Chapter 3

 

I

 

The meeting place was code number four on Marcel’s list. The restaurant, owned by an Italian crime family, had been designed with its clientele in mind. It was divided into three areas—two large halls, arranged along an outer glass wall that faced the street, for ordinary visitors, and a smaller room at the back, with only ten tables inside, for those select patrons who needed privacy and wished to be hidden from unwelcome attention. The food was good, inexpensive for its quality, and served by pleasant, ever-smiling, attentive waitresses. It was a large money-laundering outlet in which illegal cash was converted into legitimate income, reported taxable, and made safe for spending. When Marcel and his two bodyguards came in, it was about 2 o’clock in the afternoon and the lunch crowd was nearly gone. One of the waitresses greeted them with genuine joy.

“Please, follow me,” she said, holding large restaurant menus under her arm. In the back room, daylight from a small window mingled with electric light from a hanging chandelier. Reflected and multiplied by numerous crystals, it created an instant atmosphere of comfort, quiet, and privacy. White tablecloths; snow-white, well-ironed napkins stuffed into wine glasses; and the refreshing chill of air conditioning enhanced this feeling.

“Which table do you wish to take?” the waitress asked.

“The one in the left corner is for me,” Marcel said. “That one—near the entrance—is for my friends.”

“Certainly.” The waitress responded with an energetic nod to emphasize her understanding.

“I’m waiting for another guest,” Marcel told her, as he sat down where he could observe the entrance to the room. “He should be here any minute.”

“Certainly,” the waitress repeated in the same tone. “Here is the wine list.”

“A bottle of my favourite,” Marcel requested, not looking at the paper. “You know . . .”

“Of course, sir,” she said seriously, as if on an important mission, before going to serve the bodyguards.

Raymond appeared at a quarter past two, as arranged. Settling in across the table, he asked with a smile, “Who are those two?”

“My people,” Marcel responded with pressed lips.

“I don’t welcome any attention other than yours.” Raymond adjusted his phony eyeglasses on the bridge of his nose and started studying the menu.

“They are reliable people,” Marcel growled.

“I know. But they are outside the list of the two people I trust the most.”

“And who would that be?”

“You and me.”

“Listen.” Marcel frowned. “It’s not peace and quiet now. You know as much as I do that we live in troubled times. It’s not cheap to keep bodyguards these days. Besides, these guys are for your safety as well as mine.”

“I know, I know.” Raymond sighed, his way of expressing appreciation for Marcel’s consideration. “What can I do for you?” He removed his napkin from the glass.

“Some wine?” Marcel asked, taking the bottle.

“Please.”

Raymond looked in silence at the stream of red liquid pouring from the bottle.

“I need information on someone as soon as possible,” Marcel said while Raymond was sipping his wine. “Stanley Mathews is his name. We know that he has a muffler shop, but we don’t know what name it’s registered under. The bastard is shifty like mercury; he is everywhere and nowhere. We don’t know where he lives or where he hides. Besides the usual pay, I’ll give you an extra two grand when we’re done with him.”

“I don’t need the last detail,” Raymond said. “Do you want me to find out where his muffler shop is?”

“Yes. Any other information about him would be a bonus.”

“I’ll try. Anything else?”

“I need to know the address of Serge Gorte. He’s the one responsible for investigating bikers.”

Raymond didn’t blink. He was looking into Marcel’s eyes in silence, in expectation of some explanation. The tension at the table was growing.

“Three grand,” Raymond broke the silence in a low voice. “I have to share with others . . .”

Marcel smiled through tight lips, his eyes grim. In response, Raymond raised his glass and said, “Cheers.”

“Something else,” Marcel said.

“Sure.” Raymond drank his wine in small, slow sips.

“The government is going to assemble a task force that is supposed to work on ways to deal with bikers.”

Now, a genuine smile appeared on Marcel’s lips. Raymond took too big a swig, made a choking sound, and coughed.

“Excuse me,” he said, lifting the napkin to his lips.

“We need their addresses—if not for all the task force members, then at least for the major players.”

Raymond recovered quickly. A look of respect flitted across his face, only to yield to his customary unemotional mask.

“I’ll do my best,” he mumbled. “As far as I know, the task force has already been assembled, but the members have not been announced yet.”

The rest of the lunch passed by in meaningless small talk, with each thinking his own thoughts. Marcel pulled up his left sleeve and glanced at his watch.

“Five minutes to three,” he said.

“Time to depart?” Raymond asked.

“I’m expecting someone else at three,” Marcel said. Raymond produced his wallet, but Marcel stopped him with a gesture.

“On the house.”

“Thank you.” Having said that, Raymond left.

In a short while, another visitor came in. This was a tall, very fat man in his late forties, with short, neatly groomed hair. His round blue eyes were fixed above puffy cheeks and appeared to observe everything with constant surprise. He was dressed in a seemingly expensive dark blue suit and walked with the self-assurance and composure of someone who knew his worth and power.

Marcel exchanged quick glances with his bodyguards to signal them to relax.

“Good afternoon, Norman,” Marcel greeted the newcomer and, after shaking hands, pointed at the menu. “Would you like to order something?”

“No, thanks,” Norman said, rolling his eyes. “Just coffee.”

“You’ve changed quite a bit lately,” Marcel noticed with a smile. “The biker life was better for you. How far back was it? Ten years, or so?”

“Close to that.” Norman returned an agreeable smile in appreciation of Marcel’s fond memory. “The biker life was not for me. But you know the other reason, Marcel: I didn’t want to be on the police radar screen. You can’t continually be in the spotlight and outsmart the police forever.”

“Right you are. But you know as well as I do that publicity is exactly what so often protects us. Anyway, you left the club as a member in good standing. There are still a few among us who recall you with respect.”

