Chapter 4

 

I

 

The information technology revolution had created many new ways and methods for the police to store, organize, analyze, and present intelligence data. Serge Gorte was one of the detectives who used those new tools to the fullest. Occasionally, though, they just didn’t seem to help. Like now, looking at his various flowcharts and tables, he remained at a loss—how did this murder relate to anything?

Technically, the case, which involved a car dealer’s young wife, had nothing to do with bikers and therefore was the problem of another department. But something about the case piqued his interest. One thing was obvious: A professional hit man had committed the murder. No clues had been left that would help lead to the killer. Missing jewellery and money appeared to be an awkward attempt to imitate a robbery. Circumstantial evidence suggested that the victim knew the killer personally. She’d let him in, with no protest or resistance.

Too many murders in the last few months have been committed by experienced hands, Serge thought. Granted, they’d been hits on bikers or their associates and involved guns, explosives, and beatings, some in public places. This case seemed to have no similarity whatsoever to the others, but . . .

The first person he suspected was the husband of the dead woman, Norman Vincent. He had a firm alibi, though, and he didn’t seem to have a police record—at least no information about him was readily available.

Serge sighed. He turned to study the pictures of ten bikers that police had taken last month on a stakeout. Someone in a country village had alerted police to their noisy arrival, and even though lawyers for the Devil’s Knights club protested police harassment of bikers, the current political climate was not in their favor. Checkpoints had proven to be very valuable in the past. They often led to charges for firearms violations and to the discovery and identification of new members and associates of the gangs, which allowed their data to be gathered and recorded in police files.

No illegal substances or violations had been found, though, on any of these bikers: no drugs, no firearms, no contraband. On the other hand, only nine of them were known bikers, notorious leaders of the Devil’s Knights club. One of them had not been associated with any biker gangs before. A biker wannabe, perhaps—information about him was abundant in police files and the files of various penitentiaries. He was Claude Pichette, a violent, ill-tempered psychopath who had proven to be a danger to fellow inmates and to prison guards, as well. What was he up to? What was he doing for a living? What if he was somehow connected . . . ?

Well, something was nagging at Serge, and the idea was worth a try.

He dialed the number for the security office at the Vincents’ condominium building. A female officer answered abruptly, then changed her tone as soon as Serge identified himself. In a short time, she found out that the security guard who had been on duty at the time of the murder was currently working a shift. Serge picked up a few pictures from the table and put them in the breast pocket of his jacket. In his customary, unhurried pace, he went out, got into his car, and drove to the condominium.

After parking close to the building entrance, he took a walk and looked around. He noticed, first, the lonely street, which had no pedestrian traffic. Then, a small park with a few benches caught his eye. It was just off the street, and looked as if it might provide a convenient observation post for watching the entrance doors. He stepped inside the small lobby, absorbing every tiny detail.

At his left was a windowed room where a security guard was supposed to be sitting. Nobody was there. The next door was locked; naturally, only tenants of the building would have a key for it. Soon, a young woman came in. She unlocked the door and pushed it open.

“Would you like to come in?” she invited with a smile.

“Thanks,” Serge said as he followed her in.

A few minutes later, a security guard—a tall, dark Indian man—came and settled in behind his desk on the other side of the window.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, leaning forward like a servant, ready to please.

“I’m Detective Gorte,” Serge said, showing his badge. A look of fright crossed the guard’s face.

“There have already been a few of you here asking questions,” he said. “I can’t really tell you anything more.”

“I know. I’m not going to take much of your time.” Serge forced a false grin on his lips.

“Okay.” He exhaled loudly. “What can I do for you?”

“The murder happened between 10 and 12 o’clock, during your shift,” Serge said. “Are you 100 percent sure that no stranger came in during that time?”

“I am positive.”

“Could you remember those who came in?”

“Most of them.”

“Did you see all their faces?”

“I think so. Most of them . . . I think.”

“Most of them . . .” repeated Serge. “Could you give me an example of the ones you didn’t see?”

“There was one guy who was helping one of our elderly tenants with some bags. They talked to each other. I supposed that they knew each other.”

“How tall was the guy? How was he dressed?”

“Well . . . about six feet, I s’pose. I don’t remember his dress, though—nothing that stood out.”

“Never mind,” Serge remarked impatiently. “Who was she, the lady he helped with the bags?”

“The old lady from the fifteenth floor. Rose is her name. She lives in 1509.”

“Good. Thanks a lot. Can I have her phone number?”

“Sure.” The guard opened a binder and wrote it down. “Here it is.”

Serge dialed from the guard’s phone. A cracking voice, undoubtedly belonging to an old woman, said, “Hello.”

“Sorry to disturb you, Rose,” Serge apologized. “I am Detective Gorte, investigating the murder in your building. Would you kindly agree to have a chat with me for a few minutes?”

A moment of silence followed.

“Certainly,” the old lady said and hung up.

Serge took the elevator to the fifteenth floor and knocked on Rose’s door. He felt that somebody was watching him through the peephole. The lock clicked and a thin woman appeared at the doorstep. She was very old, indeed: Wrinkles took up all the space on her small face. The top of her head was decorated with a crown of gray hair, light and transparent like haze, tidily arranged in waves.

“Please, come in,” she invited, squinting her pale eyes at him, as if disturbed by the strong light. “This is probably regarding this terrible murder on the seventeenth floor?”

“That’s right, ma’am,” confirmed Serge.

“Please, sit down,” she offered, pointing at a chair by her dinner table. “What can I do for you?”

Serge accepted the offer to sit down.

“On that day, the day of the murder, I believe someone helped you with your shopping bags. Is that right?”

“Yes, that is right.”

“Do you remember his face?”

“Not clearly. I didn’t have my glasses on.”

Serge pulled out the photographs and arranged them on her table.

“Do any of the men in these pictures look like him?” Serge asked. The woman put her glasses on and bent over, moving a finger of her right hand from one face to another.

“Looked like this one, actually,” she said, touching a photograph in the middle of the row. Serge felt the familiar excitement of a hunter closing in on his prey—she had pointed at Claude.

“Good,” Serge said without showing emotion. “Could you identify him in person?”

The woman shrunk. With terrible fear in her eyes, she cried, “No, no! Please, I don’t want to be a witness. I don’t remember his face that well. You see, I have very poor vision. Please, sir—” She removed her glasses and placed them on the table.

“What makes you so worried?” Serge asked.

“They may kill me!” she exclaimed. The woman obviously was scared out of her senses. All further attempts to engage her in conversation failed miserably. When she complained about a pain in her chest, Serge stood up to go.

“Sorry, again, for the intrusion, ma’am,” he said. “I do appreciate your help. Nobody will disturb you anymore. Have a nice day.”

