The Friends of Eddie Coyle (12 page)

“Right,” Moran said, “three alternatives. What do we do?”

“He isn’t moving,” Foley said. “He looks like he’s sleeping to me. So we can wait. But if we blow it, five machine guns go into the movement or something, and how the hell do we account for that?”

“I dunno,” Moran said, “how do we?”

“We don’t,” Foley said. “It looks to me like the deal fell through. We got enough to arrest him now, right?”

“Right,” Moran said.

“Lemme think,” Foley said.

“It’s your party,” Moran said.

“We take him,” Foley said. He touched the emergency flasher button on the dashboard. The turn signals blinked four times in the heavy twilight.

On the station platform, Sauter and Ferris removed thirty-eight caliber Chief’s Specials from their holsters. They put them in the pockets of their sport coats. Together they stepped off the platform and started up the parking lane in front of the Road-runner and the line of cars that blocked it.

Tobin Ames hit the ignition of the Skylark and put it into reverse. He backed out of the parking place slowly, rotating the steering wheel to point the convertible down the lane.

Jackie Brown sat with his eyes shut, his head back on the rest.

Foley and Moran got out of the Charger. They put on raincoats. They reached into the Charger and pulled the shotguns out. They put the shotguns under their raincoats. Each inserted his right hand through the lining of his raincoat and held the shotgun flat against his body. They began walking toward the Roadrunner.

Foley and Moran paused while a small group of commuters walked past.

Behind the Roadrunner, Foley and Moran separated. Foley stayed put. Moran walked up two car-widths and stood still. Ferris and Sauter stood talking on the edge of the next lane.

Ames brought the Skylark slowly down the lane. He did not have his headlights on. A pedestrian said: “Hey, use your lights.” Ames brought the Skylark creeping along.

When the Skylark was behind the Roadrunner, perhaps four feet away, Ames stopped. He put it in Park. He opened the door and got out. He had the shotgun in his hands. Morrissey emerged from the passenger side, carrying a shotgun. He leaned
against the door of the Skylark and held the shotgun across his body. Ames bent his body and rested his elbows on the hood of the Skylark. He leveled his shotgun.

Jackie Brown, his eyes closed, rested his head and napped.

Sauter and Ferris parted. Sauter stayed put, drawing his revolver and holding it at his side. He faced the Roadrunner from a slight angle off the left front fender. Ferris took a similar position on the right.

Two commuters stopped. “Hey,” one said, “what’s going on here?”

Tobin Ames, without moving, said: “Insurance cashed cheap. Move on. United States Treasury.”

The commuters broke into a jog. They stopped five cars away. In the early evening the mist commenced over the swamps of Dedham. It showed in halos around the lamps.

Foley approached the Roadrunner from the left rear. Moran approached from the right rear.

Foley brought the shotgun out from under his raincoat. He lifted it slowly to the level of the windowsill of the Roadrunner and silently rested it there.

Moran stepped back two paces from the Roadrunner. He tucked the stock of the shotgun in at his waist with his right elbow. With his left hand he gripped the pump action. He brought the muzzle up to point at the window.

Jackie Brown, with his eyes closed, recovered from a long night of driving, and many frustrations.

Foley knocked on the window of the Roadrunner. Lazily, Jackie Brown turned his head. He opened his left eye. His gaze focused on the face of a stranger. “Yeah?” he said.

Foley made a cranking motion with his left hand.

Jackie Brown shook his head. He reached forward and rolled the window down. “Yeah?” he said again.

“United States Treasury,” Foley said. “You’re under arrest. Come out slow and easy and keep your hands in plain sight. One move and you’re a dead fucking man.” He brought the shotgun up with his right hand. He brought his left hand under the pump and held it steady.

“Holy shit,” Jackie Brown said. He looked to his right. Moran stood there, pointing a shotgun through the window. In front of the Roadrunner, two men advanced with revolvers pointed at him through the windshield. “Hey,” he said.

“Get out of the car,” Foley said. He reached in and lifted the door lock. He opened the door from the outside. “Get out.” The shotgun remained leveled at Jackie Brown’s head.

