Chapter 24 Mr. Christmas

24

Mr. Christmas

At eight thirty, on a hot Tuesday morning, Mr. Christmas sat behind the wheel of his black Lincoln Continental and watched Eddie Flynn and Harry Ford enter the lobby of the Cardozo Hotel. This was his first time seeing Flynn in the flesh. Up until now he had studied photographs only – pictures taken by newspaper photographers. He had seen pictures of Flynn, his partner Kate Brooks, mentor Harry Ford and their detective, Bloch. Today, he hoped to get a flavor of the real people.

He had researched his target. It didn't matter that Mr. Christmas was paid for his craft – ending a life was never merely business, particularly for his victims.

Murder was always personal.

The more he delved into Flynn and his history, the more intriguing the man had become. There were even odd parallels to Mr. Christmas's own life. Flynn was a man with a foot in two worlds. He was, by all accounts, a gifted trial lawyer. His past, however, was much more interesting. The son of a small-time grifter, Flynn had followed that same path, but excelled as a con artist. His quick wit and cunning allowed him to build his own reputation in the criminal underworld with the moniker Eddie Fly. Like so many brought up underprivileged with a criminal parent, he practically inherited a life of crime. His childhood friend Jimmy Fellini, whom he'd met in Mickey Hooley's Boxing Club, was now head of the Italian crime families in New York. Everything pointed to Flynn making a mistake and ending up serving a nickel in one of the state's less salubrious prisons. But something had happened before his luck ran out.

Flynn had turned away from being a con artist and went back to school. Passed the bar exam and clerked for the man who was now his best friend – former Judge Harry Ford. This was a turning point in Flynn's life, and the reasons behind it were not clear for Mr. Christmas. Most of the men in his line of work just focused on finding a target. That was not enough for him. Their location was important, but knowing who they were, how they behave and how they react to certain situations was essential. It was, to him, the difference between knowing where one can find a piano, and being able to sit down at the instrument and play Chopin.

He wondered what Flynn was doing. Judging by the news articles he could find, Flynn was in the middle of a major case, defending brain surgeon John Jackson in a murder trial. The victim was a minor celebrity and aging Manhattan socialite. That bought the case some column inches, as did the location of the murder – West 74 th Street – a notably high-end neighborhood in a city full of high-end neighborhoods. Interestingly, Jackson's mother-in-law had been found murdered just a few days ago, and a young woman arrested. There was much more going on than appeared on its surface.

Perhaps Flynn was meeting a witness. The Cardozo Hotel has an exclusive club for dining and drinks, frequented by bankers, business types, lawyers and general high rollers. The cost of membership ensured only the very rich and elite were allowed to join. Flynn wasn't in that class, but he had been to see the concierge and booked a room for the night.

Mr. Christmas checked the rearview mirror. Then side mirrors.

The sidewalks of Manhattan were rivers that flowed with people. And he was looking for a particular kind of fish. One that stood out among the crowds. It wasn't particularly difficult to spot them. Their eyes gave them away. And their dress.

A large man wearing blue jeans, tan boots and a tan work jacket, carrying a large tool bag over his shoulder. A single AirPod in his left ear. He had watched Flynn, Ford and Bloch enter the building. Walked slowly along the same side of the street. Once they were inside the hotel, the man in work clothes hid his gaze with a baseball cap and put his back to the building, leaning against the wall. He'd stood out not because of where his gaze had been fixed, but because he walked slowly, and his clothes, while portraying him as one of the thousands of construction workers who flooded the city every day, also gave him away.

They were new. Spotless.

He was a mobile spotter. Tracking Flynn along the pavements. He would have a mobile base. And there would be at least one other person behind the wheel of a vehicle. A two-man team. Minimum.

Mr. Christmas cast his eyes around the street. At first, nothing leapt out at him. Then a black panel van turned the corner. It parked on the other side of the street, twenty feet from the hotel entrance and facing Mr. Christmas. A driver and a passenger in blue overalls. Both men alert. Eyes scanning the street.

They clocked his Lincoln. The passenger's gaze quickly moved on.

But not the driver's.

Mr. Christmas checked his watch, took his cell phone from his pocket and pretended to look at it, keeping the driver in his peripheral vision. After a few seconds, the driver shifted his attention to the rest of the street.

The hotel entrance was busy and Mr. Christmas watched people go in and out, mostly tourists, their luggage unloaded from town cars onto trolleys by the bellhops. The concierge and greeters were out front ferrying guests.

A half-hour went by. Tourists checked in and checked out. The man in pristine work clothes lit a cigarette and studied his phone.

Adjusting his side mirror, Mr. Christmas was able to get a better look at the man in workwear – the eyeball on the street. Mr. Christmas sat forward, squinting, trying for a closer look. The left pocket of his jacket bulged. A small handgun. Or maybe a taser. He also noticed there was a tattoo on the back of the man's wrist, a snake that curled over his hand and onto his knuckles. He believed he knew that tattoo, but he had to get a closer look to be sure.

