“Did Scalisi ever operate that way?” Waters said.
“I don’t know much about Scalisi,” Foley said, “you want the honest to God’s truth. My friend says Scalisi’s been awful busy lately, can’t stay at one phone long enough for anybody to call him back there. But I thought Scalisi was pretty much of a hit man, didn’t do much of anything else.”
“They branch out,” Waters said.
“I know it,” Foley said. “My friend there, he runs a saloon, and I know fucking well he’s got an undisclosed interest, and he knows I know. But he’s sure to have all kinds of other action going that I never dreamed of, let alone owning the saloon. He’s a strange guy. I bet I talked to him a hundred times, and I couldn’t tell you how much good stuff he’s given me. I’m always handing him twenty, and he’s always poor-mouthing me, and yet I know he’s got something cooking all the time, you can feel it. It’s like you’re in a movie, and the other guy’s in the movie with you, but he knows you’re both in a movie, and what comes next. And you don’t. I get the feeling, all the time, he’s playing me.”
“What do you think he’s doing?” Waters asked.
“It’s hard to say,” Foley said. “What he’s doing with me, that’s easy. He’s keeping a hook in. If he gets grabbed, he’s going to come around to me and say: ‘Hey, I need some help. I helped you. Are you a stand-up guy or not.’ But half the stuff I get from him is stuff I get by listening to what he says, he doesn’t know what he’s telling me. And the other half, well, it’s usually about somebody else, somebody that he doesn’t like, maybe, or somebody that put the hammer on him and he’s looking to get back. I’m almost certain he was in on the Polack hit, I could stake my life on it. I saw him the other day, a few days ago, I hadn’t seen him for a long time, and I said to him: ‘We still friends, Dillon?’ This was right after I see Eddie Fingers that time in the plaza. And he starts this long involved rigamarole about how he’s scared, he can’t talk to me, he can’t go to the grand jury for me, the town’s buttoned up. Now the only grand jury I know about is the DA’s, and that’s about the Polack hit and they got that other fellow there, I hear, Stradniki, Stradnowski?”
“Stravinski,” Waters said, “Jimmy the Whale.”
“The Polack,” Foley said, “yeah, him. They got the other Polack. And I’m not interested in that case, for Christ sake. They hit the Polack two years ago, it’s nothing concerns me. But my friend’s all uptight about it, he’s so relieved when I start asking about something else it’s like he finally took a piss after four days of drinking beer. Which is how I pick up what I got on this other matter, he gave me that for nothing, really, he was so relieved I wasn’t pushing him.”
“Who else was on that job,” Waters said, “the Polack job?”
“A bunch of other tailgaters,” Foley said. “I assume so, anyway. The Polack never did anything but steal, but he started getting lazy. You remember, they got away with about a hundred thou worth of stuff off Allied Storage, and then somebody stole it from the guys that stole it. The Combat Zone sounded like a war was going on there for a while, and the Polack turned up dead in the trunk of a Mercury in Chelsea. I heard Artie Van, for one.”
“There’s an interesting guy,” Waters said. “I always thought Artie Van did a lot more’n he got credit for.”
“A real shadowy character,” Foley said. “From what I hear, a genuine stand-up guy. Until he gets in jail. Then people start to fret. But hard as nails and fish hooks while he’s on the street. I hear they used to call up from Providence whenever they had a particularly bad piece of work and get ahold of Artie Van to carry the mail. But it’s just what I hear.”
“You hear anything about Artie Van and Jimmy Scalisi?” Waters said.
“Not together, no,” Foley said.
“I was wondering,” Waters said, “you suppose Van and Scalisi’re making these withdrawals from banks?”
“It’s a thought,” Foley said. “I just wonder where Eddie Coyle fits in.”
“Suppose Eddie Coyle was the armorer,” Waters said. “I’m just thinking out loud, now.”
“Hard to figure,” Foley said. “Coyle’s a small-timer. A colossal pain in the ass, of course, but basically a small-timer. I don’t see how he’d get in there. I could check into it.”
“Why don’t you do that,” Waters said. “I’ll call Drugs and tell them I got to pull you off for a couple more weeks. They’ll understand, I’m sure.”