On the way back to his office, Serge thought about Rose’s fear. He understood well why elderly people took such great efforts to keep themselves out of the smallest of troubles—any stress, big or small, could prove too much for their frail bodies. The puzzle, though, was why were so many of them afraid of the threat of death at their age? Was it the habit of living that made them terrified of the state of mind and body called death? Or was it because, in their older years, they had more time to think about their inevitable ends and to understand what a great value every new day has—for them to enjoy the world as it is, regardless of the successes and failures that made them so busy in the earlier stages of their lives? Even the most daring criminals, notorious for neglect or indifference to their own lives and deaths in their heydays, became cautious with the passing of years, often avoiding an even trivial risk. Why would people see a greater value in life when they had no more purpose, no goals left to achieve, and fewer things to enjoy? He shuddered at the thought that, eventually, he would have the opportunity to find answers to these questions himself.

Back in the office, Serge entered into his computer all the important points of his findings, updated a few associated files, and started to pick up the phone to call his wife to tell her he was done for the day. He was already late for the dinner his mother-in-law had arranged for them. No sooner had he touched the phone than the door opened. The boss of the special forces squad, Bertrand Tremblay, came in with firm steps, as if he owned the world. Tremblay was a tall, athletic-looking man in his fifties, with the posture and air of a noble man; thick and dark, though graying, hair; disapproving, questioning eyes; and a large nose.

“I won’t keep you long,” he said, taking the only chair on the other side of the table.

“My wife will either kill me or leave me,” Serge growled.

Bertrand dismissed the complaint. “You know, Serge, that I’ve been appointed a police representative to the task force the government has assembled to tackle the biker problem. Our mission is to propose measures to ‘finish,’ as our smart politicians put it, with organized crime, once and for all.”

They both laughed.

“I’ve gathered some statistics—there’s plenty of data available in our information bank—to support my presentation,” Bertrand resumed. “It would be helpful to have your input into our wish list of measures the government will have to adopt.”

“From my perspective, Bertrand, we have to fight with our self-imposed restrictions and procedures as hard as we do with the bikers. Case in point is this murder of the car dealer’s wife. Now, I know bikers did it, but I don’t have plausible proof of it, yet. If my guess is correct, her husband works with car thieves. I know that the bikers control a few gangs whose activities revolve around the car business, in all forms and shapes. But it’s an uphill battle to get permission to access the husband’s financial information or to get any other information, for that matter, that is not internal to the police force. The flow of information throughout the government must be simplified.”

Bertrand nodded in agreement.

“Another example was when some clever people in our government abolished police control over our major marine ports. I know they quickly restored it, but what was the result of that short break? About 30 tons of hash and five of coke were smuggled in. And that’s just what we know. We can’t even guess at what we don’t know. These are mind-boggling numbers. Considering that the price of good quality stuff is $40 per gram, the street value of the coke alone is approximately $200 million! And this was only one delivery—can you guess what is going on day-to-day?” Serge paused for air.

Bertrand sighed. “Unfortunately,” he said, “the bikers control our ports one way or the other. A mole alerted them to the upcoming raid. All our policing proved to be as ineffective as it was costly.”

“Hah,” Serge laughed with an angry burst. “That’s our problem, not the government’s. Our mistakes should not be the reason to cut funding or increase restrictions. I need to be able to put under surveillance any person of my choosing, without having to follow lengthy procedures. We need to tap the telephones of bikers, their relatives, their associates, and anyone we need to, even if we can’t support our requests with valid arguments at the time.”

“Those liberal-minded assholes would scream about breach of the constitution, violation of civil rights, and whatnot,” Bertrand grumbled.

“Well, tell them that a huge amount of explosives has been stolen over the past few days from two construction sites. We don’t know which gang is stockpiling them, but I suspect we won’t have to wait long to witness an upswing in bombings and explosions all over the city. If I were you, I would explain to those politicians that the biker’s war is coming to their homes.”

Bertrand leaned back and stretched his legs, fixing himself in what Serge noted was a too-comfortable pose. Serge frowned; he wanted to go home to enjoy this nice summer evening with his family, not to discuss the biker war.

“How are your investigations going?” Bertrand asked.

“Well, I’m pretty sure that I know one of the Devil’s Knights hit men. And, I have gathered some good information on one of the prime figures in the Iron Ghosts. His name is Stanley Mathews. I suspect him of being a driving force behind many of the recent assassinations and explosions. It would be nice to put him under surveillance, but I have no evidence to support my request for that.”

His telephone rang.

“This is my wife,” Serge growled.

“Thanks, Serge.” Bertrand stood up. “Have a nice evening. Oh, it’s already 7 o’clock—I have to rush home, too.”

 

II

 

The public was in fear and awe of the rampaging bikers. Gangsters killed each other in bars and restaurants—in broad daylight, blew up buildings where rivals had established their businesses, crushed bars with baseball bats to scare owners and patrons, and ousted rival drug dealers, all to expand their turf.

The police seemed helpless in their efforts to curb the violence. In a desperate attempt to save face and calm their constituents, the government had selected the best of the province’s politicians, reputable police and RCMP, and respectable lawyers for a task force whose mandate was to suggest effective measures for eliminating the biker gangs. Election day was fast approaching, pushing the ruling party to its limits in an effort to regain the public’s trust.

The initial meeting of the 11-member task force was to take place in a spacious 24th-floor conference room. Plenty of daylight flooded in through large windows that provided a spectacular view of the city. Nine men and two women would soon settle into comfortable armchairs around a long wooden table, its surface polished, glossy and shiny. A smaller table sat by the entrance. On it were coffeepots, a pile of napkins, sparkling teaspoons, a sugar bowl, and a few white ceramic cups.

First to arrive was Monica Godette. As a Member of Parliament she had been appointed from the government to take part in discussions. Customarily dressed in formal business clothes, today’s skirt was the only touch of femininity in her outward appearance. Monica caught everyone’s attention. Her long, somewhat masculine face with its small, sharp eyes made anyone looking at her feel like an accused child standing in front of an unforgiving judge who knows all secrets and is about to announce the frightening verdict. During the last election, she had supported noisy minorities such as gay rights activists, feminists, and the peace movement, but in a moderate way, never overstepping the bounds of common sense. Her latest appearances on television, interviews, and articles in newspapers had attracted enough attention to have her elevated to this panel of experts.

The chairman arrived soon after Monica. A well-known lawyer, Robert Corby took his seat at the far end of the table, from where he could observe the meeting. As soon as he was situated, he began tapping his laptop computer with the butt of his expensive Mont Blanc pen. The rest of the task force members arrived and got comfortable as quickly as possibly, perhaps moving in time with the tapping pen.

Raising the eyebrows on his very friendly face—a deceptive impression of which he was a master, as far as Monica knew—Robert asked everyone to introduce himself or herself. Monica opened up her writing pad and made notes on everyone except Robert, whom she knew too well.

“Although we are well familiar with the subject,” Robert began after all the formalities had been dispensed with, “I think an overview of the current state of affairs from the police perspective would be a good starting point. I am privileged to introduce the expert on biker gangs, Detective-Captain Bertrand Tremblay.” With a light nod at Bertrand, he added, “The stage is yours, sir.”

Holding his head high, Bertrand opened a binder that lay in front of him but did not look in it. Instead, he exchanged glances with Monica, who held a pencil in her right hand, poised just inches above her writing pad. With vertical wrinkles on her forehead, she was ready to listen, ready to jot down all the facts and figures and matters of interest that Bertrand told them for future reference and consideration.

