Page 119 of Witness 8

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 justkidding, 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—’