15
Jackie Brown brought the Roadrunner slowly into the Fresh Pond Shopping Center, chose a place in the middle of a row of cars, and killed the engine. He looked at his watch. It read two-fifty-eight. He opened the glove compartment and removed a tape cassette. He put it into the tape deck. Johnny Cash began to sing about Folsom Prison.
At five minutes past three Jackie Brown was dozing. The stocky man rapped on the window. Jackie Brown swung his head around. The stocky man had a cart full of shopping bags. He motioned to Jackie Brown to get out of the car.
“Where are they?” the stocky man said.
“In the trunk,” Jackie Brown said.
“They in anything?” the stocky man said.
“A box,” Jackie Brown said. “A big box with some newspapers in it.”
“Okay,” the stocky man said. “I got an extra bag here. Take it. Then we go around to the trunk and you open it. I’ll put some of these bags in so it’ll look like I was getting groceries for you. You put the guns in the bag and put the bag in the cart. Nobody’ll pay any attention at all.”
“Where’s the money?” Jackie Brown said.
“Right here,” the stocky man said. He handed over six hundred dollars in tens and twenties.
“This the genuine?” Jackie Brown said.
“If it isn’t,” the stocky man said, “you get in touch with me and I’ll call my banker. Far as I know it’s the McCoy. You want to count it?”
“No,” Jackie Brown said. “I haven’t got much time. I’m supposed to be at the Route 128 railroad station at four-thirty. Let’s get going.”
“Fine with me,” the stocky man said. He pulled the shopping cart back to the trunk.
“What’s in the fucking bags?” Jackie Brown said.
“Three of them’re full of bread,” the stocky man said. “The rest’ve got meat and potatoes and some beer and vegetables, that kind of thing.”
“What’re you giving me?” Jackie Brown said.
“The bread,” the stocky man said. “Man can always use a little bread. You can feed the goddamned pigeons or something. Go find some squirrels. Squirrels love bread.”
“Your wife make you do the shopping too?” Jackie Brown said.
“My friend,” the stocky man said, “you don’t have much time and I’m kind of in a hurry myself. I don’t have time to explain married life to you, and besides, you wouldn’t believe me anyway. I didn’t believe it when they told me, and you wouldn’t believe it if I told you. Let’s stick to business.”
Jackie Brown opened the trunk. Inside there was a cardboard box which appeared to be filled with newspapers. The five M-sixteens lay across it.
“Jesus,” the stocky man said.
“Don’t get your bowels in an uproar,” Jackie Brown said, “those’re for somebody else. Your stuff’s in the box, like I said.”
“For Christ sake get it in the bag and hurry,” the stocky man said, “those look like fucking Army rifles to me.”
“Well,” Jackie Brown said, “they’re military.”
“Machine guns?” the stocky man said.
“Machine guns,” Jackie Brown said. “The only thing that’s more of a machine gun is the Colt, the AR-fifteen. But these’re pretty good. Want to see one?”
“No,” the stocky man said. “Fill the goddamned bag.” He began lifting bags of bread into the trunk.
Jackie Brown put the shopping bag of sidearms in the cart. “You set now?” he said.
“Why’nt you put a couple loaves that bread on them,” the stoc
ky man said. “Case anybody gets curious.”
Jackie Brown put two loaves of batter-whipped Sunbeam on top of the revolvers. “You got nine thirty-eights and one three-fifty-seven there,” he said. “Good stuff, too. I hope you appreciate what I did for you.”
“My friend,” the stocky man said, “your name is in that great golden book up in the sky. I’ll be in touch.”
Jackie Brown watched the stocky man push the cart down the parking lot, then disappear behind a truck. Jackie Brown shut the trunk of the Roadrunner and got into the car. He started the engine. When he passed the truck, the stocky man was straightening up from the trunk of an old Cadillac. His legs hid the license plate. Jackie Brown waved. The stocky man made no sign of recognition. “I suppose I’ll hear about that,” Jackie Brown said. “I suppose I will.”
16
Eddie Coyle put his hands in his pockets and rested his back against the green metal post that supported the arcade of the shopping plaza above the telephone booths. Two women moved their lips as though deliberating over every single word of the hundreds they seemed to be uttering. A small man in a gold polo shirt stood with a receiver against his ear and a resigned expression on his face. From time to time he said something.