“Bikers now are the greatest criminal force in modern society. Forget the image they had in the sixties and seventies, or even the eighties. They are not hoodlums and brawlers, as they were in the past, disturbing the peace and committing petty crimes. No, now they are in the criminal business, and big business at that. And as all other businesses have, they have gone international. They have formed international drug cartels, international prostitution rings, and international money-laundering networks. I can’t explain how or why a simple association of hoodlums changed over forty years to become one of the most powerful criminal organizations in the world. We’ll have to leave that to historians.”

Bertrand paused, as if he expected comments or questions or some kind of response. None came, and with a nod to his own thoughts, he continued.

“Biker gangs are not a new phenomenon in the criminal landscape. In Quebec, there are approximately 500 outlaw motorcycle gang club members and about 7,000 other bikers and associates, all of them considered criminals. Don’t underestimate their wits and experience: Crime is their way of life. Many take part in direct criminal activities; others have legitimate businesses that they conduct in a criminal manner. Combined, they rival any large, legal business enterprise.

“The volume of drug sales in our province is about $1 billion a year. Because it is that large, it has become saturated with a swarm of new players who want a piece of the action. The only sure way and the quickest way to beat out the competition in the underworld is to eliminate it. The ‘turf wars’ that result between gangs have always been a fact of life. In most cases in the past, their outcome was the elimination of one gang by another or the absorption of one gang into another.

“The largest gang in our province so far has been the Devil’s Knights. International by nature, with chapters in most developed countries, they have the largest supply and distribution networks for drugs in the world. They have also accumulated the best experience and the most expertise among organized crime organizations for assassination, intimidation, money laundering, and harassment. Recently, an unknown gang has entered the Devil’s Knights turf. Though the gang is presumably small, it is evidently seen as a serious threat by some Devil’s Knights who have tried to approach them.

“What has surprised the police, and has became a cause for public concern now, is the intensity of resistance this new gang, which is known as the Iron Ghosts, has shown to the Devil’s Knights. In just two years, about seventy gang members on both sides have been killed, and we have averted about eighty more attempted murders. More than ten bystanders have been killed or severely injured in their crossfire or as a result of their explosions. A lot of dynamite is still not accounted for and for sure will be used soon in a larger scale as their war intensifies.”

“I’d like to interrupt you, if I may,” Monica cut in.

“Sure,” Bertrand agreed with a welcoming glance in her direction.

“How many of those murder cases have you solved?”

“Three.”

“Three out of seventy?” Monica was exasperated. “What kind of police force do we have!”

“That’s exactly the point,” Bertrand responded quickly. “We need more police officers. We need more funds for surveillance, logistics. And we need a tough law that would let us—for lack of better words—bypass the existing restrictions that tie our hands in fighting organized crime.”

“Hold on, hold on with the law—.” Monica stretched out her hand in an attempt to stop him from speaking. “One thing at a time. You want more funds from the government. Everyone wants that. Can’t you just improve the quality of the police force first? Your achievements are not very impressive.”

“We are trying to. Mind you, dealing with bikers is a tiresome task that requires special people. They have to have stamina, good intellectual capacity, proper training, and thorough education. How can we get such people?”

“Does our province lack people with good intellectual capacity?” The sarcastic remark came from a distant corner of the table. A brief smile stretched over Bertrand’s lips.

“There are plenty. But how many of the best dream about becoming a police officer? Most, if not all of them, go where the money is. They want to become doctors, dentists, lawyers, businesspeople, corporate managers. Why? Because those occupations pay. Being a brilliant detective doesn’t pay much. With the wages we have in the police force, with the workload we have, only a few elect this troublesome profession. You want to employ the best minds on a lean budget? Good luck.”

After the short pause that followed, Bertrand added, “There are some among us who are proud of the jobs we do. But, we need more foot soldiers for surveillance and policing.”

Monica could not wait for him finish.

“I’ve seen many gang members on the streets wearing biker outfits that distinctly identify them. This makes your task of surveillance easier, doesn’t it?”

“Not at all. Most of them don’t commit crimes. They give orders to their armies of subordinates who would do anything so they can grow in rank and status, climbing the ladder to the level of their bosses. Very often, the bosses convey their commands, not personally, but via a third person. The best we could normally expect to achieve is to capture the small fish.”

Robert Corby raised his pen.

“In a nutshell, Bertrand, what do you propose?”

“We need more funds. We need simplified procedures for obtaining search warrants, tapping phone conversations, and accessing financial and personal information collected by other institutions and organizations. And last, but not least, we need a tough law against the bikers.”

“. . . ‘A tough law’ . . . ,” Robert repeated, pursing his lips in a small, mocking smile. “What does that mean?” With false compassion and patience, he rested his chin on his left hand, elbow leaning on the table, ready to ridicule any stupid or weakly worded response.

Bernard did not blink.

“A law that would permit us to detain anyone who belongs to a criminal organization, such as the Devil’s Knights or the Iron Ghosts, the prime troublemakers in the province. A law that imposes harsh sentences against organized crime bosses. A law . . .”

The rest of his answer was drowned out by several agitated arguments from all around the table. Some talked to him, some to each other. Simultaneous talk made further business-like discussion impossible until Robert tapped the table with his pen in a much more pronounced manner.

“Please, ladies and gentlemen.” His voice, irritated, piercing, and demanding, had a calming effect. When the last arguments died under his disapproving glare, he said, “Let’s express our views in an orderly manner. You want to say something, Mr. RCMP?” He smiled to a fat, balding man sitting at his left. “Please, Brian.”

“I can understand the request for increased funds,” the man said. “But to single out ‘biker clubs’ as criminal organizations is not constitutional. There are many motorcycle clubs. You have to prove which ones are the criminal organizations. Besides, even a group name, like ‘Devil’s Knights,’ cannot be the foundation for declaring an organization criminal.”

“I agree,” Monica interfered. “There are many other biker clubs. Which ones are criminal organizations? And, I’m against increasing funds, as well. Better to clean up your house. The recent case of the police officer who was bribed by bikers is very disturbing. I don’t believe that all depends on money. Morality—that is what should be watched in the security forces.”

“We’re now in very dangerous waters,” Bertrand admitted, “and I’ll be frank with you: There are corrupt officers cooperating with bikers and the mafia. We’ve already discovered one, but he managed to escape. I am pretty sure there are others. Leaks of information, failures to ambush large drug deliveries, and other illegal activities are vivid demonstrations of that. Somebody tips off the criminals and helps them escape our major actions, sometimes after months of work.”

“It’s appalling,” Robert said in a loud, cracking voice. “I would never have suspected that the Quebec police could be so corrupt.” His eyes flashed in the righteous indignation of a superior judge.

“It seems that you want to single out the Quebec police—,” Bertrand seemed to be losing his patience. “What police force is better?”

“You don’t have to go too far,” Monica cut in. “The Ontario police are impeccable. Why don’t you consult them?”

She looked around in search of admiring supporters. Whatever one might think, her arguments could not be beaten, she thought.

Bertrand did not respond right away. He stood in silence and smiled, observing the audience.

