McCall parked his black Jaguar along the street in the Astoria section of Queen, along a line of small shop fronts. Shrugging his black overcoat in place, he strode through the door of the bar, which sat underneath a sign that simply read "Archie's Place". As he had planned, it was just after opening and there were no customers inside yet, though the barman, a short, heavyset, balding man was already behind the bar.
"Mr. Bunker?" McCall asked in a clipped tone, pulling out a card from his coat's inner pocket and presenting it. "I'm Robert McCall. My friend Mickey said you might be in need of some assistance."
The barkeep squinted at the card and compared it to the one he fished out from the front of his white shirt. "Yeah, Mickey said he'd talk to youse." He ignored McCall's outstretched hand. "He didn't say nothin' about youse bein' a faggoty English guy though. What're supposed t' be, James Bond's grandpa?"
McCall ignored that, recalling Mickey's warning Archie is kinda rough around the edges, but he's an okay guy. "He said you were having some problems with the Mafia?"
Bunker nodded. "Yeah! I got dagos running all over the place, threatening to torch my bar! It was bad enough when they burned up Chang's laundry. They're nice folks, even if they are chinks. Took over the place when that loudmouthed darkie Jefferson moved uptown."
"Yes, Mickey told me. Why don't you tell me what happened exactly, everything you can recall." McCall sat down at the bar and prepared to take mental notes, all the while thinking, Mickey, you're going to owe me for this one.
The End