Messenger of Death (22 page)

“As I
mentioned, you don’t use your hands until I say so,” he continued
the interrupted conversation. “The client for whom you’ll do this
job is a builder. He did fairly large renovations for a guy he
trusted. But the deadbeat claims he can’t pay now. He’s been
begging to postpone payments, but this crap has been going on for
more than a year.”

“How much does
he owe?” Claude asked.

“About eighty
thousand bucks. We have fairly good information about his finances.
He has about twenty-five grand in a retirement account, about ten
grand in a margin account, a good car, and about a hundred grand in
remaining equity in the house, if you subtract the mortgage from
the average price in his area.”

“How’d yah know
all that?” Claude asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “It’s
none of my business, though,” he rushed to add, as if apologizing
for his out-of-place curiosity. Stash smiled contentedly.

“We have people
everywhere, even in financial businesses. Anyway, this guy had had
plenty of money in his margin account, but lost almost everything
in the stock market. He’s hoping that the stocks he holds will
eventually appreciate in value. That’s fine. But my client wants
his money. Going through the legal system is a rather lengthy and
in most cases a useless procedure. We have to make him pay.”

“Sure,” Claude
nodded. “Will do.”

“Now,” Stash
continued. “His name is Toulouse. He works for the government. Has
a nice wife and two kids. Here are a few papers, your business
card, and photographs of his kids and wife.”

Claude couldn’t
help but smile.

“Like it?”
Stash asked.

“Very
much.”

Stash spent
another fifteen minutes with him, discussing some likely
scenarios.

“I can see that
you pretty well understand what to do. Any questions, Claude?”

“No.”

“When do you
want to start?”

“Tomorrow
morning.”

“Good
luck.”

II

Claude liked
the assignment. Scaring the shit out of people was one of his
favorite passions. Being paid for it was a bonus. That evening, he
met with two former inmates from the jail. They looked like bikers
in poorly produced documentaries. He knew they weren’t worth
anything—the stupid knuckleheads could only deal with people like
themselves; they would no doubt run at any sign of real danger. But
he also knew that these bums would kill their own mothers for a
gram of coke. Both of them had bikes, cheap ones but good enough
for his purposes.

“Don’t touch
the deadbeat,” he instructed them in the bar as he paid for their
beers. “Just show up where I tell you when I give the signal. Two
grams of coke, each, for that.”

They gasped and
begged Claude for another beer, which he ordered at once.

“Don’t be even
one minute late,” he warned.

The next day
began with a clear sky, sunshine, and the peculiar freshness of
approaching fall. At 6 o’clock in the morning, the roads were
almost empty and he quickly cruised toward their rendezvous. When
he turned into the neighbourhood where Toulouse lived, he found the
two men waiting behind the community tennis courts. They were
sitting on the grass and smoking cigarettes. Their bikes stood by
the curb.

“When I rub my
ear, like this, pull up to where I am,” he told them.

“Sure,” they
said together. Their faces were solemn, as if they were serious
businessmen on an important errand.

Toulouse lived
in a large house with a two-car garage and a driveway that could
accommodate up to four cars. The Infinity Stash had described was
parked there. Claude placed his Honda right behind it, lowered the
window, and lit a cigarette. He knew that it would be at least an
hour until Toulouse came out, but he preferred waiting to missing
the client.

At 8 o’clock, a
man with a leather briefcase came out of the house. Claude
recognized him by the description and photograph that Stash had
supplied. He was tall, with the figure of an athlete, a commanding
posture, and a bossy hardness in his eyes. He noticed the shabby
Honda behind his car and moved toward it with resolute steps.

“Hey,” he
exclaimed in a sharp voice. “What’re you doing here?”

Claude opened
the door and stepped out. He greeted Toulouse with the most
menacing smile he was capable of.

“Are you
Toulouse?” he asked, and moved so close that Toulouse had to step
back to distance himself.

“Yes. What’s
the matter?”

Claude noticed
a small sign of fear on Toulouse’s large face. His look became
strained but retained bits of broken self-assuredness.

“I’m from a
collection agency,” Claude introduced himself. “My name is
Bruce.”