The man emerged first. “I’m sorry it took so long,” he said.
“Think nothing of it,” Eddie Coyle said. “Mine’s the same way.” The man grinned.
In the telephone booth, Eddie Coyle deposited a dime and dialed a Boston number. He said: “Foley there?” He paused for an instant. “No, I don’t care to give my name. Gimme Foley and quit horsing around.” He paused again. “Dave,” he said, “I caught you in. Good. Whaddaya mean, who is this. We got mutual friends up in New Hampshire. This is Eddie. Yeah. Remember you wanted a strong reason? Yeah. Here it is: at four-thirty this afternoon, a kid in a metallic blue Roadrunner, Massachusetts registration number KX4-197, is going to meet some people at the 128 railroad station. He’s going to sell them five M-sixteen machine guns. The guns’re in the trunk of the Roadrunner.” Coyle paused again. “KX4-197,” he said, “Roadrunner, metallic blue. The kid’s about twenty-six. About a hundred and sixty. Black hair, fairly short. Sideburns. Suede jacket. Levi’s, blue Levi’s. Brown suede boots with fringe on them. Wears sunglasses a lot.” Coyle paused again. “I dunno who he’s going to sell them to. Perhaps if you was to go there, you could find out.” Coyle paused again. “I imagine so,” he said. “Now, you keep this in mind, okay? I came through.” Coyle paused again. “You’re welcome,” he said, “always a pleasure to do a favor for a friend with a good memory.”
Eddie Coyle replaced the handset in the receiver carefully. He opened the door of the booth and found a stout woman, about fifty, staring at him. “It took you long enough,” she said.
“I was calling my poor sick mother,” he said.
“Oh,” she said, her face immediately relaxing into an expression of sympathy. “I’m sorry. Has she been ill long?”
Eddie Coyle smiled. “Fuck you, lady,” he said, “and the horse you rode in on.”
17
Jackie Brown got caught in traffic in Watertown. He escaped briefly and got caught again in Newton. On 128, he eased the Roadrunner into a three-lane pack of first-shift electronics workers heading home, and settled down to an unobtrusive fifty miles per hour. There was a three-car accident in Needham, and he waited patiently in the center lane, surrounded by a thousand cars, while the sun declined and the evening began. At ten minutes past four he broke loose and resumed his fifty miles an hour. He took the ramp at the 128 railroad station at four-twenty-five. He proceeded at twenty miles an hour into the lot, looking for the tan Microbus. Not seeing it, he parked near the station. He opened the glove compartment and removed a cassette. He placed the cassette in the tape deck. Glen Campbell began to sing. Jackie Brown, his eyes red and puffed, slid down on the bucket seat and closed his eyes. In twenty-four hours he had driven nearly three hundred miles on four hours’ sleep.
Dave Foley and Keith Moran sat in the green Charger, two parking lanes away. “We could take him now,” Moran said.
“We could,” Foley said. “We could also do what we’re supposed to do, which is wait and see who comes up to buy the stuff. And that is what we are going to do.”
At the entrance of the station, Ernie Sauter and Deke Ferris of the Massachusetts State Police, wearing sport coats and slacks, conversed casually. Ferris had his back to the Roadrunner. “What do you say?” he said. “We could take him out right now.”
“Yes,” Sauter said, “and then Foley’d shoot us and he’d be right. Calm the fuck down, will you?”
Six cars up the lane from Jackie Brown, a blue Skylark convertible arrived and pulled in. The driver was Tobin Ames. The passenger was Donald Morrissey. “Foley here yet?” Morrissey said.
“I think that’s him over there,” Ames said. “The green Charger. That him?”
“That’s him,” Morrissey said.
“Just keep an eye on him,” Ames said. “I’ll watch the Road-runner. When Foley moves, tell me.”
The dusk was heavy at four-thirty-eight when the tan Micro-bus came into the lot from the northbound lane of 128. It turned up the first lane and came down the second lane at perhaps ten miles per hour, jerking along when the engine needed revs, speeding up and then slowing down again. The curtains shifted in the windows as the bus proceeded. It slowed momentarily behind the Roadrunner, then moved along to the next row. The driver found a space and swung the bus in. He got out of the lefthand door, a young man with long hair and a puffy face. He wore a blue flannel shirt and a tan corduroy sport coat and blue bib overalls and black boots. From the other door emerged a thin girl, about twenty-two, with wispy blonde hair cut short. She wore Levi’s and a blue denim shirt.
