The Friends of Eddie Coyle (5 page)

“Fuck you,” the bearded man said.

“I’ll see you next week,” Jackie Brown said. “I want at least two dozen. I’ll have the money.”

Dillon explained that he was frightened. “Otherwise I would help you, see?” he said. He sat on the bench on the Common in the midst of the insistent November sunshine, hunched over to protect his stomach. “I mean, I understand, what it is you got in mind, that you’re willing to protect me. But I want to tell you this: you can’t do it, you can’t possibly do it. Because nobody can do it, you know? Nobody. This is something which I got into all by myself, and I am not going to get out of it.”

Foley said nothing.

There were seven derelicts working their usual station down at the subway entrance at the corner of Boylston and Tremont Streets. Six of them sat along the retaining wall and discussed events of importance. They wore overcoats and hats and worn-out heavy shoes in the sunshine, partly because they were generally cold and partly because they had memories enough to know
that winter was coming again, so that they would need the warm clothing which they did not dare to leave in the empty buildings where they slept. The youngest of the derelicts accosted businessmen and women who had been shopping. He worked diligently to keep them in front of him, trying to block their progress so that they would listen to him. It is harder to refuse to give a man a quarter after you have listened to him for a while, and noticed him. Not impossible, but harder. The younger derelict was still agile enough to maneuver, and could raise the price of a bottle of Petri faster than the others. Dillon watched him while he talked.

“I tell you what it is,” he said. “The principal thing which bothers me is the truck. Now I know that sounds kind of funny, because I suppose you would think that what would be worrying me would be the guys in the truck or some guy I don’t even know that I see maybe watching me pretty close in the bar or something.”

North on Tremont Street, just beyond the Information Stand and the Fountain and the Parkman Bandstand, a couple of Jesus screamers were working a moderate crowd of clerks and secretaries and sightseers. The woman was tall. She had a good loud voice and a bullhorn to help it along. The man was short and walked around distributing leaflets. The wind delivered enough of what she was saying to distract Dillon from watching the derelicts.

“Now there is a strange thing,” he said. “When I came up here I more or less take the long way around, to see if anybody else is interested and who that might be, you know? So I walk along and then I cross the street and come on back down past the pair of them there, and the woman says: ‘Unless you accept Jesus, who is Christ the Lord, you shall perish, perish in the everlasting flames.’

“Now who am I to think about a thing like that, can you tell me that?” Dillon said. “Couple weeks ago these two gentlemen from Detroit came in and had a couple of drinks, and then they sort of look around and the next thing I know they inform me that we are going partners. They give me some time to think about it, you know, and while I think I make a few phone calls. So that when the few minutes are up I had maybe six or seven friends of mine in there and I took the opportunity to go out in the back and get a piece of pipe that I keep around. I hit them a couple of good ones and we throw them out in the street in front of a cab.

“Then two nights ago I get five of these Micmacs come in, real Indians, for a change, and they have a little firewater and begin to break up some of the furniture. So me and a few friends hadda use the pipe on them.

“So this broad hollers at me there, just a few minutes ago, about the everlasting flames, and I consider myself a fairly intelligent guy and all that, pretty good judgment, I get drunk once in a while now and then, but I got this strong idea I would like to go up with that piece of pipe under my coat and say: Well, what do I do about those fellows from Detroit, you want to tell me that? The Indians too. Jesus going to punish me for that? And then whack her once or twice across the snout to bring her to her senses.”

The young bum had cornered a middle-aged, rather stout businessman right in the middle of the mall, with open space all around. “I want to tell you something,” Dillon said. “That kid may be a down-and-outer there, but he has pretty good moves. I think he used to be a basketball player, maybe.

“Anyway,” he said, “I still got a certain amount of my sanity
left and I didn’t have the pipe with me, so I don’t say anything to her and I don’t bop her a couple, like I would like to. You can’t reason with these people, you know. They get that idea in their heads, all they can do is stand there and bellyache Gospel at you, enough to drive a man out of what little mind he’s got left.