Norman raised his eyebrows and looked out the small window. “How is business?” he asked.

“My traffic crew has assembled 15 units for you. You’ll get them next week.”

One of the gangs that Marcel controlled specialized in the car business. This was the “traffic crew.” Part of their activity was theft: They stole cars in Quebec and Ontario that were sold overseas or disassembled into parts and supplied to legitimate enterprises. Their other activity was money laundering: They bought cars with cash and sold them to dealers, who in turn sold them in the U.S. market. Norman was the owner of a larger dealership to which Marcel supplied his merchandise. The two seldom met personally—only if there was a compelling reason for it.

“Good, good,” Norman said, apparently in deep thought.

“Something is bothering you, I gather,” Marcel remarked. “What’s up?”

Norman squeezed his hands, fingers intertwined in a nervous grip.

“I have a problem with my wife. You know, the girl I married two years ago.”

“Yes, I remember. She was twenty-two then. People say she’s very pretty. Cheating on you?”

“If only that. No, she wants half of my assets—as a separation settlement.”

“What a bitch.”

Norman sat quietly for a moment.

“Do you have a man who could do a really good job, Marcel?”

“Yes, I do. When do you wish to meet him?”

“Anytime. The sooner, the better.”

“Okay. Let’s talk about other business for awhile. In the meantime, I’ll call the waitress to bring you some coffee. Want some wine? No? Coffee, then. They make a good cup here.”

 

II

 

The furniture store made her cheeks rosy. Without taking her eyes off a piece, Leila asked, “How much can we spend here?”

“Five grand,” Claude said casually, as if such an expense was a matter of everyday life.

“Ouch! I want this one!”

Claude’s cell phone began playing music. He raised it to his ear and said, “Hello.”

“Hi. Is number seven at one okay?”

Marcel wanted him at number seven—the Golden Griddle restaurant, located downtown. Claude looked at his watch. It showed quarter past twelve. He took Leila by the waist.

“I’ve gotta go. Here’s the money.” He slipped a sizable roll of cash into her bag.

“No-o-o,” was her response.

“Buy whatever you want. Arrange delivery. Take a taxi home.”

At 1 o’clock, he found Marcel in a distant corner of the restaurant, sitting alone at an empty table.

“Something urgent?” Claude asked, taking a place beside him from which he could scan the whole space as well.

“Yes.”

The waitress came and placed two glasses of cold water on the table.

“Ready to order, gentlemen?” she asked.

After she had taken their orders and left, Marcel turned to Claude and established eye contact with him. Marcel had done this the last time before starting a business talk. Claude already knew this meant good pay for a death sentence for someone.

“A job.” Marcel diverted his attention to the glass. “Someone who was a Devil’s Knight about ten years ago got into a rather big business and left the club. Not everything he does is clean and saintly. But mostly, it is a legal business.”

“Uh-uh,” Claude uttered, as Marcel stopped talking.

“Yah, legitimate business,” continued Marcel, with a note of contempt. “Anyway, he’s developed some problems with his wife. A rather easy job for you, isn’t it?”

Claude nodded and raised his eyes.

“Tell me more.”

“Okay. Ten grand. Mind you, it’s good money, given that he’ll cooperate with you.”

“Sure.”

“He needs someone who could do a truly clean job. No shooting, no bloody spectacle in public. Not even a tiny trace of evidence can be left for the police. I recommended you.”

“How’d yah want me to do the job?” Claude asked.

“It’s up to you to decide. I’m not gonna give you instructions. Discuss it with him. His name is Norman. He works downtown, so it would be convenient for him to meet you in one of the restaurants there during his lunchtime.

“Sure.”

“Do you want him to bring a picture of his wife?” asked Marcel.

“Not necessary.”

“Sure?” Marcel raised his eyebrows.

“Not necessary,” repeated Claude.

“How do you . . . ? Never mind. It’s your business.”

The waitress came and placed dishes in front of each one. “Enjoy your meals.”

Claude took up his knife and fork the same way Marcel did. He cut a piece of meat and noticed with satisfaction Marcel’s quick glance, a mixture of surprise and approval.

“I know it’s not my business, but why does he want to…? Insurance money or something?”

“There’s nothing wrong with you wanting to know some details,” Marcel said. “Two years ago, he married a broad much younger than he was. She is now about twenty-four. Anyway, she married for money—that was no secret. But soon after, she began fucking someone she had known before. Norman didn’t want to make a big deal of it; he wasn’t a saint himself. But now this bitch demands half of his property for her agreeing to a divorce. Otherwise, she’s threatening to tell the police about some of his dealings. The stupid broad has no idea what she’s getting into.”

“Let me know where and how we should meet.” Claude wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I’ll take care of her.”

“You must be in Movenpick restaurant tomorrow at 1 o’clock. Look for a big, fat guy in a gray suit and blue tie. You won’t mistake him for anyone else. He’ll be alone at a table. Ask him, ‘Any seat available?’ He’ll respond, ‘Just one.’”

 

The next day exactly at 1 o’clock, Claude entered the restaurant. In an instant, he noticed a big man—close to fifty years old, well dressed and groomed—sitting by the window. He seemed to recognize Claude and then turned his attention back to the menu.

“Any seat available?” Claude asked, looking at the pale blue tie. Everything on this man looked expensive: gray suit, white shirt, diamond ring, and thick, gold Rolex.

“Just one.” Norman nodded to the chair at his right.

“It wasn’t hard to find you here,” Claude said, taking the chair.

“Yah. No problem with you, either. Marcel gave me a good description of you. I’d suggest—may I?—that you wear a long-sleeved shirt for such meetings. The tattoos on your arms make you stand out. What would you like to eat?”

