Chapter 33 Eddie

33

Eddie

‘What kind of a name is Mr. Christmas? Where's your red suit?'

The man across from me in the booth smiled. With his ivory skin, milk-blue eyes and sharp suit, he didn't look like the kind of guy who laughed easily, but his amusement seemed genuine.

‘I'm just beginning to like you, Mr. Flynn. You are endowed with many admirable qualities. Of course, that doesn't mean I won't kill you, but not now, at least. So you can relax, take your hand off that weapon in your pocket. I can also assure you that I am not the person who injured your mentor, Mr. Ford. I am much more discerning in my professional approach. I am not carrying a firearm presently. There's a blade in my sleeve, but I don't foresee the need to use it. Not unless you force my hand . . .'

His voice was deep and strong. It came from his chest. And on the way out of his mouth his lips and tongue moved eloquently to make sure he hit every syllable for perfect pronunciation. While his tone seemed friendly, even though he'd just told me he was planning to kill me, his language was formal. I guessed he was an educated man. His fingers laced together and he placed his palms on the table, extending his elbows. Chin up. Good posture. There was a confidence that oozed out of him. There was an odor from the man, something citrusy, with wood and tobacco. It smelled expensive. Like the suit.

I took my fingers from the ceramic knuckles in my jacket pocket and put my hands on the table. He watched me, his expression neutral. I got the impression that he could move fast if he wanted to. And I had no doubt he could use the blade he had in his sleeve. Who keeps a knife in their sleeve? Someone who had a special sheath made for it, no doubt. A custom job. This wasn't Mr. Christmas's first rodeo.

I'd been around killers from the time I was a kid. I remember sitting on a bar stool in a Brooklyn dive, sipping a Pepsi and eating peanuts when I was eight years old while my father shot craps in the back, or played cards. The big guys with moustaches and suits who read the paper in that bar knew my father was working, and they were taking a cut from whatever he could con out of the regular clientele. Those big men kept the Pepsis coming, and I sat and listened to them talk and tell jokes. There's something about men who have killed other human beings for a living. It's in their eyes. It's in their voice. They seem both regular people and completely alien. They understand that there are social conventions, relationships with peers and loved ones, but they also know there's an off switch. That if they have a problem they can solve it by putting three .22 rounds in the other person's head.

Mr. Christmas was a killer. And it showed.

But only to those who knew what they were looking at.

‘Who shot Harry?' I asked.

‘We can talk about that later. There are other, more interesting matters to discuss.'

‘If you came to buy me breakfast, you're too late. I already paid and I ain't hungry,' I said.

‘This isn't a social call, Mr. Flynn. While I am not technically here on business, hence your current good health, I am not here to make small talk either. Now that I have introduced myself, I think we can get to the point.'

He paused, caught the waitress's eye and politely asked for coffee. The waitress brought over a cup for him, and gave me another refill. I was glad I'd tipped well.

He first stared into the cup, warily, then brought it to his lips. There was a mild look of distaste as he smacked his lips and set the coffee cup down.

‘I spent eight years in Sicily. It spoiled me. The coffee was so good there I can still smell it. And this . . .' He pointed to the mug. ‘Forgive me – I digress. I wanted to enquire as to the nature of your relationship with Mr. Lake.'

When he'd sat down, I had no idea what this guy wanted to talk about. I had never met anyone more polite who appeared intent on killing me at some point down the line. It was a little like meeting the guy who was going to make your coffin. Whatever guesses I could've made about what Mr. Christmas wanted, I would not have thought Gabriel Lake would have been his point of interest.

‘He's my friend. And my investigator. Freelance. Do you know him?'

‘We've met,' said Mr. Christmas. ‘It was a brief interlude, but pleasing nonetheless. My interest in Mr. Lake is professional, mostly. He used to work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation . . .'

He gave the feds their full and correct title. It was the Bureau of Investigation, not Investigation s . If a guy ever flashes a badge and says he's from the Federal Bureau of Investigations, you can be pretty sure the badge and the guy that goes with it are fake.

‘I know his résumé,' I said. ‘He worked in the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Lake hunted serial killers. He's taken that business into the private sector now.'

Again with the smile, Mr. Christmas said, ‘I am aware he is no longer with the Bureau. Has he ever told you why that is the case?'

