The Friends of Eddie Coyle (17 page)

“He was getting a lot of telephone calls,” Foley said.

“Yeah,” Dillon said. “From Jimmy Scal.”

“And he was all upset,” Foley said.

“
All
upset,” Dillon said. “Beating the hell out of the sauce and everything.”

“Yeah,” Foley said.

“Well, I see now where he’s got a lot of money,” Dillon said. “That’s unusual for him. He goes along all right usually, seems to have a couple of dollars on him, but he’s got a lot of money now.”

“Like how much?” Foley said.

“Well, I couldn’t tell you, exactly,” Dillon said. “I just had a glimpse of the roll, you know? But there was some fair-sized bills in there, and I would have to say, probably he’s got a couple of thousand dollars there, at least.”

“How’d you happen to see it?” Foley said.

“He was in the other night,” Dillon said. “He orders up a shot and a beer, comes in about seven, seven-thirty or so, which is another thing that’s unusual for him, you know? Either he comes in in the afternoon or else you won’t see him until probably pretty late. But he comes in right after supper the other day and orders up, and I serve him, and he sits there, reading the Seven Races and so on, doesn’t want to make any conversation, and then this other guy comes in, a little time goes by and this other guy comes in.”

“You know the other guy?” Foley said.

“Well, let’s say I know him, I’d recognize him if I was to see him again, all right? But I don’t happen to remember his name right now, if it’s all the same to you. I’d rather leave him out of this if I can.”

“Okay,” Foley said.

“So this other guy comes in and him and Eddie, Eddie gets up from the bar and they go sit inna booth, you know? So
they’re talking there, and I see the other guy doesn’t have anything in front of him and his credit’s all right, so I make up a little bourbon on the rocks, Wild Turkey, and a Budweiser, and I go over there and put it in front of this other fellow. And Eddie’s got this big wad of money there that he’s putting into his pocket, and the other guy’s picking up a few bills from the table. So that’s when I see it.”

“You wouldn’t have any idea what they might have been doing,” Foley said.

“Hey,” Dillon said, “I’m serious, now, the other guy stays out of it.”

“Okay,” Foley said, “I’m not after him, I was just asking.”

“Well, it’s got nothing to do with what we were talking about, is all,” Dillon said. “Look, between you and me, I wouldn’t be surprised if Eddie was maybe buying a television set, you know? A color tee-vee? But that is strictly between us. I’m not throwing nobody else in. The money means something you know about, all right. But the other guy is not included in this.”

“Okay,” Foley said. “What do you make of the money?”

“I don’t know,” Dillon said. “Like I say, Eddie’s not the kind of guy that you expect to see with a lot of dough, you know? So I see it, and then I think, well, I wonder if maybe this is something you oughta know about and all. Has he got any beef with you?”

“Let me put it this way,” Foley said. “He’s got a beef with the United States, but that’s up in New Hampshire, for when he was trucking booze there. So maybe that’s a beef with me, I don’t know.”

“I thought that was all over,” Dillon said. “I thought he took the fall on that, back there, back in when was it—last month or something? A while ago, anyway.”

“He got convicted,” Foley said, “but he’s coming up for sentencing next month there, I understand. There was some kind of new trial hassle, or something. Maybe it’s sooner, I don’t know.”

“What could he get for that?” Dillon said. “That mean jail?”

“I don’t really know very much about the case,” Foley said. “We don’t enforce in that area, you know? I suppose there’s a possibility of some jail. I really don’t know. I just happen to hear somebody mention the case the other day, and that’s why I was thinking about it when you said that, you know?”

“Eddie don’t like jail,” Dillon said.

“Well,” Foley said, “very few guys do. I know quite a few that went to jail at one time or another and there wasn’t more’n one or two of them that you could really say, that actually liked it, you know?”

“Yeah,” Dillon said, “but look, he must
know.
I mean, he’s talked to somebody about it, hasn’t he? He’s got some idea.”

“I suppose so,” Foley said.

“Well,” Dillon said, “now I wonder what the fuck he’s buying a color tee-vee for when he’s probably going to jail in a little while.”

