Chapter 53 Mr. Christmas

53

Mr. Christmas

The sleek, black Lincoln circled Norfolk Street for the second time. It was almost seven thirty.

As Mr. Christmas rolled around the block, he thought about his day and, in particular, his visit with Ruby Johnson. There was a young woman who was full of surprises.

He had expected she would not open the door to her apartment. She would not call the police, given the large bag of cash she had in the place, but he had thought she would resist. If she was anything, she was a fighter.

Except she didn't resist. She opened the door and invited him inside.

‘I've got the money,' she said.

‘I'm aware. Perhaps I could see it, please.'

She disappeared into her bedroom as Mr. Christmas waited in the kitchen, his right hand inside his jacket, ready to draw his pistol. Ruby came out of the bedroom with the blue gym bag, set it on the counter and opened it. Then stood back. Mr. Christmas brought the bag toward him, so he could look inside and keep Ruby in his eyeline. He didn't want to turn his back on this one.

He fanned the bound stacks of cash, making sure they were all hundreds and fifties, and no one-dollar bills had been slipped in. It came to two hundred and fifty. Neat.

‘Do you want coffee?' asked Ruby.

‘If you are attempting to delay the inevitable conclusion of our business, there is no need. I will not harm you today, Ruby.'

She nodded, said, ‘There's still coffee, if you want some.'

‘Why not?' said Mr. Christmas.

She poured two cups. Mr. Christmas asked for half and half and sugar, and they took their coffee to the small living room, Ruby in her chair, while Mr. Christmas occupied her mother's old seat.

‘How does it feel having your mom in a retirement home?' asked Mr. Christmas.

‘It's part nursing care too. For her illness. It's a relief,' said Ruby. ‘She deserved to have people take care of her properly. She's been through so much. She had a terrible time with my father. He beat her, for years. Then, when he ran out on us and took whatever money we had left – that was hard too. She still loves him. And she hates him. But she got us through it. And I wanted to be able to give her something back.'

‘Have you ever tried looking for him?'

‘No. She tried, about a year after he took off. Last trace of him – he was working in a bar in Topeka, Kansas. He'd stolen the weekend's takings and run off with a waitress. The trail went cold after that. I pity the waitress. I bet she was afraid of him too. What about you? Are your parents still around?'

Mr. Christmas felt something in his gut, a warmth. He'd not had a conversation like this in a very long time.

‘My father left us when I was five years old. He went out for a gallon of milk, never saw him again,' said Mr. Christmas. ‘I have no idea where he is now. Probably dead. My mother couldn't cope. She called the police, reported him missing. She didn't tell them he was the type of man who would disappear for days on end, and come home with no shoes and a torn shirt. For the rest of her life, she spent her evenings staring at the front door. Waiting for him. She died when I was fifteen. Car wreck on the way to pick me up from school. She'd been drinking.'

‘That must've been very difficult for you,' said Ruby.

‘Not really, my dear. I knew from a young age that I was quite different from my peers. I knew right from wrong, of course. But I refused to see the appliance of that general societal norm to me. I didn't feel like other people do. I have a short temper, especially if people are rude. That is the extent of my emotive range. Other emotions rarely surface. When they do, I am invariably in the dark of a movie theatre. That's where my feelings lie, and I don't take them with me when I leave. They remain on the floor, like nuggets of spilt popcorn.'

‘Is that why you are . . .' She couldn't finish the sentence.

‘Yes, in this profession my ability to kill people without a second thought is a positive boon. I do have principles, and my own morals, after a fashion. Strange as they may seem, to some. Everyone needs guidelines. You are polite and wise enough not to try to kill me. That is, in part, why you are still alive. What are your guidelines, Ruby?'

‘I do what I need to do to protect my mom.'

‘And that is admirable,' said Mr. Christmas, and he sipped at his coffee and thought for a moment, then said, ‘You are not afraid of me.'

‘No, I am afraid. But I don't show it. Do I need to be afraid of you?'

He smiled.

‘What are your plans now?' he asked.

‘I have things I have to do. Then I am going to do what my father did. I'm going to disappear.'

‘These things you need to do, are they to protect your mother?'

She nodded.

