“Tell them to sit down on the floor,” the spokesman said.
“Please sit down on the floor,” Sam said. Mrs. Greenan and the others sat awkwardly.
“Go over to the vault,” the spokesman said.
Next to the door to the vault, Sam Partridge had his field of vision contracted to include only two objects. There was a small clock set into the steel door of the vault. It stood at forty-five minutes past eight. There was no second hand. The minute hand did not appear to be moving. Eighteen inches away from the clock, down two feet from its eye-level location, there was the black-gloved hand of the spokesman. It held, very steadily, a heavy revolver. Sam saw that there was some kind of a rib on the barrel, and that the handle was molded out to cover the top of the hand that held it. He saw touches of gold inside the black metal of the cylinders. The hammer of the revolver was drawn back to full cock. The minute hand did not seem to have moved.
“What time does it open?” the spokesman said quietly.
“Eight-forty-eight,” Sam said absently.
In July they had taken the children to New Hampshire and rented a cottage on a palette-shaped pond north of Centerville. They had rented a boat one morning, an aluminum rowboat, with a small motor, and he had taken the children fishing while his wife slept. Around eleven they had come in because his son wanted to go to the bathroom. They beached the rowboat and the children ran up the gravel slope to the tall grass, and through the tall grass in the sunshine to the cabin. Sam had removed a string of four pickerel from the boat and placed it on the gravel. He had bent back to lift out the rods and the tackle box and the thermos of milk and the sweaters. He straightened up with the articles and turned toward where he had placed the fish.
On the loose gravel of the shore, perhaps a foot from the stringer of fish, a thick brown timber rattler was coiled. Its head was perhaps a foot off the ground. The rattles of its tail lay drooped against one of its fat coils. It had been swimming; its smooth, textured body was wet, and it glistened in the sun. The patterns of brown and black repeated themselves regularly along the skin. The eyes of the snake were glossy and dark. Its delicate black tongue flickered out, without a discernible opening of its jaws. The skin beneath the jaws was creamy. The sun had fallen comfortably warm upon the thick snake and upon Sam, who was repeatedly chilled, and he and the snake had remained motionless, except for the snake’s black, delicate tongue which flickered in and out from time to time, for several lifetimes. Sam had begun to feel faint. The position in which he had frozen, almost erect, with the children’s articles and the tackle in his hands, made his muscles ache. The snake appeared relaxed. It made no sound. Sam could think of nothing but his uncertainty; he did not know whether rattlers struck without rattling. Again and again he reminded himself that it made no difference, that the snake could easily satisfy any such ritual quickly enough to hit him before he could get away. Again and again the question nagged at him. “Now look,” he had said at last to the snake, “you can have the goddamned fish. You hear me? You can have them.”
The snake had remained in the same position for a time. Then its coils had begun to straighten. Sam had decided to try to jump if it came toward him. He knew that it could swim faster than he in the water, and he had no weapon. The snake completely controlled the situation. The snake turned slowly on the gravel, its weight rubbing the pebbles against each other. It proceeded up the slope, diagonally away from the cabin. In a while it was gone, and Sam, his body aching, rested the articles on the seats of the boat, and began to tremble.
The spokesman said: “What time does it say now?”
Sam swung his eyes back from the black revolver to the clock. “It doesn’t seem to move,” he said. “Eight forty-seven, I think. It really isn’t much good for telling time. All it does is show the mechanism is working, really.”
When he had told his wife about the snake, she had wanted to leave at once and give up the four days remaining on the cabin rental. And he had said: “We’ve been here what, nine days? That snake’s been here all his life, and he’s big enough so it’s been a long time. There’s probably a snake somewhere else in New England, too. The children haven’t gotten bitten so far. There’s no reason to think he’s going to get more aggressive between now and Saturday. We can’t spend our lives in Ireland just because the kids might get bitten by a snake some time.” They had stayed. But they had noticed themselves picking their way through the long grass, and watching carefully where they stepped on the gravel, and when they were in the water, Sam was constantly watching for the small head and the thick shiny coils in the blue pond.
