Messenger of Death (5 page)

As an insurance
agent, he gathered information about businesses and individuals,
missing no detail pertinent to financial matters. Soon, he became a
jack-of-all-trades: insurance agent, financial advisor, income tax
specialist, and so on. He knew exactly where a client’s money was,
which businesses were heavily involved in cash transactions, what
transactions were of a questionable nature, and where rich people
held their fortunes (as well as how they got them in the first
place). With this information at his disposal, he found his way to
the Italian Mafia. Although the price for his services was
extremely high, so was the return.

Marcel’s
contact expressed his suspicion that Raymond might have been
involved in operations of his own, but it was more speculation than
an established fact. Raymond was very secretive—no one knew more
about him than he deemed necessary.

“May I sit
here?” Raymond asked, bending over the table.

“Sure.” Marcel
pointed to the chair. “Sit down, Raymond.”

“You recognized
me at once,” Raymond stated with an amiable smile. He sat where
Marcel showed him.

“I had a good
verbal description of you,” Marcel explained.

“Oh—the balding
head!” He responded with a note of contentment, as if the lack of
hair was something he was proud of. “I recognized you at once, as
well. Your photograph appears in newspapers once in awhile.”

Marcel shrugged
his shoulders as if to say, “That is the price for being
famous.”

A waitress
appeared and stood close to their table, waiting for their orders.
She was pretty: blond with very white, smooth skin and nice, full
lips. Raymond stared at her with unceremonious interest. The
waitress, a bit embarrassed under such unwelcome attention, took
the order and left, the corners of her mouth turned down in a
disapproving grimace.

“Nice girl,”
Raymond commented, raising his eyebrows, as if asking, “Isn’t
she?”

“Don’t pick her
up here,” Marcel warned. A vertical wrinkle between his eyebrows
vividly conveyed his disapproval.

“I know, I
know,” Raymond sighed. “Business first. What can I do for you?”

Marcel delayed
his answer until the pretty waitress, who had already come back
with a tray, served their drinks and arranged flatware at their
places. This time, Raymond ignored her presence, patiently
regarding Marcel with a trace of curiosity.

“There is a new
biker’s club in our backyard,” Marcel began, once the waitress
left.

“I know,”
Raymond nodded. “Iron Ghosts.”

“There wasn’t
much hoopla about it,” Marcel said, wrinkles of surprise creasing
his forehead.

“Until the last
funeral. But I knew about them before. I have some connections . .
. ” Raymond let Marcel guess what the rest of the phrase was
supposed to be.

“I see. I hope
they are not the same as Jason’s.”

“No, no,”
Raymond assured emphatically. “I wouldn’t play such a risky
game.”

“Good. We need
information on all of them. The problem is that we know nothing
about them, with the exception of Jason, their president. This
group is not like other biker clubs. They do not wear colors that
would help distinguish them in a crowd. As far as I know right now,
Jason has gathered some fairly tough guys around him.”

“That is true,”
agreed Raymond. “They all are businesspeople.”

“How’d yah
know?”

“A friend of
mine is a former cop,” Raymond whispered. “He told me that it’s
impossible to penetrate Jason’s circle—as is the case with your
club. But there are many sympathizers and associates that could be
employed by the police.”

“What else did
he say?” Marcel straightened up, impatient for an answer.

“The police
believe that a biker war is imminent. They are preparing for the
worst.”

“Do you know
any details?”

Raymond gave
him a polite, mysterious smile.

“Not yet.”

Marcel
frowned.

“Any chance of
gathering the information I want?” he asked.

“It would take
time,” Raymond said evasively.

“You’ve made my
day.” Marcel’s eyes were glowing with appreciation.

“Do you wish to
visit our clubhouse this Saturday?” Marcel’s tone suggested that
Raymond should accept his invitation as a great honour. But Raymond
shook his head in rejection.

“You guys are
under police scrutiny. Any association with you would draw their
attention my way. Besides, you are a very strange lot—very
unpredictable.”

Marcel raised
his eyebrows.

“What do you
mean?”

“I mean one
never knows what offends you and what might be the reason for one
of you to pick a fight. I am no contest for hoodlums. Look at my
hands.”