‘And after that you are going where?'

‘There's a poster on my bedroom wall. It's from the eighties, I think. An ad campaign for Cadillac. A blue one. Convertible. There's a woman behind the wheel and she's on one of those long straight roads in the desert somewhere that just goes on and on and on, and she's just driving. Her blond hair is blowing in the wind and the sun is shining. That's where I'm going.'

‘I like you, Ruby Johnson. Someday, we should go to the movies together. Just as friends. You like movies?'

‘I like movies. I like the ones where people drive. When they go on a road trip.'

‘Then it's a date. Tell me more of your plans.'

‘Maybe I shouldn't,' she said.

Mr. Christmas drew the pistol from his jacket, laid it on his lap, said, ‘Would you rather discuss Marlon Brando?'

She looked at the gun. Mr. Christmas took another drink from his coffee cup.

‘Alright, I'll tell you the truth,' said Ruby.

Mr. Christmas, upon exiting Ruby's building, met Lake on the street. Lake passed on the message about a meeting with Flynn.

Mr. Christmas never passed up a meeting with a target.

And now, here he was on Norfolk Street. He drove by a parked Mustang, Flynn's car, and pulled in, the memory of his afternoon with Ruby still playing in his mind. He got out of the car, stepped to the sidewalk and looked up and down the street.

Two men, he guessed they were homeless by their dress, halfway up on his side of the street. One of the men pulled a thin strip of dark metal from his pants and began to slide it in between the glass and the doorframe of Flynn's Mustang. More than half of the streetlights were in darkness. No security cameras anywhere. This was an ideal spot to steal a car, or just break in and grab whatever was inside, including radios, cash, bags. Mr. Christmas looked at his car, and his gaze travelled to the trunk.

He looked at the men. Then back to the trunk of his Lincoln.

He could not take any chances.

Using the fob, he clicked the button to release the trunk lid, retrieved Ruby's blue gym bag, closed the trunk and locked the car. The beep and the flash of lights briefly drew the attention of the two men breaking into Flynn's car. Mr. Christmas stared at them. They slowly moved away.

With the bag in his hand, he turned to try to find the entrance to his meeting place with Flynn. A small metal gate, about waist height, barred a set of stairs that led to a tunnel under the building. A handmade sign on the gate said, Lower East Side Toy Company .

He pushed open the gate, took a firm grip on the handles of the gym bag and slowly descended the steps into the tunnel. When in dark, possibly hostile places, Mr. Christmas never used a flashlight. Instead, he stood there for a minute, letting his eyesight adjust to the darkness. No point in advertising your arrival. Plus, if he held a flashlight in his free hand, it would hamper him reaching for his pistol.

At the end of the tunnel was a small courtyard, and a large oak door. A large man, possibly made out of oak himself, stood beside the door. As Mr. Christmas approached, he stepped to one side, and opened the door for him.

Warm light spilled onto the cobbled courtyard.

Inside, it was a time warp. An antique parquet floor. A rosewood bar, wallpaper that was as old as the building, and a split-level staircase that led to leather seats and an open fire on the floor above. There were only a few patrons at the bar. The hostess, in a green flowing dress, approached him and said, ‘Welcome to the Back Room. I'll take you to see Eddie.' Linking his arm in hers, she guided him up the stairs and across the room. There was no one in the armchairs in front of the fire, and for a moment Mr. Christmas wondered if he had misheard her, but then she walked right up to a bookcase and gently pushed on one side. A secret door was revealed to another room, in the same style.

Again, empty.

She approached the wood panel that covered the right side of the wall, again pushed, and this time led him to another room. It was small and had a row of booths, like a diner, on one side and a bar on the other. In the last booth, against the wall, was Eddie Flynn.

Mr. Christmas took a seat opposite him, the seat was narrow and slim so he slid his bag under the table.

A coffee cup sat in front of Flynn.

‘They serve most of their drinks in coffee cups,' said Eddie. ‘Or if you order beer it comes covered in a brown paper bag. Just like it did when this place first opened. It was a speakeasy. One of the finest in the city. It used to be the back room of Ratner's deli. Meyer Lansky and Bugsy Seigel were regulars. Jimmy Walker, one of the most corrupt mayors in the city's history, would sit right here, in this booth, and meet with cops, mobsters, union men, you name it. And they all paid Jimmy. Would you like a drink?'