The crew made up by the occupants of the panel van and the construction worker were good. They kept each other in sight, while covering all bases and means of exit from the hotel.

Mr. Christmas waited, and forty-five minutes later he got his opportunity. A truck pulled up in front of the row of parked vehicles and the driver got out, threw open the rear door of his trailer and retrieved a handcart. He was about to make a delivery to the hotel and, for however long that took him, he would obscure the view between the panel van and the man on the street.

Just as Mr. Christmas opened the driver's door of his Lincoln, his messenger bag in hand, he thought over what would happen when Flynn left the hotel. His contacts had told him Flynn wasn't planning on occupying the room he had booked; it merely allowed his contacts at the hotel to get him into the club. Flynn could leave the hotel any time.

When he did, things would move quickly.

The van would pull out into the middle of the street and the man in workwear would move swiftly to intercept his target. The mobile vehicle was a van, which meant there was probably someone in the back to open the rear doors for the workman to make his escape after he had executed Flynn and Ford. If he slipped, there would be at least one shooter in the van – back-up. Either way, both Flynn and Ford would certainly be killed. No point in leaving a living witness.

Mr. Christmas stepped to the sidewalk, placed his black felt fedora smoothly onto his head and buttoned his light black overcoat. His movement was lithe and elegant – like Fred Astaire in top hat and tails.

The contract on Flynn's life had attracted attention. Mid-level hitmen, mostly. When Mr. Christmas drew nearer to the man in work gear, he got a closer look at the tattoo on his left hand. As the man smoked his cigarette, the sleeve of his jacket slid down.

The snake coiled into a figure eight over the back of his hand.

Even though he couldn't see it, he knew there would be a corresponding eight on his right hand.

These men, known as the 88s, were part of a small professional crew who were normally based out of Fort Worth, but they had operated in Miami, Chicago, Upstate New York and Houston. Ex-specialists. Two were former Marines. One Green Beret. Two Rangers. They had built a reputation for a number of terror attacks, although none of the incidents had been classified as such by the FBI. They were mostly bombing African American and Jewish-owned businesses and retail stores. All five members had been dishonorably discharged from military service for a variety of offences – mostly race-related violence. Their planned terror campaign needed financing, and of course none of them were psychologically capable of holding down regular employment – and they didn't have a service pension to get by on either.

They began taking jobs from whoever paid. Small-time stuff at first, working security for a people trafficker named Grady Banks. A particularly nasty fellow who sold stolen children to the highest bidder, mostly foreign nationals, or sometimes to Mr. Christmas's current employers – New York's Finest, who then sold them to brothels dotted around the city. Grady Banks and the 88s were friends. They were also neo-Nazis.

The eights on their hands represented the eighth letter of the alphabet – H. Double H was some kind of bullshit code for Heil Hitler .

Mr. Christmas didn't care for Nazis.

However, on this occasion, their skewed bigotry was not the reason he felt the need to intervene. When he had heard a number of his fellow professional killers were interested in the contract on Eddie Flynn, it became a matter of economic propriety. Not only would Mr. Christmas be the one to put a bullet in Eddie Flynn, but it also gave him an opportunity to pick off his market competitors before he killed the lawyer. With fewer professional hitmen in operation – the market would adjust. Prices would go way up.

Murder is often an economic force, especially in the world of assassins.

As Mr. Christmas approached the man in work gear, he noticed him angling his phone screen to get a look at Mr. Christmas as he approached. He could almost sense the man tensing. The workman had good survival instincts. His other hand dived into his coat pocket, his fingers no doubt wrapping around the compact pistol hidden in there.

He stopped just a few feet from the man, retrieved a soft pack of Lucky Strikes from his pocket, a lighter, and tapped a smoke to his lips as he turned his back. Cupping his hand round the lighter, Mr. Christmas struck the wheel a few times but to no avail. He always carried an empty lighter for just such an occasion. The man was watching him, and Mr. Christmas swung round.

‘Excuse me, sorry to bother you, but could I borrow a light?' asked Mr. Christmas.

The man threw the butt of his cigarette into the street. The muscles in Mr. Christmas's jaw twitched. He didn't like litter. Throwing trash onto the ground was a symptom of an unevolved mind.

The man appeared irked, but he let go of the pistol in his jacket and placed his right hand into his pants pocket and came up with a Zippo, which he snapped open on his thigh and then lit, in a practiced back-and-forth whipping movement.

‘Thank you,' said Mr. Christmas as he held the cigarette to the flame.

The man flicked his wrist to close the lighter.

‘Pardon me for asking,' began Mr. Christmas, ‘and I don't at all mean this question to sound flippant, or compendious – I'm genuinely interested to hear your answer. Tell me, sir, what do you think of Marlon Brando?'