Raymond
stretched his arms out to show Marcel his long, elegant fingers and
smooth skin, and placed them close to Marcel’s left hand, its hairy
fingers folded into the large, heavy fist of a weightlifter.

“Hoodlums?”
repeated Marcel with metal in his voice. He gave a brief glance to
Raymond’s hands, and then tried to meet his eyes. The bastard
across the table did not blink.

“Yes.”

Raymond folded
his arms against his chest and stared back with the patience of a
trainer dealing with an irritated tiger.

“What’s wrong?
You guys like fighting, don’t you? That is what your culture is all
about, isn’t it?

“If only one
could call it ‘culture.’ But hey, that’s how poorly educated
journalists hail any weird lifestyle—culture.” A sardonic,
contemptuous smile appeared on his face. It was not clear whether
his regrets were regarding culture, poorly educated journalists,
bikers, or any of these. However, this was absolutely clear:
Raymond had no fear of Marcel, not even a shade of it.

“In our
business one has to have sufficient strength to defend himself,”
Marcel insisted, suppressing his first impulse to hit Raymond
square in the face. “Sometimes we need to silence people. Besides,
physical treatment can be very convincing.” He released the tight
grip of his fist and spread the fingers in a relaxed way.

“I understand,”
Raymond nodded. “But modern technology is at your disposal. Works
nice, if you know how to use it.”

Marcel examined
Raymond’s face with keen interest. Had this bastard ever killed
anyone? Marcel had a strange feeling that the snob sitting across
the table would not have hesitated one split second if a murder
were more expedient.

“You’ve picked
up a lot of garbage from the press and literature on bikers. First
of all, we never fight in the clubhouse. It’s against the rules
even to curse there.” Marcel continued to stare into Raymond’s
face, debating what to say or not to say. He decided to get back to
the reason for their meeting. “So, Raymond, I need addresses of the
Iron Ghosts, the locations of their businesses, if any, their
relatives, friends, license plate numbers, anything.”

Raymond’s head
was turning after a pretty girl, walking toward a distant corner of
the restaurant, her shapely behind stretching her skirt into
appealing curves.

“Such a broad,”
he commented in apparent appreciation. “A nice girl is the worst
distraction to a conversation. And, I missed something. What was
your point?”

Marcel had no
doubt that Raymond hadn’t missed a tiny bit of what he was saying.
This was a manoeuvre to win time for finding the best answer.
Marcel frowned.

“Don’t give me
any bullshit. How much do you want for your services?”

“It’s
negotiable. Let’s postpone this topic until I find something. In my
practice, I’ve found that I can open the hearts and purses of my
clients by telling them what particular information I have.”

“We have other
sources of information, as well,” Marcel remarked. “Hurry up.”

Raymond
smiled.

“I will. I know
how to make my living.”

“Okay, then. We
also need to know construction sites with explosives—where they
stockpile them, possibly who is responsible for their safekeeping,
who will take money in exchange for goods. But remember: The Iron
Ghosts will be after this stuff about us as well.”

“I’ll do my
best,” Raymond said. “Let’s keep our business confidential.”

“What do you
mean?” Marcel raised his voice slightly, enough to intimidate any
tough guy.

“None of your
colleagues must know that you are dealing with me. You may trust
them as much as you wish, but I don’t have to.”

“You don’t
understand how the Devil’s Knights are organized. No one knows the
business of others unless it is absolutely necessary. Everyone has
his own people elsewhere. Don’t worry, nobody would know about your
existence. Let’s agree on places to meet and what we shall call
them, as well as what kinds of messages you can leave on my pager,
if need be.”

Raymond was
nodding in acceptance of the instructions Marcel was giving him.
When the lunch was over, he got up and put his hand in his
pocket.

“Don’t bother,”
Marcel dismissed him with a gesture of his hand. “I’ll foot the
bill.”

“Thanks,”
Raymond said. Within moments, he had disappeared into the
crowd.

V

Leila picked up
the phone. “Just a moment,” she said, and stretched it to Claude.
When the voice on the other end of the line said a cool and polite,
“Hello, Claude?” he snapped, “Yes.”