“Hey,” Jackie Brown said, swinging his legs out of the car. “Hey, look.”

Foley grabbed him as he got out. Foley turned him around. “Put your hands on the roof of the car,” Foley said. “Move your feet back.”

Jackie Brown did as he was told. He felt hands begin to pat him down. “What the fuck’s this all about?” he said.

Moran, Sauter and Ferris now came around the Roadrunner and stood together with their weapons pointing at Jackie Brown. Ames and Morrissey stayed put. Moran handed his shotgun to Sauter, who let the hammer down on his Chief’s Special and leveled Moran’s shotgun. Moran removed his wallet from his hip pocket. He extracted a plasticized card from the wallet. In the blue-tinged glare of the parking lot lights, he began to read:

“ ‘You are under arrest for violation of a federal law. Before we
ask you any questions, we want you to understand your rights under the Constitution of the United States.’ ”

“I know my rights,” Jackie Brown said.

“Shut the fuck up and listen,” Foley said. “Shut your god-damned mouth and listen to what the man’s telling you.”

“ ‘You do not have to answer any questions,’ ” Moran said. “ ‘You have a right to remain silent. If you answer any questions, your answers may be used in evidence against you in a trial in a court of law. Do you understand what I have read to you?’ ”

“Of course I understand,” Jackie Brown said. “You think I’m a fucking idiot?”

“Shut up,” Foley said, “and hold still or I’ll blow your fucking head off.” He rested the barrel of the Remington on Jackie Brown’s shoulder. The muzzle grazed the base of Jackie Brown’s skull.

“ ‘You are entitled to the advice of counsel,’ ” Moran said. “ ‘Do you have a lawyer?’ ”

“No, for Christ sake,” Jackie Brown said. “Of course I don’t. I just got arrested.”

“ ‘If you want a lawyer,’ ” Moran said, “ ‘you need only say so, and you will be given time to engage a lawyer, and to confer with him. You are entitled to confer with your lawyer before you decide whether to answer any questions. Do you understand what I have read to you?’ ”

Jackie Brown did not answer. Foley jabbed him with the muzzle of the Remington. “Tell him,” he said.

“Of course I understand,” Jackie Brown said.

“ ‘If you can’t afford a lawyer,’ ” Moran said, “ ‘the court will appoint one for you. Do you understand that?’ ”

“Yes,” Jackie Brown said.

“ ‘You may, if you wish, waive these rights and answer our questions. Are you willing to answer questions?’ ” Moran said.

“Fuck, no,” Jackie Brown said.

“Do you understand your rights?” Moran said.

“Yes,” Jackie Brown said, “yes, yes, yes.”

“Shut up,” Moran said. “Turn around and hold out your wrists.” Foley snapped handcuffs on Jackie Brown’s wrists. “You’re under arrest for violation of U.S. Code twenty-six, Section fifty-eight-sixty-one, possession of a machine gun without being registered as the owner and possessor of a machine gun.”

“Hey,” Jackie Brown said.

“Shut up,” Foley said. “I don’t want to hear one more fucking word out of you. You keep your goddamned trap shut. Now get in your car. In the back seat. Moran, get in with him and keep the son of a bitch covered. If he moves, blow his head off.”

From his raincoat pocket, Foley removed a Citizen’s Band transmitter. He switched it on. “Tell him,” he said, “tell him we got the man in the place where he was supposed to be, and tell him we want a warrant to search the goddamned car. We’re coming in.”

“You knew it,” Jackie Brown said, “you knew it. You knew I was going to be here.”

“Sure,” Foley said, getting into the Roadrunner. “Ames,” he said, “have Morrissey bring my car in. Keys under the seat. What else,” he said to Jackie Brown.

“That fucking bastard,” Jackie Brown said, “that fucking bastard.”

“What fucking bastard?” Moran said.

Jackie Brown looked at him. “Oh no,” he said, “oh no. I’ll settle that myself.”

In a depleted sandpit in Orange, Massachusetts, there was a trailer park. In the darkness, Eddie Coyle drove the old Sedan de Ville cautiously, the quad headlights on high beam, the oversized tires lapping over the edges of the narrow blacktop. He stopped the car beside an aqua and yellow trailer. It was equipped with wrought iron railings and flimsy iron steps; there was a heavy silver fabric wrapped around the undercarriage. The windows of the trailer were curtained. Light glowed behind them.