“Maybe a little present for the wife,” Foley said, “keep her happy and home while he’s doing time.”

“I kind of doubt it,” Dillon said. “I know Eddie more or less and that isn’t something he’d do. He don’t get along that good with her.”

“He got a girlfriend?” Foley said. “Maybe it’s a little present for the girlfriend.”

“Nope,” Dillon said, “he takes a little off now and then, but
no girlfriend. I don’t think he thinks about it that much, getting laid. They letting you bring a tee-vee to jail with you now?”

“They weren’t,” Foley said, “not the last I heard.”

“I don’t think so,” Dillon said. “I didn’t remember anything like that from before when I was in, either. No, I think Eddie thinks probably he isn’t gonna go to jail there, and I wonder why he thinks that.”

“I wonder where he got the money,” Foley said. “That’s what bothers me. I always understood he was just getting by. I wonder what he’s been doing to get all that money.”

“It’s kind of interesting, isn’t it?” Dillon said. “I tell you what, you go and think about how come a little fish has got a lot of money all of a sudden, and I’ll go and think about how come a man that’s got the kind of record he’s got doesn’t think he’ll go to jail on that booze thing, and maybe I’ll talk to some people and get back to you, all right?”

“Fine,” Foley said. “I’ll expect to hear from you.”

It was getting light along the shore drive in Nahant at quarter of six on Tuesday morning when Fritzie Webber parked the blue LeSabre. Scalisi came up behind him in a tan Chevrolet sedan; Arthur Valantropo sat in the back seat of the Chevrolet. It laid down a thin blanket of condensed exhaust in the cold air of early morning, while Webber locked the Buick and got into the Chevrolet.

“Okay?” Scalisi said. He was wearing a green nylon wind-breaker and he had a nylon stocking pulled over his head. In the back, Arthur Valantropo was rolling the fabric of another stocking over his features, compressing them slowly into something strange. Webber removed a stocking from his jacket pocket. He nodded.

“No tails or anything?” Valantropo said.

“Nothing I could see,” Webber said, “all the way from Fall
River I was alone on the road. If they’re watching me, they’re doing it from an airplane. How about Donnie, he okay?”

“We saw him turn off back there,” Scalisi said, taking the Chevrolet into the street. “He give us the thumbs-up, so I guess it’s all right.”

“Good,” Webber said, the mask now covering his face. “I wonder what the fuck it was got Dillon so stirred up then?” He reached under the seat and pulled out a paper bag. He took a Python three-fifty-seven magnum revolver from it and released the cylinder lock. From his jacket pocket he brought five bullets and began loading them into the chambers.

“He was worried about Coyle,” Scalisi said. “I believe him. He was wondering if maybe Coyle was swapping us for that thing he’s got going up in New Hampshire, there.”

“He still could be,” Valantropo said.

The Chevrolet moved off the shore drive into a residential street. Large houses, built around the turn of the century, sat well back from the road behind low stone walls and hedges still green in the late autumn.

“No way,” Scalisi said. “He didn’t know anything. I never told him a goddamned thing. All he knew was we wanted some guns. Far as he knows, we’re using them for target practice.”

“That was before we did anything,” Valentropo said. “Soon’s we pulled the first one, he knew. Coyle’s not stupid, you know.”

“I know he’s not,” Scalisi said. “I also know he’s got a funny hand from being careless. He’s too smart to get careless ‘long that line again. And besides, what if he is trying to throw us in, what if he did want to dump us? What could he tell them? He could tell them what we did, maybe, what he thinks we been doing. But he doesn’t know where we’re going to be either, not until
we been there. I tell, I tell you, there’s just no way Coyle could set us up.”

Scalisi steered the Chevrolet into the long curved driveway at 16 Pelican Hill. The tires made a crunching sound on the white stones. Some one hundred yards in from the street, a rambling gray and white, gabled three-story house stood comfortably in the wind from the sea.

“This Whelan character’s doing all right for himself,” Webber said. “He got any kids we know about?”