Claude opened a menu, studying Norman from the corner of his eye. The man looked quite respectable, as he was supposed to, according to his status. But there was something, not explainable in words, that only people in the underworld could recognize: This was a very tough guy, a wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing.

“What’s your wife’s name?” Claude asked, not looking at him.

“Brigitte. Why do you need her name?”

“You want a clean job, don’t you? Let me take care of everything my way.”

Norman shrugged his shoulders.

“As you wish.”

They stopped talking when a waitress came to take their orders. After she left, Claude resumed the conversation.

“Let me do the job this-coming Saturday. On Friday, you’ll tell her that you’ve got to go away on urgent business somewhere. Tell her that one of your business buddies whose name is Bruce—she doesn’t have to know my real name—will be coming by to pay a debt. Ask her to count the money she gets before accepting it. Okay?”

Norman responded with a trace of a smile, a glow of appreciation softening his eyes.

“There’s pretty tight security at the entrance to our condo,” he warned.

“Let me deal with that. But give me some advance money. I’ll need her to start counting.”

Norman looked inquisitively at Claude, but not for long. Even for a former biker, it was not easy to contest the stare of a killer.

“Here’s what we’ll do,” suggested Norman. “Today I’ll give you five grand. In my apartment, go to the bedroom where I have my home office. In the top drawer of the desk there’ll be an envelope with another five. Fair?”

“Good,” nodded Claude. Indeed, he thought. After the broad is done with, I’ll get the balance. Smart, good . . . Norman.

Norman plunged his hands into his large suitcase, manipulating something in its depths. Finally, he produced a thickly stuffed envelope.

“Here is the five,” he said, holding the envelope under the table. “Take it.”

He was glancing stealthily around. Claude quickly took the envelope and stashed it in a pocket.

“Thanks.”

“Something else,” Norman said. “She has some jewelry at home. Take it. It’s a bonus for you. Let’s make it look like a robbery. I don’t need that crap anymore.”

Claude couldn’t wait until lunch was over.

“I’ve gotta go,” he said, throwing his cloth napkin on the table. “Gimme your address, phone number, and a spare key from your apartment. Just in case.”

Norman nodded in agreement. He produced a notebook from his suitcase, scribbled the address on a piece of paper, detached a key from a key chain, and handed it over to Claude.

“Good luck,” he said.

Life is good, Claude thought on the way out, elated by a fat down payment from Norman. Driving home, he fancied Leila, her joyful surprise at the sight of the money, her smiling lips and white teeth.

The first step over the threshold of his apartment brought him from one fantasy world to another, the kind that existed, he believed, only in glossy magazines.

New furniture, affordable only to the wealthy—he had become one of them—was thoughtfully arranged in the room in a harmony of colors, convenience, and space. Leila had bought a shiny dinner table with four chairs, a dark wood and glass coffee table, and an entertainment center that included a television set, radio, and CD player. Semi-transparent curtains, hanging from the top of the window down to the floor in smooth vertical folds, dimmed the bright light of the sun. Pleasing music filled the room, and in the middle stood Leila, his beautiful Leila, in a light summer dress. If paradise ever existed, it must be this room. Never before had he had such a home. Never before had he had a woman waiting for him to share with him the joy of life.

“Wow,” he growled.

“Like it?”

“Very. Who fixed the curtains?”

“The superintendent. I gave him fifty bucks. He helped me a lot. Where have you been so long?”

“Business.”

“Was it good?”

Claude pulled out a thick envelope and threw it on the sofa. It opened up and money slid out. Leila giggled, jumped like a kid, and threw herself into his arms. Claude felt the irresistible urge to please this woman more.

“What would you like, what do you want?” he asked. “I can buy you anything. More money is coming.”

“I need to buy some dresses. Some jewellery.”

“Good. I need some good clothes, too. Next Saturday I have another business meeting, from which I’ll bring more money. But for now, take off what you have on.”

Leila began to undress, taking her time and demonstrating the techniques she had learned as a stripper.

 

III

 

Saturday morning arrived, and Claude looked in the mirror, observing his new clothes. Selected with Leila’s discriminating taste, he thought that he looked like a decent young man from a middle-class family. His dark gray shirt, made of fine cotton, had long sleeves, concealing the tattoos on his forearms. Black, casual but dressy pants, pleated in the latest fashion, were a good fit for his tall figure. Finishing the ensemble were shiny black shoes, sturdy as well as comfortable. In addition to his new wardrobe, a friendly smile looked back at him, a final touch to his new image. Everything in the mirror was to his liking. A successful man in his trade, he thought, must be a good actor. If people took him for what he was, he would never go too far.

“You’re dressed more for a date than for a business meeting,” Leila said, flapping her sleepy eyelids.

“Dates never happen this early,” Claude remarked, looking at his new wristwatch. “Nine o’clock. Time to go.”

“Don’t be too late,” Leila pleaded mockingly in the tone of a small, spoiled girl. “I don’t like to be alone for long.”

“It won’t take much time,” Claude promised.

“Maybe I could help you?” she asked.

Claude laughed.

“My job is not for girls.”

Leila gave him a kiss in the air.

Driving to the other end of the city, where Norman’s condo was, he rolled the car windows down to let in some of the morning’s fresh, crisp air. The hour was early enough; very few cars were on the road. Many people had probably left for their weekend destinations, whereas compulsive shoppers had not yet awakened. Contrary to the peaceful look of the streets, his anxiety grew. Even a tiny mistake could be fatal, or worse—for this kind of murder, he could get life in jail, with no chance of parole. He had to respond to any unexpected circumstances instantly and make the right decisions.