“Ontario . . . ,” he said at last, as if talking to himself. And then, appealing to Robert, he asked, “Do you know, sir, that Toronto ranks third in North America in the number of narcotics sales?”

“I don’t,” Robert said. “So what? What about it?”

“How come there are no corrupt officers there? Can you explain it? Maybe you can, Monica? Such a big volume of narcotics sales, but no significant cases against the illegal drug trade, and no corrupt officers. . . . What are the police doing in Toronto? Please explain, don’t be shy—Even your weakest arguments should be accepted seriously.”

Nobody spoke. Bertrand looked around and continued to present more evidence.

“As a matter of fact, there have been a few police officers in Ontario charged for their connections with bikers. These cases simply didn’t gain much publicity. When it’s quiet, politicians, and I will admit, the police, tend to do little to tackle a problem. Wait until the bikers attain such financial power that we won’t be able to do anything with them.”

“I suggest adopting a more positive tone for our discussions.” Robert was tapping his laptop. “Let’s put our heads together and come up with something constructive.”

“I’d rather listen, first, to the law enforcement people and how they intend to finish the biker problem once and for all,” Monica said, staring at Bertrand.

“If you’re asking me for a solution, I don’t have an answer for you. We can only try to stop the biker wars. We can only try to diminish their power. I don’t see anything beyond that.”

Feeble sounds of surprise flew from different corners of the table.

“Does that mean,” Monica went on, “that the police force is helpless against bikers? Then, what do you need additional funds for? I guess it’s easy to spend the government’s money for nothing.”

In the silence that followed, Bertrand examined everyone around the table. With a feeling of contentment, Monica noticed anger in his eyes.

“Let me, for a moment, get back to what I’ve already said,” Bertrand began. “The drug market in Quebec is about a billion dollars a year, maybe more. We don’t have exact statistics, as neither vendors nor consumers are willing to participate in our survey.”

This remark inspired a few relaxing chuckles.

“Do you think this market will just vanish? Do you think it will ever disappear from the radar screen of criminals? It attracts the most sophisticated and powerful criminal minds. Suppose we put all known drug dealers in our province in jail. Bingo! Do you think that the illegal drug trade would cease to exist? It would be wishful thinking to assume that it would disappear for any reason; the supply side would just be left unattended. Groups of other criminals, or non-criminals, would flood in, staging a chaotic and brutal war to take over.

“The very idea of punishing everyone in the criminal network is nothing more than a utopian idea, either. Mind you, we don’t have a penitentiary system large enough to accommodate them all. And, the system itself is not much of a deterrent, as it was in the Middle Ages. For the most dangerous criminals, our prisons are more of an inconvenience than a punishment. They control the narcotics trade in the jails. They have women in there as often as they want. Some of them even have their own chefs to prepare delicious dishes. The list goes on and on.

“We need more money, that’s right, but I agree with my opponents that money is not a final solution. The more liberal our policies become toward our criminals, the more money the police forces need.” He threw a look at Monica. She understood its meaning and hardened her face.

“Now, suppose we did magic and gathered good evidence against all the bikers and their associates,” he continued. “Do you know how many people we would have to prosecute? Many thousands. We don’t have enough courts, judges, juries, or lawyers to process them quickly. It would take years. I think that if this happened, we would create more problems than we solved.”

“What do you expect from the politicians, then?” Monica asked. Bertrand was about to answer, but Robert spoke next.

“I agree with Bertrand that the heart of the matter is not the bikers or any other organized crime group. The problem lies with human nature in general and our society in particular. Can we do something about prostitution in our society? You could legalize it or prohibit it, or whatever your imagination suggests. But you couldn’t wipe it out.”

“Do you suggest legalizing it?” Monica asked Robert.

“I will come to that,” Robert replied. “Take, for instance, tobacco. We don’t have criminals dealing in tobacco. Politicians can regulate that industry anyway they want. Why don’t we do the same by legalizing other activities, such as prostitution? Can you imagine how many lives we could save, how many abuses and violent crimes against women we could prevent?”

“This is too much,” Monica interrupted. “Let’s stick to our mandate.”

“This is just a thought,” Robert said with a smile. “But my point is, we’re a society that desperately needs dreams. This is a paradox: Being the wealthiest society in the world, we still need things to take us away from reality and into the realm of dreams. These could be drugs, alcohol—anything else. I believe that we can fight the bikers and the other gangs. But we have no chance to win the war against them. Not a damn chance.”

“That’s not a very positive note,” commented Brian. “Let’s be realistic and use some common sense in our discussions.”

“True,” Bertrand agreed. “Let’s be realistic. So what if I offered to discuss ways to change the evil habits of our society? To convince people not to use drugs, prostitutes, and, well, even . . . alcohol. What would you say about me? You’d say that the guy is crazy. However, some of you probably think that ending drug distribution is a realistic idea. I think it’s not. As far as additional funds are concerned, let me say this: The illegal drug trade makes its lords more powerful than ever. The money they have, the number of soldiers they command, is always increasing. How on Earth do you expect the police to fight this ever-expanding army with a constant-size police force? We have to increase in numbers, too! Moreover, with our lenient judges and a host of restrictions and stupid regulations, criminals easily get away with serious offenses every day. Do you want to be realistic? Let’s fight first with our own restrictions. Let’s adopt and enforce some laws that will make our jobs more productive.”

“What are your concrete suggestions?” Monica asked. Bertrand was about to answer, but Robert again demanded attention.

“I suggest we take a break,” he announced. Everyone agreed. Monica stood up, and Bertrand saw her looking at him as if she wanted to talk with him privately. He accepted the silent invitation and walked over to her; she took him by the sleeve to the doorway.

“I gather you’re not receptive to the idea of passing a law against bikers,” he said.

“Right you are. Forgive me for making such a tactless remark, but your agency tends to abuse the power it’s given by the government. That’s why it has to be so strictly regulated and controlled.”

“Could you give me an example?” asked Bertrand.

“Sure. The latest case that comes to mind is when you planted evidence against the Devil’s Knights. Such a scandal! Not only did the judge have to dismiss the charges, which in itself was a huge setback for you, but you also lost the public trust. Now you ask for a law that would permit you to act with no control?”

“But it’s against biker clubs.”

“So what?” Monica shot back, heading toward the cafeteria that was located at the corner of the floor. “There are many motorcycle clubs. Which ones would you target? Would it be up to you to decide which one is a criminal organization? Come on! What if you don’t like some other minority group? Don’t you understand that such a law would be unconstitutional?”

“I’m a police officer, not a politician,” Bertrand pointed out proudly. “Politicians create fertile ground for criminals. The more humanely we treat them—which is a credit to you politicians, of course—the more criminals we create. You only have to wait until they come to your home. Then, I suspect you’d change your mind. I’d like to see how you’d react in your moment of need when you heard that the police couldn’t do much for you because of restrictions, procedures, constitutional interpretation—whatever. I hope it doesn’t happen, of course—don’t get me wrong.”

“Safeguarding civil rights is our fundamental principle,” Monica said. “Criminal or not, each member of our society has to be duly protected.”

They reached the door leading into the cafeteria where Bertrand stopped, letting Monica enter with a gallant gesture.