“Come at 2
o’clock to the Rodeo Bar and wait outside,” was the anonymous
instruction. The line went dead. Claude knew where the Rodeo Bar
was. He knew who wanted him.

“I have to go,”
he said to Leila, dressing in a hurry. “Will be back at night.”

At exactly 2
o’clock, he was there. A car stopped in front of the bar. The
driver motioned him to get in.

“Marcel is
waiting for you,” a middle-aged man at the steering wheel said.
“Let’s make sure that there’s no tail, and then I’ll take you to
the restaurant where Marcel is waiting for you.”

“How’d yah know
it was me?” Claude asked.

“I’ve a good
description of yah,” explained the driver. He made a few sudden
turns and eventually pulled the car to the edge of the road.

“Here,” he
said. “Get out.” The driver led the way inside the restaurant and
stopped by the table where a man with a protruding bony nose was
sitting. Claude recognized him from photographs he had seen before.
This was the legendary Marcel.

“Sit down.”
Marcel pointed with a nod at the chair across the table. Claude
obeyed, making the best effort to conceal his admiration for
everything around—tall and nicely draped windows, high ceilings,
polished mahogany, and sparkling crystal glass. He was turning his
head, trying to understand what this luxury was needed for, but
stopped short when he noticed Marcel watching him with an
understanding smile. Marcel gave the driver a look, and he
disappeared.

“Like the
place?” asked Marcel. Claude nodded and pointed his finger to the
piece of snow-white cone-shaped cloth on the table to his
right.

“What’s this
bloody rag for?” he asked.

“It’s a cloth
napkin,” explained Marcel. “Now, look at the menu. Choose what you
like. In the meantime, I want to talk business to you. Do you
mind?”

“What d’yah
want me to do?”

“Machete told
me ’bout you and Trasher. Good job, but never again do anything
without my command. Got it?” Marcel sighed. “I think you’d be able
to take care of two Iron Ghosts.”

Marcel began,
helping himself to a glass of red Italian wine.

“We know the
restaurant they have been frequenting lately. We cannot get them
anywhere other than this place. That is unfortunate. I don’t like a
show of force in public places. But what am I supposed to do?”
Marcel shrugged his shoulders and showed his palms, as if saying.
“I give up. In spite of the best of my intentions, I have to kill
them in public places.”

“You wanna
shoot ’em?” asked Claude. Marcel nodded.

“There is no
other way, I gather. Our people will contact you when these guys
are there. Usually they spend more than an hour at a table.”

“How’d I
recognize them?” Claude asked. Marcel took two photographs out of
his breast pocket and placed them on the table in front of
Claude.

“Do you know
them?”

“No.”

Their waiter
brought the steak Marcel had ordered, expressing with his posture
the desire to serve and please. He took the white napkin off the
table, unrolled it with a swift flap, and placed it on Marcel’s
lap.

“Enjoy your
meal, sir,” said the waiter.

“Fuck off,”
Claude said to the waiter’s retreating back. He turned back to
Marcel and swallowed nervously when he noticed Marcel’s
disapproving and contemptuous grimace. Claude managed to force a
feeble smile on his closed lips and looked into Marcel’s
unblinking, frozen stare. A few butterflies fluttered their wings
inside Claude’s stomach.

“A recent blast
near our clubhouse was the deed of this one,” Marcel went on
talking, while pointing a finger at one of the photographs. “We
need to get him, to strike back as quickly as possible. Everyone
should know how we respond. We are Devil’s Knights. That means
something.”

Claude nodded
contentedly. The waiter now brought his steak, placed the plate in
front of him, spread his napkin on his knees, and retreated with
the same “Enjoy your meal, sir,” comment. This time, Claude nodded
“Thank you” and Marcel granted him a short smile. He liked how
quickly Claude learned.

“I will give
you $15,000 bucks for the deal,” continued Marcel. “Five thousand
today and ten after it’s done. Seven thousand, five hundred for
each head.”

The gleam in
Claude’s eyes gave the proposal a wholehearted welcome. He cut an
impressive piece of steak and shoved it into his mouth.