Claude turned into the parking lot of a plaza across the road from Norman’s condo. He found many vacant spots, but chose to park his Honda in the place closest to the exit. He walked between the cars and went inside the plaza, where it was cooler. Very few people were around. Claude went to the public phone, looked around, drew a scrap of paper from his pocket, and dialled the scribbled number. After the third ring, a gentle voice answered, “Hello.”

“Hi. Is Norman at home?” His voice was unusually soft.

“No. He’s in Toronto. Who’s asking?”

“My name is Bruce. I have to repay a debt to him. He promised to be home at this time.”

“Yes. He told me about you. He asked me to take care of this. Do you know where we live?”

Her voice was mellow and sweet, like an angel’s.

“Yes, I do. Is there anyone else there?”

“No.”

“Am I too early?”

“Never mind. It’s time to get up. I’m a night bird, you know. Sometimes I sleep well into the afternoon.”

“Good. See you soon.”

“Hold on. When you come in, you’ll see a phone with a display in the entrance lobby to your right. It’s across from the security guard—you’ll see him behind the glass. Use the arrows on the dialling pad to scroll up or down to find Norman’s name, and then press the large button. I’ll unlock the door and let you in. We’re on the seventeenth floor, number 1703. Got it?”

“Sure,” Claude said and hung up. Just then, he realized that Norman had not told him his last name.

Claude was trying to prepare as much as possible for any unforeseen circumstances. How crowded would the entrance be? Would there be video cameras in the staircases and emergency exits? Would the security guard be at his post? Claude had to sneak into the building unnoticed, without exposing his face to anyone. This time he had to work without a ski mask.

The 25-story building towered like a grim, silent giant above the private houses that surrounded it. It was a very expensive condo, whose tenants did not rush around settling day-to-day matters. The entrance was at the back of the building. With no pedestrians in sight for cover, approaching the front door without being noticed would be impossible.

Luckily, there was a tiny park, which Claude could use as an observation point, farther down a side street. Sitting on a bench there, almost hidden by dense bushes, he watched for human traffic. Nobody came in or went out. A few minutes passed; tension grew inside him.

Claude couldn’t afford to wait too long. When an elderly woman with a few shopping bags in her hands appeared on the sidewalk leading to the entrance, Claude saw his chance. He walked briskly and caught up with her at the door.

“May I help you, ma’am?” he asked and took one of her bags.

“Oh, thank you,” said the lady, squinting her eyes as people with very poor vision do. The bag indeed might have been a bit heavy for her. Through the glass door, he caught a glimpse of the uniformed man, busy shuffling papers at his desk. Claude stepped in ahead of the old woman, positioning his back to the security guard. There was another door that the woman would have to open with her key. Between the doors, attached to the wall across from the guard, stood the useless phone system.

“It’s my pleasure to help you,” Claude said gallantly, letting her in. “After all, we are neighbors, aren’t we?”

“Thanks a lot,” the old lady said, opening the second door with her key. Claude threw a quick glance at the security guard. He was still busy with his papers. Apparently, two people chatting calmly at the entrance, who had a key to the door, did not arouse his suspicions. Claude went on, supporting his conversation as much as possible.

“It is very nice to have a neighbour like you. My name is Brian. What’s yours?”

“Rosa,” said the old lady. “I haven’t seen you before. You are a very nice young man. Press 15, please. Thank you. What floor are you living on?”

She squinted again, trying to get a better view of him. “My vision is not as great as it used to be,” she explained.

“Twentieth,” Claude lied.

At the fifteenth floor, he returned her bags, said, “Good-bye,” and pressed 17. When the elevator stopped, he stuck his head out and looked right and left. No one was in sight. He stepped out and knocked at the door of unit 1703. Brigitte would be allowed to see his face. The dead—as she soon would be—could not be a witness.

He stood in front of the peephole, smiling. He heard a feeble rustle in the depths of the apartment, then the click of the lock, and the door opened slowly. A petite, pretty young woman in a fluffy nightgown appeared.

“Please, come in.” She returned his smile. “I am Brigitte.” The woman stepped back to let him enter.

“Nice to meet, you,” Claude said, searching the distant corners of his memory for a few extra nice words. Brigitte nodded and smiled again—a very sweet smile, Claude thought. She looked very tempting. Her cheeks, a bit puffy after a sound sleep, were perfectly smooth. Something childish was dancing in her large green eyes. It would be nice to fuck her, Claude thought, but no, business is business.

“Please, sit down,” she invited.

“Thanks. I didn’t expect to see such a beautiful woman.”

Brigitte smiled again, this time with a touch of understanding and compassion. Apparently it was not much of a surprise for her to have another man making over her.

“Some coffee?” she suggested.

“No. Business first.” He pulled out an envelope and placed it on the table. “Please, count.”

“I trust you,” she said in her gentle voice. “I couldn’t care less about money.”

She seemed unable to recognize danger. Claude admired her acting skills: This bitch played an innocent angel without a flaw.

“Please count it and give me a receipt. Just in case, you know. I don’t want to have any complications with Norman.”

She sat back in a chair and took the envelope.

“Why didn’t you call from the entrance?” she asked.

“Oh, there was an old lady there who let me in. I helped her with her bags. Very nice lady.”

“Sure you don’t want some coffee?”

“I’d love to, but have no time at all. My wife is waiting for me downstairs in the car. We have to rush.”

“Well, then,” she responded, seeming slightly disappointed. She removed the money from the envelope and started counting. Claude walked behind her back, stretched on his gloves, grabbed her chin with his right hand and the top of her head with his left, and, with a powerful clockwise twist, crushed her neck vertebrae. Brigitte died instantly, without uttering a sound. Claude let her fall to the floor and went to the room where Norman’s office was. He found money in the top drawer, as Norman had promised. In the bedroom he picked up some jewellery. He gathered the money that had scattered on the table, which Brigitte had had no chance of counting, and moved slowly into the hallway.