“Do you want to try it now?” the spokesman said. “Or does it set off the alarm if you try it before the set time?”
“No,” Sam said. “It just doesn’t open. But there’s a click when it hits the set time. There isn’t any use in trying it until you hear that click.”
There was a dry snap inside the door of the safe. “There it is,” Sam said. He began to turn the wheel.
The spokesman said: “When you get it open, move over toward the desks there, so I can watch you and the rest of them at the same time.”
Sam stood near his own desk, staring at the pictures of his family, pictures that he had taken. There was a Zenith desk set with two pens and an AM-FM radio in the front center area; his wife had given it to him for company when he had to work late. Yesterday’s Wall Street Journal lay folded on the near corner of the desk. Mrs. Greenan collected the mail each morning and brought him the Journal before sorting the rest of it. Her routine had been interrupted. She would be helpless all day. In the morning, regular customers would be calling to inquire about their deposits and withdrawals, because the tickets and checks would not arrive when expected. No, that was not correct: there would be something in the papers about this, something on television.
The other two men converged from the positions they had taken up in the bank. Each of them produced a bright green plastic bag from under his coat, and shook it out. They went into the vault. They did not speak. The black revolver remained steady.
The other two men emerged from the vault. They placed the green plastic bags on the floor. One of them produced another bag and shook it out. He went back into the vault. The second man drew his gun and nodded.
The spokesman said: “When he comes out, you remind your people about the alarm. Then tell them there is going to be some shooting, but no one’s going to get hurt. I’m going to have to take out those cameras you got there.”
“Why do you bother?” Sam said. “Those are for people who cash bad checks that you ordinarily don’t notice in the course of business. Everybody in here’s been staring at you guys for the past ten minutes. They can’t identify you. Why take the chance? There’s a drugstore next door and he’s open by now. If you think this place is soundproof, it isn’t. You start shooting and you’ll bring somebody for sure.”
“Helpful, aren’t you?” the spokesman said.
“I don’t want to get hurt and I don’t want anybody else to get hurt,” Sam said. “You said you’d use that thing. I believe you. Those cameras haven’t seen anything I haven’t seen: just a bunch of frightened people and three men with stockings over their faces. You got to kill all of us, too.”
“All right,” the spokesman said. The third man came out of the vault, the third bag partly full. “Tell them this: my friends’re going to go out and get in the car. Then we’re going out and get in the car and go back to your house. Your people’re to open the bank and say absolutely nothing to nobody for at least an hour. If they do that, maybe you won’t get killed.”
“Will you listen to me, please?” Sam said. “We’re going to leave now. As soon as the door shuts in the back, get up and take your usual places. Open the doors and pull the curtains. Start to do business as usual, as best you can. It’s very important that these men have at least an hour to get away. I know it’ll be difficult for you. Do the best you can, and if anyone comes in wanting a large amount of
cash, you’ll have to tell them there’s something wrong with the vault and we’ve called a repairman to open it.”
To the spokesman, he said: “Will you have one of your friends there close the vault?”
The spokesman pointed toward the vault door. The second man swung it shut. The spokesman nodded and the two men picked up the plastic bags and disappeared into the corridor leading to the back door.
“Please remember what I’ve said,” Sam said. “Everything depends on you to see that no one gets hurt. Please do your very best.”
In the car there was no sign of the plastic bags. Then Sam noticed that one of the men was missing. He sat in the back seat with the spokesman. The driver started the engine.
“Now, Mr. Partridge,” the spokesman said, “I’m going to ask you to put this blindfold on again and get down on the floor of the car. Me and my friend in the front’re going to take off the stockings. When we get to your house I will help you out of the car. You’ll take the blindfold off so nobody gets frightened. We’ll pick up my other friend and come back out to the car. You’ll put the blindfold on again, and everything goes all right, in a little while you’ll be safe and sound. Understand?”