Eddie Coyle shut off the lights and the engine of the Cadillac. He got out and walked stiffly to the steps. He rang the doorbell without climbing the steps.

The curtain at the door window moved slightly. A woman peered out through the condensation on the glass. Eddie Coyle waited patiently. The door opened partway.

“Yes?” she said.

“I brought some groceries for Jimmy,” Eddie Coyle said.

“Is he expecting you?” she said.

“I dunno,” Coyle said. “He told me to come up here and all. I just drove about two hours. I hope so.”

The woman said: “Just a minute.” The door closed. Eddie Coyle waited in the chill dark.

The door opened partway again. A pocked male face appeared. “Who is it?” its voice said.

“Coyle,” Eddie Coyle said. “I brought the groceries.”

The door opened all the way. Jimmy Scalisi, wearing a tee-shirt and a pair of gray pants, stood in the light. “Hey, Eddie,” he said, “okay. Whyn’t you bring the stuff in. I’d help you, but I’d freeze my ass off out there.”

“It’s okay,” Coyle said. He returned to the Cadillac. He opened the trunk. He removed shopping bags, two at a time, and delivered them to Scalisi at the door of the trailer. There were six of them.

“Come on in,” Scalisi said. Coyle followed him into the trailer. “This is Wanda,” Scalisi said.

Wanda was five-ten, a hundred and thirty pounds. She had heavy breasts which Coyle noticed immediately because she was wearing a tee-shirt and a bra with bright red flowers. She was also wearing wheat-colored jeans. There were noticeable stains at the crotch. “Hi,” she said.

“What do you do?” Coyle said.

“She works for Northeast,” Scalisi said.

“I’m a stewardess,” she said.

“Yes indeed,” Coyle said. Wanda smiled.

“What’s in the bags,” Scalisi said.

“Meat and beer and stuff,” Coyle said. “Now you mention it, I could use a beer.”

“Wanda,” Scalisi said, “get the man a beer. We’ll be inna living room.”

In the living room of the trailer there was a black leather chair and a couch. Scalisi took the chair. Coyle sat gratefully on the couch. A portable color television stood on the counter between the living room and the dining area. The sound was off. A man was mouthing words and holding up a brochure about Hawaii.

“This is pretty nice,” Coyle said. “I been on ice once or twice, but never as nice as this.”

“I’m not on ice,” Scalisi said. “I lived here two and a half years.”

“Shit,” Coyle said.

“No,” Scalisi said. “I rent this place. I’m a bulldozer driver. I got seasonal work. The owner understands. He thinks I’m the greatest thing since sliced bread.”

“Your wife understand?” Coyle said.

“What you don’t know,” Scalisi said, “it doesn’t bother you. She don’t know.”

“She thinks you’re off selling magazines,” Coyle said.

“I dunno what she thinks,” Scalisi said. “I told her I hadda go away for a while. She don’t question it.”

“Jesus,” Coyle said, “I got to talk to you some time. I don’t know how you do it.”

“It’s confidence,” Scalisi said. “You look them right in the eye and say: Hey, I gotta go away for a while. They’ll buy it.”

“You got to meet my wife,” Coyle said. “You said that to my wife, you was me, she’d get this look on her face. Oh yeah? Like
you was trying to sell her a used car. I got to take the time and watch you. That’s the only way.”

Scalisi laughed.

Coyle indicated the kitchen area by moving his head. “That’s pretty nice, too,” he said, “where’d you get that?”

“Oh, you know,” Scalisi said. “I’m over at Arliss one night and one of the guys comes in with her. We more or less strike up a conversation. One of those things.”

Coyle rubbed his crotch.

“Very warm there,” Scalisi said. “She don’t wear no pants. I ask her why and she says she don’t own no pants. Wears them panty hose when she’s working. She gets in them dungarees, no pants. Now and then I just come up behind her and reach right down here. She comes off like she was on electricity. I never see anything like it.”