No one was in the corridor.

Claude proceeded to the fire exit door and went out, burying the lower part of his face in his half-folded right arm, as if protecting himself from the blow of a fist. A quick glance around assured him that no security cameras had been installed in the staircase. Good. Trying to make as little noise as possible, he descended to the ground floor and left the building through a side door. The short passage leading to the street was empty. With a brisk walk Claude crossed the road, went to his parking space, got into his Honda, and turned the key. A thought about Leila made him smile—she would be beside herself with delight at the sight of the pile of money and jewellery he brought her.

On the way home he stopped at a small plaza with a public phone, and dialled the pager number and then 7777, which meant to Marcel that the deal was done. Steering the car back into the slowly flowing traffic, he rolled down his windows and let some fresh warm air in. Life is good, he thought—the sun was shining; money was plentiful; and his girlfriend was really something. She was waiting for him now.

The ring of the cell phone interrupted his pleasant chain of thoughts.

“Number twelve, if you could,” the voice said. It was Marcel.

“When?”

“Right now.”

“Okay.”

The café with the code number twelve was a half-hour drive away. Why would Marcel want a meeting on such short notice? Claude thought, already cruising along the streets toward the meeting place. Did I do something wrong? By the sound of his voice, Marcel isn’t angry. What’s the damn rush?

His worries were groundless. Sitting at a table on the sidewalk, Marcel greeted him from afar with a friendly smile. He stretched his arm out for a handshake.

“Everything went well?”

Claude gave him a detailed account of the events.

“I like it,” Marcel nodded and took a sip from his coffee cup. “In a short while we’ll have a meeting in a country home that belongs to one of our members. Big house on the lake, you know. Two boats.” There was a meaningful pause. “You’re invited. Mind you, mostly full patches will be there.”

The joy at having such respect shown him was more than Claude could handle. He suppressed an urge to jump up, taking a cigarette, instead, and lighting it.

“Why don’t you speak?” Marcel asked.

“I don’t have a bike,” Claude said with intonations of guilt.

“Buy one.”

“I’m still short of money.”

“How come? You’ve been paid well.” Marcel frowned. “Too much up your nose?” He was hinting about cocaine use.

“No, not at all. But I’ve had to spend some money on furniture. I have a girl. You know. Like . . . she will be my old lady.”

Marcel’s eyes glowed in appreciation.

“Good girl?”

“Yah. Very pretty. But she wants to buy all the household things, and it’s damn costly.” Claude shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, “What could I do? A woman.”

“I know, I know,” agreed Marcel. “I’m convinced that having a family isn’t a bad thing. It makes one responsible and careful. How much do you need for a bike?”

“Another ten grand.”

“I’ll lend you the money.”

“Marcel,” Claude said, overwhelmed with emotions. “I’ll do anything for you. But . . . I don’t know if I can pay you back soon.”

“You can. There are a few jobs waiting for you. By the way, can you ride a bike?”

“Yes, I can. I have a friend in the car business. He has good bikes once in awhile, so I drive them. I already have a license.”

“Good. One of my people will call you tomorrow and give you the ten grand. Okay?”

The whole world began a slow dance around Claude’s head. It seemed that the day was an endless succession of happy events and news. This morning, he had killed a woman. It was a nice, perfect kill. He’d gotten lots of money for it and some jewellery for Leila. Marcel was going to lend him money for a beautiful Harley Davidson. And now, more jobs and money were waiting for him. Such a nice, beautiful life!

“I’m always ready,” Claude said, lighting another cigarette. He drew the smoke in as if it was the elixir of life. Exhaling a thick cloud, he asked, “What are these jobs?”

“I’ll give you the home address of an Iron Ghost. That’s the only thing I know about him at the moment. Don’t touch his wife or kid. Make it clean.”

“Will do. What else?”

“Another one is a frequent visitor of the Planetarium restaurant. We have some people there who’ll let us know when the Ghost is there. Our guy will be in touch with you. Be ready any minute, as time is at a premium.”

“Sure. Anything else?”

“Not now. But something’s cooking.”

“What?” Claude sensed something interesting.

“Very soon we’ll know the exact location of the muffler shop that belongs to Stanley.”

A sadistic guffaw from Claude greeted the news. Marcel raised his eyebrows, which made Claude interrupt his reaction. The waiter, who stood nearby, noticed a disturbance and came over with a pot of coffee.

“Some more coffee, sir?” he asked Marcel, bowing in respect.

“Yes, please.”

The waiter turned to Claude.

“Something for you, sir?”

“Only coffee.”

“Certainly, sir. Here you are. Enjoy.” The waiter left.

“Sorry,” Claude apologized. “It was too good news for me. He’s mine—don’t give him to anyone else. Okay?”

“Sure. Five grand on top of the usual pay is what you’ll get for him.”

Claude’s head began to swirl.

“I’ve gotta go,” he said. “My ol’ lady is waiting for me.”

“Sure,” Marcel nodded with a condescending smile.

By the time Claude got home, it was late afternoon. He found the curtains drawn to dampen the bright sunrays, Leila napping on the sofa. She was dressed in soft jogging pants and a T-shirt, and she smiled sleepily when she heard him enter the room. She spread her arms for an embrace. Claude grabbed her and ran his palm over her back under the clothes, from shoulders to buttocks, enjoying the unique softness, smoothness, and warmth.

 

IV

 

During the next two weeks, Claude was busy executing Marcel’s orders. The hunt for the first target was not simple: This Iron Ghost stayed in a different location almost every night, avoided public places, and was accompanied by a bodyguard at all times. A special crew of Devil’s Knights kept his house under surveillance around the clock. Their only task was to notify Claude when the target returned to his home.