“Oh?”

“We’ve sent you
a few reminders to pay on a debt,” Claude continued. “But it seems
you didn’t even care to reply.”

Toulouse
quickly regained control of himself. Claude had anticipated
that.

“Listen, Mister
Bruce,” Toulouse said with poorly hidden contempt. “I can’t pay
right now. However, I appreciate your reminding me. I’ll pay soon,
I promise. Now move your car out and let me go, please.”

“Mister Bruce
will not move, Mister Toulouse.” Claude made another step toward
Toulouse and gave him his best sadistic smile.

“Don’t you
understand?” Toulouse asked with dwindling confidence, while
stepping back. Fear grew rapidly in his face. His lips began
trembling.

“I do
understand,” Claude growled, “But I think you don’t understand what
I’m here for. You owe us about $80,000. I won’t move my car until I
get this money. Do you understand?”

Smiling to
himself, he noticed that Toulouse had gathered all his strength to
withstand his stare, but failed.

“Do you
understand?” Claude repeated, raising his voice. “Don’t look at me
like a cow. Give me money.”

“I don’t have
the money right now,” Toulouse half-whispered apologetically. “You
see, I invested badly. I have to wait a bit—until the market picks
up. I’ll pay, I assure you . . .”

“I’ll break
your legs, you stupid ass,” interrupted Claude. “Are they worth
eighty grand, those fucking legs of yours?”

“I’ll call the
police,” Toulouse declared with little conviction in his voice.

“You can’t,”
Claude assured him. “I’ll chop off your tongue before you can do
it. I’ll take care of your wife and kids after that. Give me money.
Listen, don’t try my patience. Nobody who’s done that before has
ended up very happy.”

“Really, sir .
. . ,” Toulouse mumbled. He’s almost done, Claude thought. He
rubbed his right ear and stared at Toulouse in silence.

Seconds later,
two motorcycles approached at high speed and stopped abruptly in
the driveway. The hired bums stepped off the bikes. Their sleeves
were rolled up, displaying muscular, tattoo-covered arms. Claude
smiled inwardly again. Their faces should seem brutal and
disgusting to anyone who doesn’t normally deal with former cons.
One of them took a position behind Toulouse; another stopped very
close to him, breathing in his ear. Toulouse’s face went pale.

“But I really
don’t have the money right now.” Toulouse was begging, tears
swelling in his eyes. He made an attempt to step back, but the man
behind him blocked his way. “Believe me—I’d have to declare
bankruptcy . . .”

“There’s no
time for bankruptcy,” Claude said. “Better to pay up. What about
the forty-five grand you have in your retirement account? What
about your car? What about your house? Or your wife? You do have a
pretty wife, don’t you? A very good broad for fucking, I bet. We
can go inside and ask her if you really have money or not.”

Toulouse stared
at him with terrified eyes, on the verge of fainting.

“How do you
know all this?” he asked without blinking.

“You’ve got two
kids, too, from what I hear,” Claude went on “Two nice kids. If you
don’t want to take care of them, we can. Understand?”

“But . . .
Truly, guys, how do you wish me to pay? I have no money. Even if
you threaten to kill me, I will still have no money.”

“Nobody has
threatened to kill you—yet,” Claude objected. “Tell me, how much is
your car worth right now?”

“My c-car?” he
stammered. “About fifteen thousand, I guess. But I can’t sell it.
How would I go to work?”

“That would be
your problem, wouldn’t it?” Claude asked. “Don’t fool around with
me, man. Pay the debt.”

“Okay, okay,”
Toulouse finally agreed. “But it may take a couple of weeks before
I can sell it for that price. I can’t give you the money right
now.”

“That’s okay,”
Claude nodded. “You can give me a post-dated check for fifteen
grand. You see—we are reasonable people. We can talk business.”

With pale,
watery eyes, Toulouse glanced at the “reasonable” people around him
and then looked beyond them, as if expecting miraculous help from
somewhere. He opened his briefcase on the hood of the car, pulled
out a check book, and scribbled a check for $15,000. His hands were
shaking.

“Can I go now?”
he asked. Claude put the check in his pocket.