“Grown up and moved away,” Valantropo said. “Just him and his wife. She’s a nice lady. She’ll probably fix you up some hot breakfast while you’re waiting for us.”

“I don’t like this waiting stuff,” Webber said. “I’m glad this is the last one. I get nervous sitting around like this, not knowing what’s going on.”

“You got nervous being in the bank, too,” Valantropo said. “Which is why Donnie’s there and you’re here this time, instead of the other way.”

“Hey, look,” Webber said, “I wasn’t the only one. Jimmy hit that old guy a pretty good whack too, from what I see inna papers anyway.”

“He must’ve had a thin skull,” Scalisi said. “I hit a few guys in my time a lot harder’n that, without killing them.”

“Yeah,” Valantropo said, “and let’s just remember Jimmy hadda hit that guy because you blew it already in the bank. I told you and told you, killing somebody’s the surest way in the world to get a goddamned army out after you.”

“Look,” Webber said, “he pulled the fucking alarm. Didn’t he pull the alarm? We told them, we said: ‘Lay off the alarm or you’re gonna get hurt.’ We told them that. For Christ sake. I say,
they don’t do what you tell them they should do, you gotta do it. I don’t care, I say you gotta hit them.”

“Not when you already got the money,” Valantropo said. “It happens when you just go in, I agree with you. You got to protect yourself. Of course. But when you’re going out, when you got the money, no. When you’re halfway out the door, for Christ sake, I mean, where’s the percentage in that? What does it get you, shooting when you’re going out and they pull the alarm, huh? Does it stop the alarm? You think maybe the alarm doesn’t go off if you shoot the guy that pulled it? No, it just makes things worse, is all. You don’t get any more time to get away in. You just get everybody all pissed off and they start running around and everything. It don’t pay, it just don’t pay at all. And I say, I say you don’t shoot somebody unless it’s gonna help you.”

“Yeah,” Webber said. “Well, I don’t agree with you.”

The Chevrolet moved slowly up the driveway and came to a quiet stop at the garage. Scalisi turned off the ignition very slowly, as though that would lessen the change in the noise level.

“Okay,” Valantropo said, “you don’t agree with me. Fuck you and do like I say.”

“Both of you bastards shut up and let’s go to work,” Scalisi said in a hushed voice. “I’m sick of listening to you.”

They got out of the car very slowly and carefully closed each door to the first lock of the latch. In the morning light they looked first at each other through the nylon stockings. Then each of them surveyed the area. They stepped gingerly on the crushed stone of the driveway, and from there to the lawn. They approached the house in single file, walking in the grass at the edge of the crushed stone walk, the white frost melting and wetting their sneakers. Close to the back door of the house, Scalisi and
Valantropo hung back six or seven paces behind Webber. Each of them had his revolver in his hand. Webber shifted his revolver to his left hand. Holding the gun toward the sky, Webber removed from his sleeve a thin metal spatula with a wooden handle. He moved from the grass onto the first of the steps leading to the back door. Scalisi and Valantropo positioned themselves at angles to the steps.

Webber crouched at the screen door and peered at the area around the knob. Placing the spatula in his teeth, he worked the handle of the door. It opened slowly, with no sound. Behind the screen door there was a wooden door with nine small panes of glass set into it. Scalisi, holding the screen door now with his left hand, bent forward behind Webber to stare at the jamb near the knob.

“How’s it look?” Scalisi said, whispering.

“Standard cylinder,” Webber said, also whispering. He straightened up briefly and peered in through the glass.

“Chain lock?” Scalisi whispered.

“No,” Webber whispered. His left hand came back and stuck the Python in his belt at the hip. He bent forward again. Scalisi could see the blade of the spatula passing between the edge of the door and the jamb. Scalisi heard a metallic sound. He saw Webber exert some pressure against the door. The door swung silently open.

Valantropo was on the steps now. Leaving wet footprints, they went into the back entry. In the gentle light of morning, they brushed past coats on hooks inside the entryway, then climbed three worn stair treads and opened another door into the kitchen. Except for the soft squeegee sound of their wet sneakers on the floor, the house was silent.