The two of them paused to talk behind the bus. Then they walked toward the Roadrunner.
“Them ain’t niggers,” Tobin Ames said. “Them ain’t niggers at all. Them’s white folks.”
“Oh shut up, Tobin,” Morrissey said. “You bastards can’t expect to have a man in every office.” Morrissey’s voice was somewhat choked. He had twisted his body in order to pick up two Remington short barrelled, twelve-gauge pump guns from the floor in the back. From his jacket, he took ten red double-O buckshot shells and started feeding them into the magazines.
In the Charger, Foley said: “Recognize them?”
“No, I don’t,” Moran said. “They look like student radicals, but then there’s a whole mess of people that look like student radicals, that aren’t, and another whole mess of people that don’t look like radicals, but they sure are.”
“These cats’re after machine guns, remember,” Foley said.
“That oughta qualify them,” Moran said, “but I sure don’t recognize them from anywhere. Bastards all look alike anyway.” He and Foley sat with their shotguns cradled in their laps.
On the station platform, Ernie Sauter stood and watched the young man and the girl over Ferris’ shoulder. “A couple of god-damned punks,” he said. “Militants. You know, Deke, some-body’s nuts. I don’t know whether it’s me or them, but somebody is definitely nuts. I just wished I knew, so I’d know, you know?”
The young man leaned over and knocked his knuckles against the window of the Roadrunner. Jackie Brown opened his left eye. Without any indication of haste, he cranked the window down.
“Yeah?” he said.
“Look,” the young man said, “I hate like hell to bother you and all, but didn’t we have some arrangement or something, we’re supposed to meet here?”
“Yeah,” Jackie Brown said.
“Well?” the young man said.
“Well, what?” Jackie Brown said.
“Are we going to do something?” the young man said.
“Sure,” Jackie Brown said, “look around.”
“Quit playing fucking games,” the girl said. “What the hell is going on here? Why the hell did you bring us into a whole goddamn mob of people to sell mach
ine guns? Is this some kind of a joke or something?”
“I’m a very cautious man,” Jackie Brown said. “I plan to sit here for about two hours and maybe I’ll nap a little. In the meantime, if every car I saw when I come in here doesn’t leave, I’ll know it. Around six-thirty, I’ll know if you’re trying to tip me in. If I know you’re not, then I’ll tell you something, and we’ll go some place, and I’ll give you some machine guns and you’ll give me some money, and that’ll be that.”
“Did you drag us all the way out here for decoys?” the girl said.
“I do business by staying out of prison,” Jackie Brown said. “I got five lifetimes in that trunk. I do anything I need to in order to stay out of prison. Within reason, of course. Now you just settle down. I been up all night and I can use a nap.”
“We just stay here and sit?” the young man said.
“Look,” Jackie Brown said, “I don’t care what you do. I intend to stay here and take a nap, and wake up now and then. I’m not in the habit of swapping machine guns around in plain sight of everybody in the world. But it’s a nice way to see if you got company, other people interested. You can stay or you can go. At six-thirty I’m leaving here and going some place else. You can wait around too, or you can go some place else now and come back around six-thirty, and if everything’s kosher, I’ll tell you where we meet.”
“Shit,” the young man said.
“No,” the girl said, “no, he’s right. He’s very right. I agree with him.”
“Well, what the hell am I supposed to do?” the young man said, “sit here and get goddamned faint?”
“You could go get something to eat,” Jackie Brown said. “There’s a Ho-Jo about six miles back.”
“Okay,” the young man said, “so we eat. And then we come back. What happens then?”
“Right now, I don’t know,” Jackie Brown said. “If everybody that was here waiting for trains when I came in, isn’t waiting for trains when you come back, we go some place and I sell you some machine guns. If there’s somebody here then that was here when I came in, maybe we don’t. If we do, we go out there and get into the traffic and you go south, or maybe north, and I go the other way, and we meet some place I haven’t decided on yet, and you get some machine guns and I get some money.”
The Friends of Eddie Coyle Page 8