars, two police cars approached on the
opposite side of the road, their deafening sirens and flashing
lights stopping oncoming traffic. Soon Trasher pulled up at the
apartment building.

“Good job,”
commented Trasher. “See you the day after tomorrow.”

When in the
apartment, Claude dialled Hans.

“Wanna help me
tonight?” he asked.

“I’m dead
tired,” Hans moaned, half asleep, far from being pleased with a
late call.

“I need your
help, buddy.”

“What’s
up?”

“I have to pick
up a broad. Do you have any hot wheels?”

“I do. A jeep.
Only ’til tomorrow, though.”

“That’s okay.
For an hour, at midnight. Okay?”

Hans expressed
his lack of enthusiasm with a short but impressive shower of dirty
words.

“Okay,” he
agreed at last. “I’ll pick you up.”

Claude needed a
stolen car. In case of a police chase, they could abandon it and
run away. Hans, sleepy and angry, met him in the jeep, which he had
brought from its hiding place. Close to midnight, they parked about
50 meters from the entrance of the bar, where it could be
conveniently observed.

At exactly 12
o’clock, Leila came out and began walking along the poorly lit
street. She had taken hardly a dozen steps when the Jeep Cherokee
pulled up near her. Its back door opened.

“Get in,”
Claude said from the front passenger seat. His tone suggested no
disobedience. Leila hesitated, but after he repeated his command in
a more menacing tone, she climbed onto the back seat.

“How are you?”
asked Claude, turning back. “Everything was well in the bar?”

“Where are we
going?” asked Leila, her voice trembling in fear.

“To my place.
Don’t you worry, everything will be okay. How was at your
place?”

“Jessie was
taken to the hospital. He’s in a coma, and they say his life is in
danger. The other two are also in the hospital, one of them with a
serious injury.”

Claude roared
in sadistic laughter.

“Jessie will
survive,” he assured her. “These guys have two skulls. I broke only
one of his.” He laughed again. Hans echoed his laugh, but with less
enthusiasm.

“Are you going
to kill me?” Leila asked as she began to cry.

“Stop it,”
demanded Claude. “Nobody would dare to touch you. You are under my
protection.”

Leila used her
sleeve to wipe away some tears.

“Please, let me
go,” she kept crying. “Please.”

“Stupid broad.”
Claude was now talking to Hans. “I’d kill anyone who’d even look at
her.”

“Please.” Leila
was shaking, as if in a fever. In a few minutes, she was able to
calm herself and the car grew silent, with only sporadic weeping
sounds that expressed her fear. Soon, the Jeep came to a stop.
Claude jumped out and opened the rear door.

“Come out,
bunny,” he said, offering his hand. His gesture had a sudden and
unexpected effect on Leila. She stopped crying, took his hand, and
stepped down to the ground. Claude closed the rear door of the car;
its tires screamed from the strong push to get away. A moment
later, its rear lights disappeared around a corner.

“Where are you
taking me?” asked Leila with renewed fear.

“To my
apartment. I live on the second floor. Usually I use stairs from
the rear entrance. Don’t like to see people that late.”

“I’m scared,”
complained Leila.

“Stop it. Trust
me. Okay?”

“Okay,” agreed
Leila, somewhat reassured. She followed Claude up the staircase and
watched as he opened the door of his apartment.

He led her
inside. The light switch clicked, and the bright glare of a bare
bulb hanging from the ceiling on a white cable brought to view the
ugly, screaming poverty of the room before her. A shabby sofa bed
stood in one corner, dark, dirty stains covering its bumpy surface;
a worn-out table was littered with empty bottles, remnants of food,
and cigarette butts; the thick odor of never-cleaned ashtrays
mingled with the sticky smell of spilled beer; a few stools had
been scattered on the floor, some of them upside down, as if they
had been shoved about in a battle.

“Sit down.”
Claude pointed to the sofa with a wide, generous gesture of his
hand. Leila sat and leaned back, her legs crossed.

“Wanna whiskey?
Some pot?” Claude asked. He threw a hungry glance at her knees.
Leila nodded. Claude pulled a small metal box out of his pants.

“Here you are,”
he said, giving her a handmade joint from the box. “Let me find you
some whiskey.”

He opened the
door of a kitchen cabinet.

“I’ll ask the
superintendent to clean up the place,” he said. “Here it is.” He
returned with a bottle. “She does this job for me, from time to
time,” he lied, while pouring some golden liquid into glasses. “I
pay her well.”

Leila took a
sip, and then quickly complemented it with a puff of pot. Still
holding her breath, she fixed her green eyes on Claude. He half
closed his eyelids, as if dazzled by too bright a light, but she
was already turning her head around to examine the room.

Claude saw
wrinkles of surprise on her forehead. “I won’t live like this
forever,” he said, finishing his glass. “I just don’t have time to
buy new furniture.”

Leila responded
with an indifferent nod.

“You don’t
believe me,” Claude pronounced as a statement of fact. “Wait a
sec.”

He went to the
kitchen cabinet again and came back with a sizable roll of money in
his hands.

“You see? Soon
there will be more—plenty of dough.” He threw the roll at the
table. “Will you help me buy new furniture?”

Leila was
visibly impressed and looked him up and down with a fresh
interest.

“Yes, I
will.”

“Where are you
from?” Claude asked.

“Vancouver. I
ran away from home ’cause my parents bugged me all the time. They
shouted at me for fooling around with guys. They wanted me to study
and get a profession and do housework. They wanted me to do
everything I hated to do. I don’t want a profession; I don’t want
to work. I like pot. I like to drink. I can’t live without a good
fuck. I don’t want their boring life.”

Leila stopped.
She probably thought she had talked too much, since a renewed fear
blinked in her eyes. But Claude smiled encouragingly.

“Keep talking,”
he said, helping himself to another glass of whiskey. “It’s rather
interesting. Tell me, how did you end up with this shit-box,
Jessie? Did he push you to the street?”

“Oh—Jessie.”
Leila took another confidence-boosting sip from her glass. “He was
the first one who picked me up here. But no, he did not push me. He
said he would keep me only for himself. Dancing was the only thing
he allowed me to do. He said he would crush anyone who approached
me. Until today, no one had dared.”

“Did you like
him?” Claude asked, looking down at the bottom of his glass. He did
not want the girl to see his face while she answered the
question.

“At first, I
did,” she admitted. “I thought it sort of interesting. The girls at
school always said that the blacks have big cocks and can fuck a
lot. He really had a big one, but I didn’t like it, after all. I
even wanted to run away from him, but I didn’t have enough money or
a place to run to.”