‘No, thank you. I thought you didn't drink any more.'

‘I don't. This is just coffee.'

‘The place does have some period charm.'

‘It's private, which is the main thing. Most people don't know about this secret room. I wanted somewhere we could talk, openly. I want to make you an offer.'

‘You and I already have business together, Mr. Flynn.'

‘That's what I'm talking about. I need more time before you try to fulfil the contract. I'm meeting New York's Finest tomorrow night.'

‘Are you going to try to pay them off?' asked Mr. Christmas.

‘I've got no choice. Like they say in that movie, I'm going to make them an offer they can't refuse. I heard you're a Brando fan.'

‘The word fan comes from fanatic. You could say that, yes.'

‘So I'm asking you for a truce. Let me have the meeting. If there's still money on my head afterwards, well, you can try to collect it then.'

‘Mr. Flynn, even if the meeting does not result in a resolution, there will be no contract to fulfil. They'll kill you right then and there. You know that, don't you?'

‘The thought had crossed my mind.'

‘I am rather busy, but what is to stop me from collecting the prize right now? There's no one here.'

‘I thought you were going to take the time to narrow your field of competitors.'

‘Oh, I'm just kidding , Mr. Flynn. I'm in the middle of some other business. That will occupy me for this evening. Good luck with the meeting.'

And, with that, Mr. Christmas leaned down, lifted his bag and left the bar.

He walked to his car, put the bag in the trunk and got in. Fired up the engine and rolled out. He had another place to be.

The plumbing-supplies warehouse in Sheepshead Bay was in darkness. The gate was open and a Bentley was the sole vehicle parked in the lot. A side door lay open.

Mr. Christmas parked, retrieved the gym bag from the trunk and went inside. The place was massive, but the towering steel racks filled the space, creating a central corridor.

Todd Ellis stood in the center of the warehouse. He wore a leather jacket, jeans and boots. Ordinarily, Mr. Christmas never met the principal. Safer that way.

Ellis had insisted on a personal handover.

‘Is she dead yet?' said Ellis, as Mr. Christmas approached him.

‘Good evening,' said Mr. Christmas.

‘Is. She. Dead. Yet?' spat Ellis.

Mr. Christmas cocked his head. This was a man with too much power. He was sure that Ellis's parents would have brought him up right. Taught him some manners. The value of relationships. Basic etiquette. Mr. Christmas did not like rudeness. Even now, after this short exchange, he could feel the rage building inside him.

‘No, she's not dead,' said Mr. Christmas. ‘Not yet. For now, I have your—'

‘Why? Why isn't she dead? Didn't you kill her when you took the money? What the fuck are you doing?'

Mr. Christmas felt his jaw tighten as he strode forward. When he was within five feet of Ellis he dropped the bag. Stepped back a pace. He was afraid that if he opened his mouth again it would only make things worse and, for the moment, he was struggling to contain his anger.

Snatching the bag, Ellis dropped to the balls of his feet and unzipped it.

‘What the fuck is this?' he said.

Mr. Christmas gazed at the bag, and the bundles of copy paper inside. They were not blank, those pages – on each one was a picture. A familiar one.

An image of Marlon Brando.

‘I said , what the fuck is this? Are you trying to screw me over?'

Ellis stood, his neck burning red, spit flying from his mouth as he swore.

Mr. Christmas planted his feet. Tensed. Said, ‘You need to calm down, sir. I don't know what has happened here—'

‘You're trying to screw me. You've made a deal with that bitch. You have no idea who you're fucking with. I'm going to destroy you. Do you understand? I'm going to—'

Ellis didn't even have time to change his expression. He was still ranting, his lips curled in a snarl of rage, as the first nine-millimeter round tore through his chest.

The second one went through his mouth.

Mr. Christmas lowered his weapon, picked up the gym bag and dragged Ellis's body out of the building. He burned the Lincoln, the body and the bag some miles away in an empty parking lot.

As he watched the car go up in flames, he thought about one man.

The man who had conned him.

Eddie Flynn.