A few days passed. Claude did not take the time to indulge in any treats, except cigarettes. Finally, one afternoon, the phone rang. Claude grabbed it.

“Hi.”

“Go home.” The informant on the other end hung up. Claude knew the address. Without wasting time, he called Hans, who had already found a stolen car for this occasion. It wasn’t long before Hans pulled up at the back entrance of the building, where Claude—dressed in a jogging suit, his professional dress for murder—was already waiting for him. When he climbed into the passenger seat, his cell phone rang. The informant, using biker’s slang, delivered rather shocking news: The security guard had left the house—someone had come and picked him up. Most likely, a replacement would come shortly.

“Hit the gas, Hans!” Claude commanded, disconnecting the line. “We have only minutes, if not seconds, to get the job done. Stop very close to his house.”

“Will you shoot him inside?” Hans asked. He was pale, very tense—poor Hans. The stress of this job was too much for him.

“Yes, in the house,” Claude confirmed. “Keep the engine running.”

Claude was tense as well. However, when the car stopped, the knot in his stomach loosened. Cold energy enveloped him, clearing his mind and sharpening his senses. He stepped down and scanned the area to assess the situation.

The sky was heavy with black, rainy clouds. Good, he thought—rain always adds to confusion on the roads. That will make a police chase more difficult. A streak of lightning flashed. After a short pause, a roar of thunder growled, its sound muffled by long distance.

In the driveway to the house, a Ford Taurus sat abandoned. Claude approached it, still not having a precise plan of action. Hiding behind the car, he feverishly wondered what to do next. His ski mask was with him, but putting it on would not make sense: If he knocked at the door, who would open it to a masked man? On the other hand, Marcel had issued a strict order not to harm relatives, but they would be able to recognize him later if he did not wear the mask. It seemed that the only solution was to get inside unseen, and quickly, because the replacement security guard could arrive at any time.

By chance, the whole family suddenly walked out the front door and headed toward the car. Claude quickly covered the lower part of his face with the mask, leaned on the hood, stood, and fired two shots at the face of the Iron Ghost. Tiny, dark spots sprung up on his right cheek, followed by a small cloud of flesh and blood that flew from the back of his head. The man fell dead.

His wife and kid screamed, terrified. The woman collapsed onto her husband’s dead body, yelling through her tears. Claude laughed. At that very moment, a flash of lightning exploded, then a thunder bolt cracked—the sky, it seemed, also celebrated his success.

Smiling under the mask, Claude threw the gun on the grass and began walking toward Hans in a deliberately unhurried pace, in order to stage a great show of guts, calmness, and cruelty. Let Hans see how a true biker returns from the kill, he thought. Maybe next time he would be less scared of these things.

Devil’s Knights observers said later that a replacement bodyguard had arrived at the home of the Iron Ghost just a minute after the hit, only to find his master dead.

 

Claude’s second target was not that difficult. His favourite lunch place was a small but exquisite restaurant in a busy plaza. Killing him there was not an option, because escape through a crowded building with security surveillance would be impossible. But after some thought, he came up with a cunning plan. He bought a wig, put it on, complemented it with a phony moustache and beard, and, with a bucket of water in his hand, pretended to be a squeegee bum at the only traffic light that led into and out of the plaza. Claude’s lucky card came up on the first day of the operation.

When the target left after lunch and stopped his car at the light, Claude approached the driver’s side and offered to clean the windshield. The Iron Ghost behind it responded angrily and impatiently. Claude knocked at the window with the squeegee handle, and the target lowered the glass. Glowing with range, he shouted, “Fuck off, asshole!”

Claude let the bucket and squeegee fall to the ground, pulled out a gun, and fired two shots into the head of the Iron Ghost. After that, he ran. Hans, as usual, was waiting close by in a stolen car.

These two murders raised his stature enormously in the eyes of Marcel and the other club members. Now, he had enough money to buy a Harley Davidson—the beauty cost him close to $20,000—and he could repay Marcel his debt, in full. He could now attend the high-profile party on his own bike.

 

V

 

The noise of incoming motorcycles disturbed a small suburban plaza that dozed in the rays of the rising sun. Ten Harley Davidsons rolled into its small parking lot at exactly 9 o’clock. On the rear seat of each sat a woman who held the driver by his waist and leaned into his back. An elderly couple coming out of a coffee shop threw frightened glances at the noisy visitors and hurried to their car.

Marcel gave a sign. Everyone obeyed by turning off their engines, climbing off their bikes, and walking over to him. Claude knew most of them, because he had already attended a few club gatherings that had been attended by full patches. Enviously, Claude looked at their vests. He still had only a plain black leather jacket.

“Here’s Claude,” Marcel said, turning to a man with questioning, but friendly eyes in a cleanly shaven face. Nothing about him, except a biker’s vest, suggested that he was a biker. “Claude, I don’t believe you’ve met Techie, have you?”

“No, but I’ve heard a lot about him,” Claude said, looking with respect at the legendary Techie, who was second in command after Marcel.

“Welcome to the party,” Techie said, shaking hands with Claude. He threw a glance at Leila. “Nice girl you have.”

“My ol’ lady, Leila,” Claude said with pride. Leila nodded at Techie with a sweet smile.

“I know.” Techie returned the smile. “That’s good.” He did not explain what was good about that: her being a nice girl, or her being Claude’s ol’ lady.