“You must be
crazy, Mister Toulouse,” he said. “What about the remaining
sixty-five grand?”

“But—”

“No ‘but.’ How
much is your house worth now?”

“Please, guys,”
pleaded Toulouse. “I have to live somewhere.” The three men
laughed.

“I didn’t come
here to help you with your financial problems,” Claude said calmly.
He had no doubt that he had crushed the will of this debtor. “When
are you going to put your house up for sale? I can’t wait longer
than a month. Mind you, this is the only help that I can offer.
Otherwise, we’ll not speak on friendly terms, as we are doing
now.”

“It’s a good
offer, man.” The one who stood behind Toulouse tapped him on his
shoulder. Claude gave him a warning look.

“Let me talk to
my wife first,” Toulouse said. “I’ll try to sell it as soon as
possible.”

“How soon?”

“Within a
month, as you’ve said.”

“Good. Nice to
do business with earnest people.” Claude uttered a rowdy laugh.
“Have a good day.” He looked back over his shoulder as he opened
his car door. “Good luck with your house.”

He gave a look
to his companions. They obediently rattled away on their noisy
motorcycles as he backed up his Honda and turned back onto the
street. From the rearview mirror, he saw Toulouse walking back
inside, bent and limping like an old, crippled man.

III

For as far back
as he could remember, Claude had had a keen interest in reading the
body language and facial expressions of those he dealt with. Long
years in prison had made it a necessity: Anyone there could be a
possible ally, a potential foe, a traitor, or an informant. An
opponent’s demeanor had to be evaluated moments before the fight in
order to decide whether to kill or not. The toughest ones, if they
recovered, would return to even the score.

Most important
of all, though, was the need to identify and understand the faults
and strengths of allies and associates in crime: to determine how
reliable they were, what they were capable of, and what they were
up to at any given moment.

No one was at
ease under his sharp stare, except perhaps for Marcel. Stash
apparently did not like it at all. Listening to Claude’s account
about dealing with Toulouse, he stared back with an unusual mixture
of contentment and irritation. Claude understood well what was
going on in Stash’s head. Although Stash agreed with the way he had
handled the matter, Claude was still aggravated by what he
considered to be too much attention to his face, which bore traces
of drug abuse, sleeplessness, and chaotic indulgences—to
broads.

“Do you think
he’ll sell the house in a month?” Stash asked. He turned his face
away to observe a small kid on the playground who was under the
watchful supervision of an elderly woman. The city park, rather
lonely during this late weekday afternoon, could be well observed
from their bench. The sun was already low and shot its blinding
rays directly into their faces. Stash was squinting, too lazy and
too apathetic for any effort to shield his eyes.

“I’ve scared
the shit out of him,” Claude said with a note of pride in his
voice. He also uttered one of his rowdy laughs. “But it’s hard to
say if he’ll be able to pay in a month. What am I supposed to do if
he doesn’t? Treat him well?”

“Wait, and
let’s see how it goes. In the meantime, I’ll give you three grand
now, for his check. You’ll get the rest after his final
payment.”

Stash counted
the money and handed it to Claude. The heavy pouches under his eyes
and the premature wrinkles on his gray skin were signs of a
hangover, which could be erased only by a new doping session.
Claude knew the whole story. Marcel will probably take care of him
soon, Claude thought.

“There’s
another deal coming in two weeks,” Stash promised, pointing his
bleached, watery eyes at Claude.

“Good,” Claude
nodded, this time casting his glance down. After all, Stash was a
gangster who likely had the same, or better, ability of reading
people that he did.

“See yah then,”
Stash promised and walked away, his legs stiff, as if lacking the
strength to support his body.

Claude arrived
home an hour later to find Leila busy preparing dinner.

“Stop cooking!”
Claude commanded, settling on the couch. “Let’s go out to a
restaurant tonight.” He pulled some cash from a pocket and threw it
on the table.

“But dinner is
almost done,” Leila said.

“So, stop,”
Claude repeated. Watching her with an apron, worn like a good,
devoted housewife, he mellowed. “Take five hundred from that. Spend
it on yourself. Much more is coming.”