“Would you like to join me at my table?” Monica asked.

“Sure. I’d love to!”

She chose a table by the window, with a lot of light pouring in from outside.

“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?” she said.

“Ask as many questions as you like. I’m here to offer my expertise to the task force.”

“I understand that it’s a turf war between the gangs,” she started. “But all gangs are similar in structure and mentality, as I understand it. Why, then, couldn’t the Iron Ghosts convert themselves into Devil’s Knights?” Monica was proud of her smart question.

“Good question,” Bertrand said. “Only a few of the Iron Ghosts would qualify as outlaw bikers. I won’t go too deep into that. Just take my word for it. It means, however, that most of them would be thrown out of business as soon as the whole turf belonged to Devil’s Knights. But business is exactly the reason for going to war with the Devil’s Knights, even if it means risking their lives. Those few who choose to betray the Iron Ghosts and qualify to convert as bikers may not necessarily remain too long in the Devil’s Knights ranks. Most likely, they would be killed. The war has gone too far.”

“So, Iron Ghosts aren’t really bikers? I gather they are more like gangsters of different sorts,” Monica remarked.

“Right you are, Monica,” Bertrand agreed with false enthusiasm. “But they took a lot from the bikers’ subculture, if their way of life could be called a subculture.”

“Let me ask you something else.” When Bertrand nodded, Monica went on. “Why can’t you plant more informants inside the gangs? I realize that it’s not easy, but it’s not impossible, I would guess.”

Bertrand looked weary. He greeted her remark with a deprecating smile, disapproving lines running down the corners of his mouth.

“It’s impossible. You see, they have a strict selection process that any organization would envy. Years of heavy involvement must pass before the gang decides to give a biker any status. To gain status in the biker’s club means a lot: One has to participate in all the gang activities, even the criminal ones, which would be a no-no for an undercover law officer. But even that would not be enough. He would have to be an initiator and organizer of crimes, eventually controlling and directing the activities of other criminals, street gangs, or other biker gangs. And, I assure you—even taking part in all these activities doesn’t make a biker immune from suspicion. We couldn’t let anyone go into such an assignment and risk getting killed.”

Monica was very impressed with what Bertrand was saying.

“But . . . couldn’t you recruit from those bikers who are already under investigation?” she suggested cautiously. Noticing a trace of a sarcastic smile, she rushed to explain her stance.

“It’s not that I’m advising you in the area of your expertise,” she said. “It’s for my understanding only.”

“Sure, sure,” Bertrand nodded. “But that is a topic for a separate discussion.”

“Yes, yes,” Monica consented. “Let’s get back to it sometime later. Our talk has been very informative. Thanks a lot. But now, I think it’s time to go to the next session, Bertrand.”

 

III

 

The sound of a door being unlocked brought Camilla from the depths of a relaxing nap to a serene, but pleasant reality. With a deft, quick motion, she slipped into a fuzzy, soft nightgown and hurried to the living room. Stanley already stood there, closing the door behind him. She threw herself upon him with the impatience of a lover who has been waiting too long.

“You didn’t come by yesterday,” she reproached, but did not let him speak under the enveloping pressure of her lips. Then she stepped back and hopped onto the sofa, sitting on her crossed legs. Her eyes shone with happiness. How nice to see him again!

“Sit down,” she invited. “Tea, coffee?”

“Nothing. How’d yah like it here?”

“It’s lovely.”

Stanley had rented this one-bedroom apartment for her just a month ago. He’d furnished it with one idea only: to please her. In the course of the shopping spree to furnish the larger space, she’d urged Stanley to consider his purchases and spend money wisely. In response, he’d produced an impressive roll of cash and asked her to mind her own business.

“Did I wake you up?” he asked, turning on the television with its remote control.

“Sort of. I have a night shift at the hospital. You can’t last the whole night without an earlier nap. But never mind, I’ve had enough.”

The black television screen flashed with the sight of a passionate French kiss, and, after a few nervous blinks and jumping horizontal stripes, it stabilized into the image of a good-looking female broadcaster.

“Our guest,” she was saying, looking straight ahead with unblinking eyes, “is a well-known politician and member of a special task force that has been assigned to deal with biker gangs—Monica Godette. What are your comments on the latest development in the biker’s war, Monica?”

A small square at the right top corner of the screen popped up and then grew rapidly to full size, showing a woman in no-nonsense business dress, with an air of aggressive strength that a woman was not supposed to possess.

“The latest rampage between the rival biker gangs has caused great concern in the government,” Monica responded. “The bikers think that they have the world at their feet. They make shooting galleries out of our bars and restaurants. Their Hollywood-style murders terrify the public. In spite of all the police warnings to stop the war, they have intensified it, rather than terminated it. This only shows how deep this problem in our society is, how insatiable our appetites are for their illegal products and services. But punishment will come eventually, and it will be harsh. The shooting yesterday enraged both the public and the government. I can assure you . . .”

Stanley chuckled and turned the set off.

“Do you know anything about that shooting?” Camilla asked.

“Sure. I was there.”

“Are you serious? You scare me.”

“There’s nothing to be scared about. This is my life. I can’t live a different one.”

“What happened there? Could you tell me?”

“Of course. You know the Black Penguin bar, don’t you? That’s my territory. The bar was almost full. Everyone there was ordinary nine-to-five folks, dropping by for a glass of beer or a blow of coke. I was sitting with Ogre—do you remember him? Of course, you do. He’s the one with guts made of steel. He looks ugly to the girls, but he’s good company. He weighs over 220 pounds—all muscle, you know. Ogre’s always alert, and so am I. There was nothing to worry about. All of a sudden, Ogre says, ‘I have fifty grams of coke in my car.’”

“‘Not bad,’ I said. I looked around, but nothing seemed suspicious. ‘Who’d you bring it for?’ I asked.”

“‘A guy from the West End is going to come and pick it up,’ he says. ‘I’ve been dealing with him a lot. So far, so good.’”

“‘How’d yah call him?’ I asked.”

“‘Shifter,’ he said. ‘Do you know him?’”

“‘His name rings a bell,’ I said. I asked Ogre to tell me what the guy looked like. Sure ’nuf, he was the one I saw once in the joint. The guy was spinning some tale about the Devil’s Knights. I asked Ogre, ‘Does he know that I’m supposed to be here?’ And Ogre says, ‘Yah. As a matter of fact, he wanted to talk to you. Why not?’”

Stanley paused, reached for a cigarette, and lit it in a seemingly calm manner. He drew in a huge puff and exhaled with force. Camilla, though impatient, did not dare to interrupt.

“‘Be ready,’ I said to Ogre. ‘Something’s cooking here. Do you have a gun?’”

“‘Of course I do,’ he said.”

“‘Then give it to me,’ I said. ‘I don’t have one on me.’”

“But this stupid ass didn’t want to part with his beloved toy. He said, ‘I’m your bodyguard. I’m supposed to take care of you. Why’d you want to take this gun from me?’”

“‘Because I shoot better than you do, knucklehead’ I said. ‘You’d better get some training sometime, yah lazy bum. For now, don’t say a word until everything’s over. Now, give it to me—now!’”