Claude noticed other bikers shooting glances at Leila. No wonder—she was the prettiest of all the girls there. Claude was somewhat annoyed by the stare given Leila by a man he’d not met before. The man looked like an outlaw biker: large and fat with disorderly hair flowing everywhere. He didn’t smile, but slowly rolled his eyes over Leila’s body, lingering for moments on her breasts and hips. Claude didn’t worry much, though: Leila’s status of “old lady” would protect her from the unwelcome advances of others; it was against club rules to covet any brother’s serious relationships.

“Come here, Machete,” Marcel said to the man. “This is Claude.”

Machete squeezed Claude’s hand with all his might. Claude responded with almost as strong a grip. The exchange was not friendly.

“You did a nice job for me once,” Machete said.

“I don’t remember,” Claude responded, in surprise.

“The Greek Delight shish-kebab house. You worked with Trasher then, remember?”

“Oh, yes, I know Trasher.”

After this short introduction, Marcel mounted his bike and made a sign for everyone to follow him. The women took their rear seats and the group took off, the rattle of Harley engines disturbing the peaceful neighborhood until they merged onto a highway out of town. After an hour, they turned onto a lonely side road. As they rode past a short row of sleepy country homes, a few birds flew from the trees, frightened by the deafening sound of the mighty engines. After the last biker had disappeared around a curve and quiet had returned, the birds quickly flew back to their roosts.

Following a lengthy stretch of bush and dense forest, another row of houses appeared. Marcel stopped near the first one. It was a large bungalow with a high wooden fence built from its sides outward and around the backyard. Marcel stopped at the gate: It opened at once, as if someone inside was waiting for his arrival. The whole party drove in, past a smiling, broad-shouldered fellow with a neatly groomed beard, in shorts, a T-shirt, and sunglasses hiding his eyes. He raised a long barbeque fork in a welcoming gesture. After the last motorcycle rolled in, the guy closed the gate. The rattle of bikes died an instant later.

“Oh,” Leila said. “Such a nice view.” She eyed the large backyard with trees, benches, and two big tables, one on the patio and another on the grass. Beyond was an endless stretch of lake. The sails of a few boats rose in the distance.

Claude placed his hand on her narrow waist and stared at her lips. Her understanding smile touched his heart like a sweet razor. Beautiful girl, he thought.

“Claude,” Marcel interrupted his fantasies. “We have to leave the girls for a short meeting.” He turned around and waved his right hand. All the bikers followed him inside the house. In the large dining room, he offered everyone a seat around the table, which was loaded with glasses and uncountable bottles of wine.

“Our meeting today will be very short,” he said, uncorking a bottle. “Everyone knows what we have gathered for today.” He paused for attention. “We are promoting Claude to hangaround status. Congratulations, Claude.”

Claude was dumbfounded. In a happy haze, he saw bikers coming to him for a handshake. Everyone smiled and raised his glass. The sharp odor of pot sprang up, irritating his nostrils. With a quick glance, he spotted the smoker—Stash, the one with a small ponytail and the bleak, wet eyes of a drunkard. Stash smiled and motioned with a sideways nod, inviting him for a talk outside. Since the group was already moving out, Claude joined him.

“Marcel says a lot of good things about you.” Stash led him to a small bench under a branchy tree. “Let’s sit—nice day, today.”

“Right,” Claude agreed, searching for Leila. She was chirping with three other women, busy eating shish kebabs. Machete went up to them and appeared to say something funny, because the women responded with laughter. Stash followed the direction of Claude’s stare and produced a transparent plastic bag with marijuana inside.

“This is the best grass you can buy in Quebec,” he said, offering it to Claude. “Help yourself. Here’s the paper. You have a nice girl. Only you and Techie are with old ladies. The rest, including Marcel, are with mamas.”

Rolling a joint, Claude continued watching the party. The wild gaiety was spreading over the backyard. Laughter and the flirtatious screams of women flew all around. At a patio table, Marcel was rolling up a $20 bill into a small tube. The mama beside him took the tightly rolled $20 bill, placed one end of it to her nostril, the other to a small stretch of white powder, and inhaled. It would take this broad, Claude thought, less than a minute to get crazy on pure coke, which was available only at the source of supply.

“I’m gonna suggest a job,” Stash said. “Don’t worry about Marcel,” he added, answering Claude’s silent question. “I’ve talked to him already.”

“What is it?”

“Don’t rush. Let me explain something. You can’t make your living forever on work that you’re doing for Marcel. The demand for it goes up and down. I gather that with such a beautiful old lady as you have, you need a stable income. Right?”

“Right. But I can’t sell stuff. I’m not good at that.”

“You don’t need to. I’m thinking of something else.”

“What?”

“I have a collection agency. It’s a legitimate business. I need people who can influence deadbeats without resorting to force. You know how it works, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do,” Claude nodded. “I’ve done that type of work for my buddy, who’s in the car business. When someone didn’t pay, he asked me to talk with him. Everyone paid.”

“You see!” Stash said happily. “You’re the guy I need. No violence, though. That would be a last resort, and only with my permission. What do you think?”

“Sounds interesting. What’s the pay?”

“Very good. We are talking about big money, Claude. Usually, our agency takes debts from $5,000 to $1,000,000. I’ll teach you some tricks of the trade. I’m pretty sure, however, that after seeing you once, no one would want to see you again.” He laughed, pleased with his wits. “Yes, I’m sure about that,” he repeated.

“I’d think you could find plenty of tough guys out there for this job,” Claude said, pleased with this joke.

“But, it’s really not that simple. Most tough guys are shitheads. They can’t deal with debtors who have brains, money, and connections to other tough guys. Sometimes, the job is dangerous.”

