Messenger of Death by Alex Markman Read Free Book Online

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description of yah,” explained the driver. He made a few sudden
turns and eventually pulled the car to the edge of the road.
    “Here,” he
said. “Get out.” The driver led the way inside the restaurant and
stopped by the table where a man with a protruding bony nose was
sitting. Claude recognized him from photographs he had seen before.
This was the legendary Marcel.
    “Sit down.”
Marcel pointed with a nod at the chair across the table. Claude
obeyed, making the best effort to conceal his admiration for
everything around—tall and nicely draped windows, high ceilings,
polished mahogany, and sparkling crystal glass. He was turning his
head, trying to understand what this luxury was needed for, but
stopped short when he noticed Marcel watching him with an
understanding smile. Marcel gave the driver a look, and he
disappeared.
    “Like the
place?” asked Marcel. Claude nodded and pointed his finger to the
piece of snow-white cone-shaped cloth on the table to his
right.
    “What’s this
bloody rag for?” he asked.
    “It’s a cloth
napkin,” explained Marcel. “Now, look at the menu. Choose what you
like. In the meantime, I want to talk business to you. Do you
mind?”
    “What d’yah
want me to do?”
    “Machete told
me ’bout you and Trasher. Good job, but never again do anything
without my command. Got it?” Marcel sighed. “I think you’d be able
to take care of two Iron Ghosts.”
    Marcel began,
helping himself to a glass of red Italian wine.
    “We know the
restaurant they have been frequenting lately. We cannot get them
anywhere other than this place. That is unfortunate. I don’t like a
show of force in public places. But what am I supposed to do?”
Marcel shrugged his shoulders and showed his palms, as if saying.
“I give up. In spite of the best of my intentions, I have to kill
them in public places.”
    “You wanna
shoot ’em?” asked Claude. Marcel nodded.
    “There is no
other way, I gather. Our people will contact you when these guys
are there. Usually they spend more than an hour at a table.”
    “How’d I
recognize them?” Claude asked. Marcel took two photographs out of
his breast pocket and placed them on the table in front of
Claude.
    “Do you know
them?”
    “No.”
    Their waiter
brought the steak Marcel had ordered, expressing with his posture
the desire to serve and please. He took the white napkin off the
table, unrolled it with a swift flap, and placed it on Marcel’s
lap.
    “Enjoy your
meal, sir,” said the waiter.
    “Fuck off,”
Claude said to the waiter’s retreating back. He turned back to
Marcel and swallowed nervously when he noticed Marcel’s
disapproving and contemptuous grimace. Claude managed to force a
feeble smile on his closed lips and looked into Marcel’s
unblinking, frozen stare. A few butterflies fluttered their wings
inside Claude’s stomach.
    “A recent blast
near our clubhouse was the deed of this one,” Marcel went on
talking, while pointing a finger at one of the photographs. “We
need to get him, to strike back as quickly as possible. Everyone
should know how we respond. We are Devil’s Knights. That means
something.”
    Claude nodded
contentedly. The waiter now brought his steak, placed the plate in
front of him, spread his napkin on his knees, and retreated with
the same “Enjoy your meal, sir,” comment. This time, Claude nodded
“Thank you” and Marcel granted him a short smile. He liked how
quickly Claude learned.
    “I will give
you $15,000 bucks for the deal,” continued Marcel. “Five thousand
today and ten after it’s done. Seven thousand, five hundred for
each head.”
    The gleam in
Claude’s eyes gave the proposal a wholehearted welcome. He cut an
impressive piece of steak and shoved it into his mouth.
    ”Is that okay?”
asked Marcel.
    “Uh-huh,”
murmured Claude, his jaws working hard on too large a piece of
meat. He used his palm to wipe up a thin stream of sauce that
rolled from the corner of his mouth. He