Dead Man's Time

Gavin Daly from England?’
    ‘Indeed I do!’ She smiled at him.
    ‘Would you bring us some coffee, please?’
    Then they went into his office. It was furnished with a circular conference table and a large desk, with two leather-covered chairs for visitors on one side, and a large, black leather chair
with buttoned cushioning behind it. The walls were lined with fine oil paintings, and the room had the aura of a museum. Daylight entered through a large, frosted glass window. It was quiet in
here, well insulated from the traffic down in the street below.
    Rosenblaum ushered him to one chair in front of the desk, then sat in the other, shot his cuffs, leaned back and folded his arms. ‘So?’
    ‘I really appreciate you informing me about this, Julius.’
    On the desk sat a large, silver cigar box, several photographs in silver frames, a huge glass ashtray and a computer terminal. ‘What the hell does money matter at our age, Gavin? You know?
I need to offload a three-million-bucks stolen watch like I need a hole in my head. I just want a quiet life now – do a few little deals, keep my hand in, and keep me out of the house;
otherwise I’d sit at home going nuts with boredom.’
    Daly nodded in agreement. ‘Still got a yacht?’ Rosenblaum, who had served in the US Navy during the Korean War, had always been a keen sailor. Once, many years ago, on a fine summer
day, Rosenblaum had taken him on a memorable 360 degrees circumnavigation of Manhattan Island.
    ‘Yeah, but I keep her out in St Barts. Too damned chilly, the waters around here for me these days.’
    Rosenblaum opened the lid of the cigar box and pushed it towards him. ‘Help yourself.’
    ‘It’s a little early, thanks.’
    ‘Okay, later. We’ll have a glass or two and a smoke. Come to my club this evening, if you’re free.’
    ‘I’d like that.’
    Rosenblaum shrugged, then grinned, almost sheepishly. ‘Had my prostate removed. Can’t screw any more, so what’s left but a fine cigar and fine wine?’
    ‘I’m right with you – same problem.’
    ‘I look on it as a pleasure, Gavin. I used to have these goddamn urges; it felt like I lived much of my life chained to a wild monkey that had some kind of will of its own and just wanted
to screw all the time, and wasn’t happy when it didn’t. Now – hey, you know, I don’t miss it. You?’
    ‘I still look, though.’ Daly grinned.
    Julius Rosenblaum broke into a grin. ‘The day I stop looking, I want them to take me out into a field and shoot me. But you didn’t come all this way to talk about useless
dicks.’ He looked at his slim, vintage watch. ‘Half an hour until he shows – if he shows.’
    ‘What are your thoughts?’
    Rosenblaum pointed up at the wall, and Daly saw the camera, angled down towards the conference table; then he pointed at a door on the far side of the room, with a large gilded mirror on the
wall beside it. ‘That’s my CCTV viewing room through there. That camera is set to give a close-up of whatever is put on the table. I’ve used it many times to take photographs of
items I’ve been offered, and to check whether they are on any register. And I use that two-way mirror to observe folk in here. You know, you’d be surprised by what you learn from
leaving people who are trying to sell you something alone in a room together.’ He rolled his lips. ‘I figured you might like to observe from in there. If you recognize the watch as
yours, you can either hit a button to alert me, or you can step right in. Within ten seconds, either way, Eamonn Pollock’s going to find himself locked in. He’s not getting out, no
which way.’ The hoods above his eyes raised, theatrically. ‘That okay with you?’
    ‘Just one thing, Julius. What’s in this for you?’
    The New Yorker raised both hands in the air. ‘An old friend like you, Gavin?’ He grinned. ‘I figure you’re not going to leave me empty-handed.’
    ‘Even though you said money does not matter at our age?’
    ‘It doesn’t.’ He rubbed his finger and thumb together, and gave Daly a sly smile. ‘Hey, what’s a few million bucks between friends?’

107
    Eamonn Pollock was feeling like shit. He sat in the back of the most cramped yellow cab in New York, being thrown around by the city’s worst driver – a young
Ethiopian who was having a screaming match with someone on his phone the entire way. The maniac drove flat out, accelerating harshly, then leaving his braking to the very