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Mr. Christmas

Mr. Christmas had learned that if you have to burn your current mode of transport to hide evidence, it’s best to do it close to an airport.

He’d walked for ten minutes through a dark neighborhood, putting some distance between him and the burning vehicle, and then called a different rental company, but they had no Lincolns available. He decided on a Cadillac, black, of course, and handed over one of many credit cards that he had in his wallet, under one of many names that he carried around like extra lives.

Soon he was back in Manhattan.

He’d driven around for a while, in likely places, looking for Flynn’s Mustang, but couldn’t find it.

Instead, he parked and waited.

While he waited, he thought about the seventy-five thousand dollars Flynn had cost him. And all the trouble of killing his client. Considering that development, he thought it best to tell his man now.

He always picked up quickly for Mr. Christmas.

‘Good evening, it’s Mr. Christmas calling . . .’

‘How’d it go?’

‘I’m afraid I have to report there has been something of a dip in my standards of customer care.’

‘A dip?’

‘More of a failure, or a collapse, in those standards, really.’

‘How big of a failure?’

‘Catastrophic.’

‘So he’s dead? I told him this wasn’t a good idea. It’s not how we operate, but he insisted.’

‘In my defense, he was rather disagreeable.’

‘What happened?’

‘Well, at first he was discourteous. Then he was rude. There was a small problem with delivery of his money, which I would have rectified, but impatience and intemperance got the better of him. He threatened me.’

‘Sounds like you did what you thought was right.’

‘I have my standards.’

‘Was the contract fully fulfilled?’

‘No.’

‘What about our other business. Is Flynn still alive?’

‘He is, for now.’

‘If you don’t mind me saying, and don’t take this as a criticism, but maybe you should think about closing out our contracts in New York?’

Mr. Christmas sighed, said, ‘I didn’t get to where I am by simply fulfilling contracts. As I’ve always said, there are wider considerations.’

‘I’ll leave it to you.’

Mr. Christmas hung up just as a woman fell down a set of steps a hundred yards ahead of him. He looked closer. A man followed her down those steps, picked her up roughly and threw her against a car. Focusing, Mr. Christmas recognized Ruby. He did not recognize the man who was mishandling her, but he saw the gun in his hand clearly enough.

Mr. Christmas turned on the Cadillac’s engine and followed the Range Rover with Ruby Johnson in the passenger seat.

Before he turned left at the end of West 74 th Street he heard the sound of an engine revving high. A distinctive sound for anyone familiar with cars. A V8 singing its irregular roar of a song. He checked his mirror, and watched Eddie Flynn’s Mustang screech to a halt outside the Jackson house. Exactly the place Mr. Christmas thought Flynn might visit this evening. That was why he had parked there.

He knew then, exactly, what he should do. It was a matter of prudence, purely.

He was a professional, and professionals, before all else, perform their tasks with ruthless efficiency and reliability. Mr. Christmas should circle the block, come up behind Flynn and shoot him in the back of the head.

Hitmen fulfill contracts. They kill people and get paid.

This was logical. This was business.

This was what Mr. Christmas was supposed to do.