In the family room his wife and children seemed to occupy the same places they had had when he first came downstairs. His wife sat in the rocker and the children stood close together next to her. He knew without being told that they had not spoken since he left. The fourth man rose from the couch as they entered.
Sam said: “I’ve got to go away with these men for a little while now, and then everything’ll be all right, okay?” The children did not answer. To his wife, he said: “You better call the school and tell them we’ve all got the bug and the children’ll be absent.”
“Don’t say anything else,” the spokesman said.
“I’m just trying to do what you told me,” Sam said. “The school calls if you don’t.”
“Fine,” the spokesman said. “Just make sure it isn’t the State Police or something. Now, let’s go.”
Outside, Sam was blindfolded again. His eyes hurt from the sudden change from sunlight to darkness. He was led to the car. He was pushed down on the floor. He heard the car go into gear, the transmission under his head clinking as the car backed up. He felt it lurch forward. He was able to tell as it turned out of the driveway and turned left. When it came to a stop and turned right, he knew it was on Route 47. The car proceeded for a long time without stopping. Sam searched his memory for the number of stop lights or signs that they would have passed. He could not remember. He was unable to say any longer where they were. There was no conversation in the car. Once he heard a match being struck, and soon after smelled a cigarette burning. He thought: We must be getting somewhere. It must be almost over.
There was a crunching sound under the car and it slowed down quickly. The spokesman said: “I’m going to open the door now. Put your hands on the seat and get yourself sitting up. I’ll take your arm and get you out of the car. We’re at the edge of a field. When you get out, I’ll point you and you start walking. You’ll hear me get back in the car. The window will be down. I’ll be pointing the gun at you every minute. You just start walking and you walk as far as you can. Sometime while you’re walking, you’ll hear the car move off the shoulder here. I promise you, we’ll stay parked on the pavement for a while. You won’t be able to tell by listening whether we’re still here or not. Count to one hundred. Then take your mask off and hope to God we’re gone.”
Sam was cramped and stiff from lying on the floor. He stood unsteadily on the shoulder of the road. The spokesman took his arm and led him into the field. He could tell he was standing in wet, long grass. “Start walking, Mr. Partridge,” the spokesman said. “And thanks for your cooperation.”
Sam heard the car move off the gravel. He shuffled along in the darkness, the unevenness of the field frightening him. He was afraid of stepping into a hole. He was afraid of stepping on a snake. He got up to thirty-four and lost count. He counted again to fifty. He was unable to breathe. No longer, he thought, no longer. I can’t wait any longer. He removed the blindfold, expecting to be shot. He was alone in a broad, level pasture bordered by oaks and maples that had lost their leaves and stood black in the warm November morning. For a moment he stood blinking, then turned and looked at the empty road scarcely twenty yards away. He began to run, stiffly, toward the road.
8
At five minutes of six, Dave Foley escaped from the traffic on Route 128 and parked the Charger at the Red Coach Grille in Braintree. He went into the bar and took a table in the rear corner that allowed him to watch the door and the television set above the bar. He ordered a vodka martini on the rocks with a twist. After a white man strenuously stated the headlines, the evening news report began. As the waitress arrived with Foley’s drink, a black man with heavy jowls and an accent that made er sounds into or sounds delivered the first story.
“Four gunmen, masked with nylon stockings, made off with an estimated ninety-seven thousand dollars from the First Agricultural and Commercial Bank and Trust Company in Hopedale this morning,” he said. “The bandits invaded the Dover home of bank official Samuel Partridge shortly before dawn. Leaving one to hold the family hostage, they forced Partridge to accompany them to the bank. Employees were held at gunpoint while the robbers looted the vault of most of the bank’s currency, leaving only coins and a few small bills behind. Partridge was then driven back to his home, where the robbers picked up the guard they had left. After being blindfolded, Partridge was turned loose on Route 116 in Uxbridge, near the Rhode Island line. A blue Ford, apparently the getaway car, was found two miles away. The FBI and the State Police have entered the case. Partridge told me this afternoon. . . .”