Stanley took another nervous puff.

“And, did he?” asked Camilla, holding her breath.

“Luckily, he did. I took it just as three jerks entered the room, one behind the other. Even if I hadn’t known them, I’d have understood who they were after. With a little practice, you learn to recognize those who come to kill.”

A quick thought ran through Camilla’s mind: What kind of frightening life has this man had to live to gain such experience? Stanley noticed her strained face, but apparently mistook her fear for admiration.

“One of them I knew well: Machete is the name of this son of a bitch.” Stanley kept talking, encouraged by a new look of attention on her face. “For sure, he and his buddies had killed a few of us. I knew that he was out on bail. As he stepped in, he put on a ski mask. But we’d already been moving toward the rear exit. You see, this bar is my territory. I know how to get in and out of it. Had it been anybody but me, Ogre would’ve been dusted; he would never have run; it’s against his rules. But now, he followed me, without giving it a second thought. There were a few loud shouts behind us, someone in the bar screaming like hell.”

Stanley stopped talking and lit another cigarette from the butt of the first.

“Do you have any whiskey?” he asked. Camilla jumped up and brought a bottle from the kitchen, with a glass. Stanley filled it halfway and drank.

“Outside, around the corner, there’s a narrow passage that leads to the rear parking lot.” He kept talking, his eyes grim. “We barely dodged the waiter, who was coming from the kitchen with a load of dishes. When we leapt through the rear door, we heard the rattle of broken plates—they knocked the waiter down. The commotion was good for me. I didn’t have to start shooting on the run. I know too well that shooting on the run can never be accurate, no matter how much training one gets.

“The parking lot at the back was damn dark. Not a single street lamp was lit, although usually there’s at least some light. I stopped about twenty meters from the rear exit and turned around. At that very moment, the door flew open and the first of them rushed out. I was already standing still, aiming at the target: the doorway. Machete—it was certainly him—was shooting very well. Bullets flew just a few inches from my right ear. But I had the advantage of being prepared for the shot, because I could stand still and take aim at him. I fired, he shrieked like a frightened woman, and fell down. Two others bolted in different directions. Machete, however, turned out to be a hard nut: He kept shooting from the ground, in pain. One of his bullets hit Ogre’s left shoulder, but it wasn’t serious—the bullet just scratched his skin. I fired two other shots, which calmed the shithead for good. Then I ran. Ogre followed, holding his left shoulder with his right hand.”

“‘What’s that?’ I asked.”

“‘I was hit,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry; it’s just a scratch. I’ll drive myself.’”

“‘You sure?’ I asked.”

“‘I have the stuff in my car,’ he said.”

Stanley poured more whiskey into his glass and took a sip. He finally noticed that Camilla was looking at him strangely. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

“I . . . I don’t know if I should tell you—,” she started.

“What? You should tell me everything.”

“This . . . this, Machete . . . he’s at our hospital.”

Stanley leaned back on the sofa, examining her as he would a complete stranger. A moment later, he stood up, took off his jacket, and, pacing to and fro in the limited space of the living room, rolled up his sleeves.

“Where in the hospital?” he asked.

“Stanley, darling.”

“Where?” He threw her a no-nonsense glance, raising his voice.

“On the fourth floor. Room 419. Look, darling, let it pass. There’s a police officer on guard 24 hours a day outside his room. Because the guy’s out on bail, the police didn’t let Devil’s Knights guard the room. They want to interrogate him because the gun was found beside him.”

“Will he survive?” Stanley asked.

“Yes. No vital organs were hit. He’d lost a lot of blood, but he’ll survive.”

“Okay,” Stanley said after a silent conversation with himself. “Let’s forget about that. When are you leaving for your shift?”

“In two hours.”

“Good. Come here. You won’t need that nightgown for awhile.”

“That’s better,” Camilla said after her clothing fell to the floor. It was lovely to feel his warm hands running over her body. “I love you, darling.”

 

An hour later, after glancing at her wristwatch, she placed both her hands on his cheeks in a gentle, affectionate pat and said with a sigh, “I’ve gotta go. Will you stay here?”

“Yes,” Stanley said, his eyes half closed. She giggled happily.

“I’ll sneak under the blanket with you tomorrow morning, when you’re still in bed. You like it in the morning, don’t you?”

“Sure do.” Stanley kissed her. “Any time of the day, for that matter, any season, any weather condition.”

On the way to the hospital, she smiled at the recollection of his last remark. She liked it the same way Stanley did. Anticipating the joys of the following morning, she went to the fourth floor, only to notice a police officer at the end of the corridor, sitting on a chair outside a patient room. That’s where the man who’d been wounded in yesterday’s shootout, a man she now knew as Machete, was recovering. Camilla walked a short distance to the nursing station, and was immediately absorbed in the busy hospital schedule. Her first priority was to check patients who were in serious condition. Machete was one of them. At the entrance to his room, the police officer was dozing in his chair, fighting desperately to stay awake. When his chin hit his chest, he threw his head back with a jerk, as if frightened by a dream. He opened his eyes for a moment, and then, after seeing Camilla in her white medical gown, let his head drop back onto his chest.

Machete was sleeping. Looking at him, she couldn’t comprehend that this unconscious, bearded man, his skin pale-gray like death, had been trying to kill her lover the day before. She didn’t feel any hatred toward him. With the professional compassion of a nurse, she fixed the tubes leading to his veins, measured his blood pressure, and left.

After finishing with the left wing of her floor, she went to the right wing. It was nearly 2 o’clock in the morning. On the way out of a patient’s room, she noticed two men in white medical gowns coming off the elevator. Both had neatly groomed beards, mustaches, and thick hair. They turned left with the confident steps of doctors very familiar with the hospital. One of them was rather broad-shouldered and fat. He stopped at the corner while the other one kept going toward the end of the corridor, where the police officer was sleeping, his chin on his heaving chest.

At the next moment, horror make her immobile—the slim doctor had Stanley’s gait; she could recognize it from among millions of others. He stopped short in front of the sleeping police officer, his right arm hidden under the white medical gown, then carefully stepped over the guard’s outstretched legs. The fat doctor kept his hand under his white gown, as well; he was turning his head from side to side, looking from one end of the hall to the other.

Camilla darted around the corner to the nursing station. Aimlessly shuffling papers on her desk, she listened with pounding heart to the slightest noises, expecting a rattle of shots, a series of screams, or the noise of a chase. Nothing of that sort happened. She walked to the elevator, from which both wings could be observed. Nobody was there: only the police officer who was dozing peacefully at the entrance to Machete’s room.

An interminable hour passed by. At 3 o’clock in the morning, a sickening yell from the left wing startled her. She ran in the direction of the noise, two other nurses following her. In Machete’s room, they found the police officer, groaning and holding his head. Machete was lying on his back, the handle of a dagger sticking out of his throat. He was dead; his eyes were open, his sheets soaked in blood. The killer had obviously known how to make his death quick and silent.

The commotion woke up the whole hospital. The police arrived and began their investigation. The detective who questioned Camilla didn’t find anything suspicious in her behavior; other nurses were shaken no less than she was.