“I see. I don’t give a fuck how dangerous it is.” Claude didn’t look at Stash; he watched the party. Marcel’s mama, a rather cute broad of about twenty, or maybe younger, got a boost. She laughed, threw her head back, kissed Marcel, and shouted something incomprehensible. Then, she began to undress. After the last garment fell, she ran toward the lake—a rather spicy view, she was: long, flying blond hair, firm boobs and ass, with a neatly shaped blond triangle at the bottom of her tummy. She threw herself into the water, squealing, splashing, and inviting all others to join her.

In the middle of the backyard, a petite woman was pulling two large men toward the house, inviting them at the top of her voice, “Let’s do a threesome—now! C’m’on, guys.”

Machete talked to Leila, who seemed agitated. He grasped her hand and held it while she attempted to free herself. Claude was about to jump up, but Stash put his hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “If worse comes to worst, I’ll interfere. Mind you, for the next promotion you’ll need 100 percent of the membership vote. Hold on.”

Machete did let Leila go and looked after her as she ran to Claude.

“Let’s party,” she said, clutching Claude’s arm. The gentle warmth of her hands soothed his rage.

“We’ll talk about details later,” Stash suggested. “I’ll let you know how to find me.”

“Gimme a puff.” Leila pointed at the joint. With a melting heart, Claude saw her pink lips parting. His desire to kiss them was overwhelming.

She drew in the smoke and laughed.

“What was that joker saying to you?” Claude asked, rising to his feet.

“He told me, ‘flash your boobs, babe.’ He then said that I couldn’t be your old lady that fast because you’d left the pen not long ago.”

Leila led him to the table where Marcel sat in the company of two bikers and his mama; she now had a towel around her hips.

Claude noticed that Marcel did not drink. Leisurely smoking a cigarette, he observed the backyard from the corner of his eye.

Everyone was in a good mood, high on drugs and alcohol and the freedom from any restrictions. Agitated voices mingled into an incomprehensible chorus. Only two women were not topless: Leila and Techie’s old lady. A tall and pretty brunette about thirty years old, Techie’s old lady held herself with the pride of a woman who knew her worth. Drinking Coca-Cola, she talked to everyone who wanted her company in a friendly manner. All the bikers regarded her with respect.

“I wanna swim,” Leila said. “Let me change. I’ll be back soon.”

When she left, Claude went to take a grilled steak.

“Having a good time?” somebody asked from behind his back. Claude turned around. Techie stood there, smiling.

“Yes.” Claude was flattered by the fact that the legendary Techie was talking to him as an equal.

“How have my machines worked?” Techie asked. Claude new too well whose people had supplied the firearms he had used in his hits. They made sure that their stolen guns had no faults in either performance or reliability.

“Very good. I like them.”

Claude could talk about guns forever. He liked these dangerous toys; they elevated him by their power and their ability to intimidate people.

Techie spoke like a polite and cultured man. He did not use foul language or take advantage of his stature or influence. But Claude felt in his gut that this was a man of iron will and a clear, powerful mind.

“You need some training, I think,” Techie said, taking a bite of grilled chicken. “Marcel mentioned it.”

“I can shoot,” Claude remarked with pride.

“I know. But there are many circumstances when a trained hand is a must. Could you shoot with precision while you run? Would your shots be accurate when your target is moving fast? How about long-distance shots? There are some other aspects. Trust me, training would give you that extra mile in many circumstances.”

Claude nodded, his eyes watching Leila in her bikini. She gave him a smile over her shoulder; then, after a moment of hesitation, she plunged into the lake with a joyous scream. It did not escape his attention that Machete, who sat with his mama on the beach, was watching Leila, too. This biker, no doubt, had snorted too much white powder. Apparently violent, he would be tough to deal with if push came to shove. Techie understood where Claude’s attentions were being diverted.

“He’s never gone after someone’s old lady before,” Techie said. “I don’t have a good feeling about him lately. He takes too much blow. Sooner or later, he will lose his mind. Such people eventually become a burden, rather than an asset, to us.”

This was a serious remark, just short of a death sentence, as Claude understood it. The usual way for the Devil’s Knights to deal with a burden was to dispose of it.

When Leila came out of the water, Machete stood up and blocked her way in an attempt to strike up a conversation. She stepped back. Short-tempered Claude had had enough.

“Sorry,” he said to Techie, and walked briskly to Leila.

“Let’s sit at the table,” he said, taking her hand.

“Hey, buddy,” Machete objected, giving him a contemptuous look. “Can’t you see that we were talking?”

His eyes weren’t focused. Fighting with him, however, would be stupid: He was a full patch member, which meant a lot. Luckily, the matter didn’t get that far. Techie came up and stood between them.

“Marcel’s waiting for you,” he said to Claude. He talked to Machete until Claude and Leila left. Marcel made an inviting gesture for them to sit nearby.

“Machete’s getting into trouble,” Marcel said. “I know him. When he loads up too much, it’s hard to calm him down. I’m sorry to say it, Claude, but you’d better leave. Tomorrow, when he’s sober, I’ll give him an ultimatum. But for now, just to avoid a stupid conflict, you’d better leave with your girl.”

Claude saw Techie speaking with Machete. The addict was obviously angry, but Techie remained calm, his eyes cold as ice.

Ten minutes later, in a sour mood, Claude climbed on his bike with Leila settled in behind him, and steered through the gate. Not a single car was on the road. At the first intersection, though, they bumped into a line of police cars. They were flagged over to the side.

“Driver’s license,” one of the police officers demanded menacingly. Claude’s driver’s license was in order. His answers were deliberately stupid, but polite. The police took a picture of him and copied all the data from his documents. For probably the first time in his life, Claude didn’t lose his temper.

“Why have you left the party?” the officer asked with a sarcastic smile. Undoubtedly someone in the village had complained.

“Ain’t no party,” Claude said.

“Go,” the officer commanded and turned his back on him. Luckily, he did not question Leila. She might have been in trouble if he had.