The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [155]
Moments later a cab pulls up outside. A fourth man has arrived, this one more surprising. Yahya Maluk hands his hat and coat to a waitress.
Ruiz enters a few minutes later, not making eye contact with Luca or Daniela.
“I’m with Mr. Sobel’s party,” he tells the maitre d’. “A late addition. Did someone call? No, not to worry.”
Taking the narrow stairs, he arrives at the lone table.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen. Bloody traffic. Grind to a standstill one day.”
Bernard Sobel looks up from the menu. Ruiz takes a chair and shrugs off his coat.
Sobel: “Hey buddy, you’re in the wrong place.”
“This is a private dining room,” echoes Artie Chalcott.
“But you guys know me.” Ruiz opens his arms. Then he motions to the driver. “We’re old friends. How’s your mate? Sorry about his nose. Didn’t know he was a bleeder.”
The driver’s first instinct is to reach inside his jacket. Ruiz fixes him with a stare. “I had you pegged as stupid, but not that stupid. Are we really going to compare weapons in a public place like this? Is yours bigger than mine? Is mine bigger than yours? I don’t like to boast, but I think size does count and now isn’t the time for you to grow a pair.”
Ruiz reaches across the table to Brendan Sobel. “Brendan, nice to finally meet.”
Sobel is so stunned he shakes his hand.
“And you must be Yahya Maluk. We haven’t met,” says Ruiz, “but I know you by reputation.”
The banker looks completely nonplussed. He glances from face to face, waiting for an explanation.
Ruiz turns to Chalcott. “Another American. Welcome to our shores.”
A waitress offers to take Ruiz’s coat.
“Thanks, love, but I’ll hold on to it. Can’t be too careful. Thieves about. Don’t want to put temptation in their way.”
She looks at his shabby coat and frowns.
“I’ll have a Peroni,” he says, giving her a wink.
Chalcott is glaring at Sobel. “Who is this clown?”
“Vincent Ruiz.”
“There you go—you do remember me,” says Ruiz. He pours himself fizzy water from a green bottle. Sips. Then he picks up the menu. “I’m ravenous. Any recommendations?”
Sobel whispers something to the driver, who has gone quiet, touching nervously at his mouth with a napkin.
“Oh, and I’m sorry about your car. That broken window. Just to prove there are no hard feelings, I’ll pay for the damage.”
Ruiz pulls an envelope of cash from his jacket, tossing it on to the table where banknotes spill across the white linen. “You left that on the front seat of my car. It’s all there—count it if you like.”
Yahya Maluk pushes back his chair. “I didn’t come here for this sideshow. Who is this man? What’s he doing here?”
Chalcott tells Sobel to get Maluk out of the restaurant.
“You’re leaving so soon? We’ve hardly had a chance to talk,” says Ruiz. “I was going to ask you about Mohammed Ibrahim. He’s looking very healthy for a man who died a few years ago and then escaped from jail. How was Ramsay’s restaurant in Maida Vale? I’ve heard good reports. The man has a potty mouth, but he can cook up a storm.”
Blood has pooled in Maluk’s cheeks like pink flowers. He wipes a film of perspiration from his top lip, stammering, “How does he know about Ibrahim? You said nobody…”
“Shut the fuck up!” says Chalcott.
The driver leads Maluk down the stairs. Luca and Daniela get another set of pictures as they leave.
The upstairs waitress has come to the table with Ruiz’s beer. She is staring at the money.
“Don’t get too excited,” he tells her. “It’s not your tip. This is what you call a bribe.”
She hesitates and walks back to the kitchen.
Ruiz shakes out his serviette. “You’re probably wondering how I found you, Brendan. You’ll find my mobile phone on the floor of the car that you sent to my daughter’s house. It was tracked to the garage beneath your offices. While on this subject—I’d like the phone back.”
Chalcott is staring at Sobel, who is altering the position of his body, trying to disassociate himself from the conversation or to disappear sideways.
“What do you want, Mr. Ruiz?