When the shift was over, Camilla was thoroughly exhausted. She left the hospital, going out into the summer morning, holding her purse in trembling hands. The sun had just begun to rise, lingering above the horizon and throwing its blinding rays straight into her eyes. The city had started this day like any other, with traffic on the roads and anxious pedestrians on the sidewalks. Looking at the usual routine of day-to-day life, she could hardly comprehend that what had happened was real. She got into her car and steered it into the busy streets, thinking about possible consequences. A blend of excitement, guilt, and fear haunted her all the way home. At her apartment, she took off her shoes at the doorstep and walked quietly to the bedroom. She found Stanley, lying under the blankets with eyes open, smiling, and apparently in a very good mood.

“Tired?” was his first question.

“Oh, Stanley . . . ,” Camilla sighed, taking off her clothes. “Gosh, I thought I would die . . . I was so terrified . . . I’m still shaking.”

She lay beside him and closed her eyes, feeling his embrace.

“Stanley, darling, I can’t. It’s beyond me. I have to recuperate.”

“I know that you like it in the morning,” Stanley reminded her.

“Not this morning. Please, my dear. I can’t. I have to rest a bit. Tell me, how’d yah do it?”

A proud smile appeared on Stanley’s face.

“You tell me first—what happened after Ogre and I left? Lots of fuss?”

“There was. The police officer was screaming. We all rushed to the room. The biker was dead. A knife was stuck in his throat, up to the handle. It was so frightening. The poor police officer was disconsolate.”

Stanley laughed heartily.

“What would happen if they discovered my role in all this mess?” Camilla asked sternly.

“Never, my sweetheart,” Stanley assured her. “There were no witnesses, other than you.” He caressed her hair.

“How did you do that?” she asked. Stanley sat up on the side of the bed and began to dress.

“We arrived in an ambulance. I know someone who is an ambulance driver. As you noticed, Ogre and I wore wigs, phony beards, and mustaches. A few Devil’s Knights were on patrol around the hospital, but they didn’t suspect us. Five other guys were waiting inside the ambulance, just in case. We had guns. I thought we’d have to take the guard into the washroom and tie him up there. I even took a roll of duct tape to seal his mouth. But the pig was sleeping like a kid. When I stepped over his legs, he moved a bit. I grasped my gun, but happily, he didn’t wake up. Good for him. That saved his life. When I sneaked behind the curtain, I saw Machete sleeping. I drove my dagger into his throat. He jerked, but then died in the next instant. We left down the staircase.”

“Weren’t you scared?”

“C’mon, Camilla.” Stanley was already dressed. He bent over and kissed her eyes. “Take a rest.”

“I love you, in spite of everything,” she said with her eyes closed.

“I love you, too. I promise that you’ll never be involved in anything like this, again. Sleep well.”

He kissed her once more and left.

 

When her fear subsided, Camilla had nearly regained her usual, happy state of mind. But later, she started examining Stanley not only with the care of a loving woman but also with the curiosity of a psychologist. Behind his image of a strong and tough man, she often saw glimpses of a hellhound with no human features. He claimed that his actions had always been provoked by circumstances. It was one thing, though, to have a reason, but another to act upon it it the way he did. Stanley’s lack of fear and disregard for consequences were beyond her comprehension. In some way, however, she admired him even more than before. What he’d done was both terrifying and mind-boggling. One must be worth something to do that.

For a week they didn’t see each other. Stanley called her every day, soothing her nerves with his confident manner of speaking, his charm, and his careful selection of words—always to the point and convincing.

“I miss you so much,” he said at the end of each conversation, “but I can’t come to you. Too many things I’ve got to do these days.”

She listened to his words with a mixture of delight and fright. The newspapers, the radio, and the television were all talking about the biker’s war, contract killings, staggering death tolls, and detonations of large amounts of dynamite at the businesses and social buildings of rival factions. She now had no doubt that Stanley was involved in, if not initiating, many of these events.

“I’d love to meet you tonight,” he said one evening. “Come to the Dummy Eagle bar at eight. We’ll have a few beers and then go to my place. I don’t want yours to be under X-ray.” That was what he called police surveillance.

When she arrived, he was already sitting at one of the tables with his usual welcoming, relaxed smile. Ogre was beside him, his face to the entrance, as well. Camilla couldn’t understand how they could be so tranquil in the midst of such turmoil.

She threw an anxious look around the crowded bar, a rather foolish attempt to recognize gangsters that might be hunting Stanley.

“Sit down, sweetie,” Stanley invited, moving a chair. “Relax. Any problems? Investigations? Tell me, what’s happened since that night? I couldn’t speak to you about that over the phone.”

“Nothing much,” Camilla said. “They just spoke briefly to all nurses who worked that shift. Since a police officer was guarding the room, there wasn’t much they could ask others. Once, though, my heart stopped when the detective talked to me. He didn’t ask much, but when he looked at me. . . . At first I just took him for a kind family man who had gotten his job on the police force by sheer chance.”

“What was it about his look?” Ogre asked.

“I don’t know. But I was as calm as a saint. I wanted to be an actress before I decided to be a nurse, you know. My acting skills have helped me a lot in my life.”

“Do you, by any chance, remember the name of the detective?” Stanley asked.

“Serge Gorte. Kind of a weird name, isn’t it?”

She noticed how quickly Stanley and Ogre exchanged glances.

“Forget about it,” Stanley advised, leaning back in a casual manner. “What do you want to drink, my cute little actress?”

His face suddenly became hard and tight, just as she remembered it had been when she’d seen him for the first time, at the chairlift. He was looking at Ogre, but Ogre was looking intently into the murmuring crowd of beer drinkers.

“What is it, Ogre?” Stanley asked. Camilla’s heart jumped in fear. These guys, she thought, don’t have a minute to relax from the dangers of their busy lives. Is this the nature of an adventurous life? If it was, she wouldn’t be able to live it.

“The shithead that I was supposed to meet when Machete came. You see him there at the bar counter? He’s alone.”

“What are you up to, guys?” Camilla asked. She looked back and saw the man at the counter. He turned his head and their eyes met. Camilla gave him a polite but meaningless smile. In the next moment, the man was staring beyond her, at Stanley and Ogre, trying to retain the last traces of his vanishing smile. She turned around, only to notice a remarkable change: Ogre was now smiling, waving at the man in a friendly manner; Stanley was not tense anymore, but had begun fiddling with his glass of beer. He touched her hip under the table.

“Here’s the key for my Jeep, Camilla. When I give you the signal, go there and wait with the engine running.”

“What are you guys up to?” she repeated in whisper.

“Don’t be scared,” Stanley commanded with a smile. “You’ve said that you’re a good actress. This is your chance for a good show.

The man who sat at the bar stood up and came over to their table. By his look, he seemed a tough guy—middle height, broad shouldered, and apparently very strong.

“Hi,” he said to Ogre. “Haven’t seen you in ages.” There was tension in the man’s eyes. He was trying hard to detect the danger, but couldn’t quite come to any conclusion, misled by the appearance of friendly faces.

“Sit down, Shifter,” Ogre said, nodding at the remaining vacant chair. “Have a beer with us. This is my friend Stanley. You wanted to meet him—here is he.”