I nodded.

‘Did he tell you the whole story, I wonder?'

‘He said he got a tip-off from a federal informer about the whereabouts of a serial killer. Lake went to the property, kicked the door down, but by then it was too late. It wasn't a killer's home – it was a heroin bank. Lake was almost killed, but he took out every armed man in the building before he passed out from blood loss. That much was in the newspapers. Or most of it. By the time Lake woke up in the hospital, the informer was dead. Lake thinks someone in the Bureau set him up and sent him into a death trap. That last part didn't make the news cycle.'

Mr. Christmas cocked his head, his expression curious. ‘There are certain aspects of the events of that evening that have lain hidden. Either by necessity or design. He didn't tell you the identity of the killer he was searching for that evening?'

His tone had changed. The timber more somber. He didn't need to spell it out.

‘He was looking for you?' I asked.

Mr. Christmas softly closed and then opened his eyes as he gave a slight nod by way of agreement.

‘Mr. Lake drew the ire of agents in the Bureau because of his somewhat radical approach to the identification, pursuit and detection of those who regularly commit murder, either by desire or as a legitimate business enterprise. Some in the Bureau thought he was right. If he had been allowed to remain in the service and progress, he would have altered that organization. He could have embarrassed some agents. Ended the careers and the life's work of others. Mr. Lake had been warned – or perhaps threatened is a better description – that he may become a target. I may say that his courage and determination drove him onward, but I could equally offer the comment that he is both stubborn and perhaps over-confident in his beliefs. Needless to say, the outcome was predictable.'

‘What's your interest in Gabriel?' I asked.

‘He intrigues me. I have been in my current line of work for a very long time. It is not often that I meet an opponent of that skill. And, I feel, in another life, it could well have been me chasing him. He may be your friend. He may be a brilliant investigator. But he is also a killer. I think you knew that already.'

‘Are you targeting Lake?'

‘No. I have no interest in killing Mr. Lake. It so happens that he has stumbled into my business here, with you . . .'

I'd had enough. My best friend was in a coma. I had a case starting for a client I knew was innocent and there was a real killer out there, somewhere, walking free.

I leaned forward, said, ‘I don't really have time for a walk down memory lane with a hitman. Even one as polite and well-mannered as you. I got shit to do, so if you want to kill me, I suggest you make your move. Plenty have tried and failed. You know who shot Harry?'

He nodded.

‘Who is he?'

‘His name is Angel. Or at least that is his moniker in the trade. He is a former Special Forces operative. Seal team sniper. Quite skilled. His identity should not be difficult to discover. As I understand it, his experiences in Afghanistan and Iraq were unpleasant, to say the least. His team was tasked with tracking and executing an ISIS operative who targeted US military patrols. This operative's method was to strap explosives to children and make them get close to the American soldiers before . . . well . . . you can imagine. Angel provided cover for the patrols. In the military, soldiers are conditioned to kill on the basis that if they fail to execute the enemy, they are essentially sacrificing one of their comrades. Kill to protect the man next to you. That works quite well. In Angel's case, he had to shoot more than a dozen children in order to protect his team. Not all of those children were carrying explosives. It's difficult to know if it happened after he shot the first child, or the twelfth, but it appears that something inside Angel broke. Something that could not be put back together. I have respect for him as a fellow professional, but if you don't kill him I think I might.'

‘Why would you kill him?'

‘There are a number of reasons. First, he took out one of my targets before I could pay them a visit. He is a competitor, but in my line of work competition is, shall we say, cutthroat? Let's call it a Darwinian approach to the economics of murder. With fewer professionals operating, prices will go up. There is also the challenge to consider. Most of my targets don't know I exist until they feel my blade at their throat. Angel knows my work. I'll enjoy the test.'

I got up, slowly, confidently, so Mr. Christmas would not see it as a challenge.

‘Give New York's Finest a message from me, will you?'

‘Certainly,' he said.

‘Tell them to back off. Before it's too late.'

‘I'm afraid they won't respond well to that message. Angel and I are not the only ones chasing the contract on your head. The 88s are looking for you too.'

‘The neo-Nazis?'

‘The very same.'

‘Any other good news for me?'

‘Yes, I think matters are coming to a head. All of this will be over quite soon. One way or another.'