“I knew this guy, met him when I was at Lewisburg on that federal thing back there three, four years ago. Forget what he was in there for, B and E in a federal building, maybe, post office job. Anyway, not a bad guy. Big, used to box some. He comes from down around New Bedford there. So we strike up a friendship.

“I get out first,” Dillon said. “I come back here. I let him know where I am. So when they parole him, he goes home to live with his wife and her mother but he knows where I am if he needs to get ahold of me. And it wasn’t very long before he needed to. Because those two women went right to work driving him out of his mind. Dumb Portuguese types, you know, and what did they do when he was in jail but they decide they don’t want to be Catholics any more, they’re going to be, what is it, Jehovah’s Witnesses. Beautiful. Guy comes home, knows the construction business pretty good, gets himself a job, every night he comes home, there’s maybe a ballgame on or something, they want him to go out and stand on the sidewalk in front of the supermarket, peddling Jesus to every poor bastard that comes around to get a pound of fish.

“So he starts coming up here,” Dillon said, “every chance he gets, just to have a little peace and quiet. And the next thing I notice, he’s coming up this one time and he doesn’t go back. So I say to him, what’re you doing here. And he says: ‘For Christ sake, you aren’t going to start in on me, are you?’

“I had some room,” Dillon said. “I was separated from my wife at the time and I had some room. I let him stay with me. He
drinks a bottle of beer and he watches the ballgame while I’m working and during the day, well, I don’t know what he does. The best he can, probably.

“Naturally, it’s just a matter of time the parole officer makes a report and says he’s missing visits, which is true, and that his family says he doesn’t come home, which is true, and that he’s consorting with a known criminal, which is me and is also true, and he quit a steady job, whereabouts unknown. So one night the marshals come by and it’s back to the can, parole violation. Drinking, too. I forgot that. I tell you, them two women preached that poor bastard right back into the can. You can’t reason with people like that, doesn’t do any good at all to talk to them.”

Dillon straightened up and immediately bent forward again. The middle-aged man executed a quick fake and got away from the younger derelict.

“That’s the thing that bothers you, you know? It’s just, well, there’s some things you can help and some kinds of things you can’t do anything about, is all. Knowing the difference, as long as you can tell the difference, you’re in pretty good shape. That was what kind of bothered me about that big broad with the bullhorn there, was that just for a minute or so it was like I didn’t know the difference. You get so you’re in that position, you’re not going to be able to do very much about anything.”

The customary blizzard of pigeons wheeled briefly across the walk and settled back around an old lady who fed them from a large, wrinkled, paper bag. “I heard a guy on television the other night,” Dillon said. “He was talking about pigeons. Called them flying rats. I thought that was pretty good. He had something in mind, going to feed them the Pill or something, make them extinct. Trouble is, he was serious, you know? There was a guy that
got shit on and probably got shit on again and then he got mad. Ruined his suit or something, going to spend the rest of his life getting even with the pigeons because they wrecked a hundred-dollar suit. Now there isn’t any percentage in that. There must be ten million pigeons in Boston alone, laying eggs every day, which will generally produce more pigeons, and all of them dropping tons of shit, rain or shine. And this guy in New York is going to, well, there just aren’t going to be any of them in this world any more.

“You see what I’m telling you,” Dillon said, “you should understand. I, it isn’t that I don’t trust you or anything. The man says you’re all right, that does it for me. I accept that. But what you got in mind, if I do that I’ll just have to spend the rest of my life, you know? Being somewhere, hiding out. And you cannot hide out, is all, you just cannot hide out.