A bulky black man wearing a double-breasted blue silk suit came into the bar and paused for an instant. Foley stood up and waved him over.
“Deetzer,” Foley said, “how goes the battle for equal rights?”
“We’re definitely losing,” the black man said. “This morning I told her I wouldn’t be home for dinner, and now I got to empty the garbage for three months, and take the kids to the zoo Saturday.”
“What do you hear, Deetzer old man,” Foley said.
“I hear they serve a drink here now and then,” the black man said. “Can I get one of those?”
Foley signaled the waitress and pointed to his glass. Then he raised two fingers.
“Are we eating here, Foles?” the black man said.
“Might as well,” Foley said. “I could use a steak.”
“Is uncle paying?” the black man said.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Foley said.
“I’m beginning to remember hearing some things now,” the black man said. “What shall we talk about?”
“I been thinking about going into the holdup business,” Foley said. “What I want to do is get up an integrated gang. We’d be invincible, Deetzer. Four bastards no smarter’n you and me got ninety-seven K out of some little bank in the woods this morning, no muss, no fuss, no bother. And here we are, deserving young men, family types, hacking along on a fucking salary.”
“I heard on the radio a hundred and five thousand,” the black man said.
“Well there you are, Deetzer,” Foley said. “A day’s work and all they got to worry about now is the Effa-Bee-Eye. You’ll be trotting the garbage from now until Easter, they’ll be getting a tan on the beach at Antigua, and I’ll be beating the bushes with snow to my jock until Washington’s Birthday, tracking down housewives who pay ten bucks for six ounces of Lipton Tea and two ounces of bad grass.”
“I was thinking about joining a commune,” the black man said. “I heard about this place up near Lowell, everybody welcome, you take off your clothes and screw all day and drink boysenberry wine all night. Trouble is, I hear all they get to eat is turnips.”
“You’re too old for a commune,” Foley said. “They wouldn’t take you. You couldn’t get it up enough to meet the
specs. What you need is some government-funded job with a secretary that comes in every afternoon, strips down to the garter belt, and gets it up for you.”
“I applied for that job,” the black man said. “I know just the one you mean. Pays thirty grand a year and you get a Cadillac and a white man to drive it. They told me it was filled. Some kid from Harvard Law School, got hair down to his navel and a beard and wears boots. They said I wasn’t qualified to lead the people to the promised land, what they needed was a nice Jewish boy that didn’t wash.”
“I thought they had their rights,” Foley said.
“So did I,” the black man said. “It’s the jobs they want now.”
“The brothers will be very uptight when they hear this,” Foley said. “Should I call Military Intelligence and tell them to load and holster their movie cameras for an imminent demonstration?”
“Probably not,” the black man said. “The way to handle it is to pass the word to some crabby dumb mick of a DA, and he’ll bugger it up fast enough.”
“Would a City Councilman do?” Foley said.
“Even better,” the black man said. “Better still, a City Councilwoman. They’re the best. You know where they stand.”
“How are the brothers, anyway?” Foley said.
“Ah, Deetzer, Deetzer, you never learn,” the black man said. “Whenever the white man calls, it’s because he’s got a hard-on for the Panthers again. Is it the Panthers this time, Foles?”
“I dunno,” Foley said. “I dunno who it is. I don’t even know if it is, to tell you the truth. I’d be very surprised to find out it was Panthers. From what I read in the papers, they spend most of their time in court for shooting each other.”
“Not all of them,” the black man said. “The rank and file run a catering business.”
“Any of them looking out to buy some machine guns?” Foley asked.
“I suppose so,” the black man said. “They run around all the time saying: ‘Off the pigs.’ I was doing that, I’d want some machine guns around for when the pigs get mad.”
The Friends of Eddie Coyle Page 5