Stanley shook hands with Shifter, who relaxed at once. He sat, accepted the offered bottle of beer, and took a large swig as he stole a glance at Camilla. Without understanding why, she took part in the game and returned the glance with a smile, that peculiar smile that only very coquettish women can master.

What am I doing? she asked herself. Maybe they want to kill the poor man. There’s nothing that they wouldn’t do. However, she felt no strength or will to say “no” and disobey Stanley.

A few minutes of meaningless small talk apparently convinced Shifter that he was safe. He even tried to pull off a few jokes, but told them in too primitive a way, typical of poorly educated people who lack sophistication and wit. While listening to one of his stupid jokes, Camilla felt Stanley’s gentle kick under the table. She smiled, as if reacting to Shifter’s words.

“I’ve gotta get home, guys,” she said, rising. “It’s getting late.”

“Where are you going?” Shifter asked.

“I live close to Serengeti Optical,” she lied. This distant store was the first landmark that came to her mind.

“I actually don’t live far from there. Could you give me a ride? I don’t have a car today. The busses only run once an hour that late,” Shifter said. She wanted to cry “stupid ass!” but looked at Stanley instead. He smiled.

“Be careful with her,” Stanley advised Shifter. “She could break a heart of steel.”

Shifter responded with a condescending smile.

“Leave it to me,” he said with a confidence of Don Juan.

With an incessantly pounding heart, Camilla led the way to Stanley’s Jeep.

“I haven’t asked your name, you beautiful filly, you,” Shifter said playfully as he tried to catch her arm.

“You only need a ride, don’t you?” Camilla asked, evading his advances, and pressing the remote key button. The Jeep responded from a dark corner of the parking lot.

She climbed into the driver’s seat and put the key in the ignition with her shaking hand. Shifter jumped into the passenger seat, and, smiling in the dark, playfully commanded, “Let’s go.”

She didn’t move.

“So, where exactly do you live? I know my neighbourhood pretty well,” he asked.

“It doesn’t matter where I live,” Camilla cut him off.

“Let’s go, sweetie. Move along! Don’t be afraid of me. You have a nice car, baby. Have a rich lover?”

“I’m a working girl,” she said. “I have my own money.”

“A working girl!” Shifter laughed. “I like those.” He was looking at Camilla, and she was looking at him. She saw what Shifter couldn’t see behind his back: two familiar figures moving briskly across the parking lot toward the car. Stanley jerked the door on the passenger side open and stepped aside. Ogre grabbed Shifter by his hair and pressed the barrel of a gun into his face.

“Be quiet,” he said. Shifter froze, as if paralyzed. “You’ll do whatever I say, deadbeat—Understand?”

Without waiting for a reply, Ogre took him by the collar, yanked him out, and pushed through the back door into the middle of the rear seat. Stanley went around the car and jumped in on the other side. Shifter, squeezed between two gangsters, didn’t utter a sound.

“Go,” Stanley commanded.

Camilla began driving, following his turn-by-turn directions. She didn’t know this part of town and had no idea where Stanley wanted to go. They entered a huge new housing development that didn’t yet have streetlights. Under the blinking stars the unfinished homes looked like ancient ruins.

“What do you want from me, guys?” Shifter asked at last. “What do you want? Where are we going?”

“Go a bit farther,” Stanley kept saying. “To the end of this street.”

“Hey, guys.” Shifter’s voice began trembling. “Are you crazy?” He made an attempt to move. Camilla heard a dull sound. Shifter screamed.

“Stop here,” Stanley instructed when she reached an unusually large, almost finished house. She obeyed. Stanley got out and in one sweep pulled the hostage out of the car. Ogre quickly came around. They took Shifter by the arms and dragged him into the black doorway. Camilla lowered the window. As in the grip of a nightmare, she listened to the agitated, muffled voices coming from inside, probably from the basement. She recognized Stanley’s angry voice, but couldn’t make out what he was saying. Next, a yell of pain shuddered the walls of the house; Shifter began shrieking words, very quick words. His speech kept getting faster and faster, as if he was suddenly in a great rush to tell something very important for his life. Soon, his words became unrecognizable streams, and his screams became intolerable. Camilla had heard this kind of sound in her childhood when her mother had taken her to a farm—the farmer’s son had been trying to kill a pig with his knife, but obviously lacked the skills and experience to do it quickly. At that time, she had thought it funny to listen to a desperately squealing animal with a knife in its body. This time, she covered her ears with both hands, but to no avail.

Then, the revolting sound began growing weaker and weaker.

Until it stopped.

In a strange way, the silence that followed was even more frightening than the commotion that preceded it. She heard the rustle of steps inside the house, and a few moments later she noticed Stanley and Ogre appearing on the porch.

“Give me the wheel.” Stanley pulled the driver’s door open as Camilla crawled over to the passenger seat. Ogre climbed into the rear. Stanley stepped on the gas.

“Did you kill him?” Camilla whispered. Her vocal cords failed to produce a sound.

“I told him that no human could tolerate torture for long. He didn’t believe me. It could’ve been much easier for him. The stupid ass! It wasn’t the best time for him to play a tough guy.”

“Who was he?” Camilla asked.

“A dealer. He worked with the Devil’s Knights.”

“Take me back to the bar—,” she reminded him, “I left my car there.”

Stanley nodded. They drove in silence all the way. When they pulled up beside her car, she stepped out without looking back.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Stanley said at the last moment.

She didn’t respond.

 

Back at home, she threw herself on the bed and closed her eyes. The terrifying, muffled shrieks of the tortured man rang in her ears. Her happy, adventurous world, saturated with love, interesting encounters, and the joy of being—all of a sudden had become a huge, horrific battleground, populated by monsters. The memory of a pig’s shriek—a call for mercy from a terrified, dying animal—caused spasms in her stomach. She rushed to the bathroom and bent over the toilet, vomiting violently. Exhausted, she went back to the bed and fell on it, unable to think, unable to feel anything but angst. She was in a stupor. Seeking refuge from the world, she hid her head under the pillows, and closed her eyes, but then the endless darkness became populated by the shadows of real-world savages and terrified her even more. She spent the whole night wandering between the fright of dreams and the horrors of reality. As morning neared, just as she finally grew exhausted and distanced enough to fall asleep, she heard the familiar sound of a key opening the lock of her door. When Stanley came in, she was already sitting up on the bed.

“You didn’t sleep tonight,” he said gently, sitting beside her. She nodded her head in agreement and covered her face with both hands. Stanley put an arm on her shoulders.

“Don’t be so upset,” he said. “You’re not in danger. If worse comes to worst, you won’t be involved.”

“I can’t live like this anymore,” she said. “We have to split.”

“Split?” he repeated.

“Yes. I love you, Stanley, but your life isn’t for me. Finish with it and come back to me. I’d be the happiest woman in the world if you did.”

After a short pause, he said, “Actually, it’s not a bad idea to split for awhile. There’s been a lot of heat on me lately. Let the dust settle, and we’ll talk later.”

Stanley kissed her, but she didn’t respond. He rose to his feet and left.