“That guy I was telling you about,” Dillon said, “his wife was the Jehovah Witness? Well, it didn’t do anything to what she liked to do, and from what he was telling me, she liked to do that pretty often. Like, say, a couple times a night. In Lewisburg he used to tell me he was saving it up, no hand-gallops for him, because when he got home he was going to have to account for every ounce he owned. First time he comes up here, all pissed off, I asked him, well, at least how was that part? And he says to me, he says: ‘You know something? There’s one thing she always hated, it’s going down on me. And ever since I get home, I been making her do it to get the other, because at least she’s quiet when I’m making her do that.’ You see what I mean? Man gets desperate, he does a few things, he knows it won’t work, pretty soon he quits, just packs it all in and goes away somewhere. Only way there is.

“See, I know that,” Dillon said. “If it’s going to happen then it
is going to happen. I don’t know, some buddy of mine, that I probably refused to serve some night, started putting it around I been going out to see people he thinks I shouldn’t. Which is true enough, of course, or else would I be here? But he’s probably doing it too. Everybody’s looking out for a little connection, you don’t shit in the well because maybe you want to drink out of it some day. Anyway, the word’s around there’s this grand jury coming up, and the next thing I hear is, well, you know what I hear.

“I have seen the truck,” Dillon said. “That is what impresses me. You put two guys in that truck and they could get the Pope. The only time I see an engine like that was in a Cadillac. So you don’t, you aren’t going to run away because that thing is going to run right away with you. And the windshield, the damned thing looks like an old bread truck, a milk truck, maybe, and the windshield cranks, it’s got a crank on the passenger side and you can open it right up and run a deer rifle out there. You’re driving a car in front of that truck and they want you, well, good luck to you. I understand they even got a gyro on it, you know? Like a fucking airplane. So they can lock on. Now you’re on the Mystic Bridge and that thing wheels up behind you and the windshield’s opening up, and I ask you, what’re you going to do now? You’re going to make a good Act of Contrition, is what you’re going to do, because you got a choice between the rifle and the water and it doesn’t matter much.

“Sure I don’t drive. I could afford a car, I wouldn’t be taking twenty a week from you. Only time I’m on the bridge is coming home from the track on the bus. But you see what I’m getting at. These guys’re serious. I know them very well. You know that. They got a truck for guys that drive cars, they got something else for guys that walk, like me.

“You see what I’m telling you,” Dillon said in the sunshine under the trees and the sky and the pigeons, “you see what I’m getting at. Right now they want to scare me, and they did it. I’m scared. I stay scared and I don’t do anything anybody else isn’t doing, I don’t go into that grand jury there, maybe, just maybe, being scared is going to be enough. Satisfy them. He was scared and he didn’t spook. Maybe not, too. But I go in there, I help you, whatever it is I got now, I am not going to have any more. I can walk around, and I can still tell the difference.

“I had this letter the other day from that guy I was telling you about, and you know what he said? He said: ‘I got seven months to go and then I’m free and clear. No parole officer, no nothing. What I’m trying to decide is whether I kill that woman or not. I think right now I won’t.’

“You see what I mean,” Dillon said, “you’re never sure. You are never sure what a man is going to do. I think if I was I wouldn’t care, they wouldn’t need that truck. I would kill myself.”

“Okay,” Dave said, “okay. Look, did I ever tell you we could keep you neat and clean? I ever give you that line of horseshit?”

“No,” Dillon said. “No, you always been on the level. I give you that.”

“Okay,” Dave said. “I understand the position you’re in. You can’t talk about the Polack, you can’t talk about the Polack. It’s all right.”

“Thanks,” Dillon said.

“Screw,” Dave said. “We been friends for a long time. I never asked a friend yet to do something he really couldn’t do, when I knew he couldn’t do it. The whole town’s buttoned up on this grand jury anyway. I never seen things so quiet.”

“There isn’t much going on,” Dillon said.

“Jesus,” Dave said, “I know it. They got me on this detail, you know? Drugs. I been out of town probably three weeks now, I come back, and nothing’s happening. I didn’t miss a thing. You guys must’ve taken up circle-jerks or something. They ought to run one of those grand juries every three weeks or so. It sure puts you guys in the closet for a while. I don’t care if they never catch those guys. Crime rate’s down sixty per cent just making the hard guys worry about it.”