by Chuck Hogan
Praise for nationally bestselling author Chuck Hogan’s
crime fiction blockbuster
The Town
“Hogan excels at creating the over-the-top adrenaline rush of heists, heart-stopping chases, and gun battles… this book finds a place in my list of favorite books ever.”
—The Boston Globe
“First rate.”
—The Washington Post
“A rich narrative of friendship, young love, and mounting suspense. On each season’s fiction list, if you are lucky, there are one or two books that live up to the advance hype. The Town is such a book.”
—Stephen King
“[A] moody, resonant thriller.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“Engaging reading… grittily realistic action sequences.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Chuck Hogan is a superb writer, and his grand novel peopled with believable characters in heart-wrenching scenes that throb with masterful suspense. This is simply great fiction that should not be missed.”
—Ed McBain
“Smart, speedy, and stylish—a literary Pulp Fiction.”
—Jeffery Deaver, author of The Cold Moon
“A fine literary effort… [with] layered characters and nuanced prose.… A story fueled by human relationships.”
—Rocky Mountain News
Praise for
Devils in Exile
“Hogan writes with metronomic precision… This multifaceted author is on a roll.”
—The Florida Times Union
“[A]nother winning performance.”
—Booklist
“This is a compelling portrait of a good man who makes bad choices and in the end must battle his way out of a destructive and deadly life.”
—Publishers Weekly
Praise for
The Killing Moon
“Gripping… thoroughly enjoyable… Hogan’s theme of a small town harboring dark secrets is an addictive one that allows the reader to swallow the book in just one sitting.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“Hogan delivers plenty of excitement.… At his best, Hogan will remind readers of Lee Child and Stephen Hunter.”
—Booklist
“Convincingly and movingly brings alive the dying Massachusetts community of Black Falls.… Strong characters and a memorable setting.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The Boston area has long been fodder for quality crime fiction, including Robert B. Parker, Linda Barnes, Dennis Lehane, and Chris Mooney. Chuck Hogan… cements his bid for inclusion on this literary family tree with a thoughtful, moody thriller about small-town secrets.”
—Baltimore Sun
Praise for
The Blood Artists
“A masterfully suspenseful, character-driven potboiler paced with humor, shamelessly gratuitous destruction, and Grand Guignol gross-outs.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Gripping… so good that readers may need to keep reminding themselves there is no such thing as the Plainville virus.”
—Boston Herald
Praise for
The Standoff
“Absolutely smashing debut thriller… tense, frightening, and all too believable, a certified page-turner.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“Beautifully paced… a heart-tugging subplot… brings an added edge of humanity to this finely crafted and compelling read.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Fast-paced, can’t-put-it-down page-turner… Hogan is so adept at capturing the complexity of character… heart-stopping intensity.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
Also by Chuck Hogan
Devils in Exile
The Killing Moon
The Blood Artists
The Standoff
With Guillermo del Toro
The Strain
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Manufactured in the United States of America
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2004045363
ISBN 978-1-4391-9650-2
eISBN-13: 978-1-4516-1027-7
Previously published as Prince of Thieves
To my mother:
How great the darkness.
For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.
—Matthew 6:21
Charlestown, Massachusetts’s reputation as a breeding ground for bank and armored-car robbers is authentic. Although faithful to the Town’s geography and its landmarks, this novel all but ignores the great majority of its residents, past and present, who are the same good and true people found most anywhere.
While Charlestown is home to some of the most decent people in the city, it has, like no other neighborhood, a hoodlum subculture that is preoccupied with sticking up banks and armored cars.
—The Boston Globe, March 3, 1995
…a community to which more armored-car robbers are traced than any other in the country, according to FBI statistics.
—The Boston Globe, March 19, 1995
This self-described Townie spoke… on condition of anonymity, describing what it was like to grow up in Charlestown. “I’m mighty proud of where I come from. It’s ruined my life, literally, but I’m proud.”
—The Boston Globe, March 19, 1995
THE
TOWN
First, a toast. Raise a glass. Solemn now:
To the Town.
To Charlestown, our one square mile of brick and cobblestone. Neighborhood of Boston, yet lopped off every map of the city like a bastard cropped out of a happy family portrait.
This is the heart of the “Old Eleventh,” the district that first sent the Kennedy kid to Congress. The one square mile of America that shipped more boys off to World War II than any other. Site of the Battle of Bunker Hill, the blood of revolution sprinkled like holy water over our soil and our souls. Turf and Tribe and Townie Pride—our sacred trinity.
But now look at these outsiders snapping up our brownstones and triple-deckers. Pricing us out of our own mothers’ houses. Yuppies with their Volvos and their Asian cuisine, their disposable incomes and contempt for the church—succeeding where the British army failed, driving us off our land.
But sure, we don’t go away so easy. “Don’t fire until you see the whites
of their eyes!”—that was us, remember. This carnation here may be a bit brown at the edges—but see it still pinned to the tweed lapel over my beating Townie heart.
Be a hero now, reach me that jar. We’ll have a hard-boiled egg with this last one, see how she goes down. It’s caps off, gents. Here’s to that towering spike on a hill, the granite battle monument that’ll outlast us all: the biggest feckin’ middle finger in the world, aimed right at good brother Boston and the twenty-first century beyond.
To the Town. Here’s how.
PART I
PRIDE
1. The Bank Job
2. Crime Scene
3. The Split
4. PlayStation
5. Interview
6. The Sponsor
7. Saturday Night Fever
8. Frawley at the Tap
9. The Garden in the Fens
10. Stained
11. Jay’s on the Corner
12. Checking In
13. AM Gold
14. The Pope of the Forgotten Village
1
THE BANK JOB
DOUG MACRAY STOOD INSIDE the rear door of the bank, breathing deeply through his mask. Yawning, that was a good sign. Getting oxygen. He was trying to get amped up. Breaking in overnight had left them with plenty of downtime to sit and eat their sandwiches and goof on each other and get comfortable, and that wasn’t good for the job. Doug had lost his buzz—the action, fear, and momentum that was the cocktail of banditry. Get in, get the money, get out. His father talking, but fuck it, on this subject the old crook was right. Doug was ready for this thing to fall.
He swung his head side to side but could not crack his neck. He looked at the black .38 in his hand, but gripping a loaded pistol had long since lost its porn. He wasn’t there for thrills. He wasn’t even there for money, though he wouldn’t leave without it. He was there for the job. The job of the job, like the thing of the thing. Him and Jem and Dez and Gloansy pulling pranks together, same as when they were kids—only now it was their livelihood. Heisting was what they did and who they were.
His blood warmed to that, the broad muscles of his back tingling. He rapped the hard plastic forehead of his goalie mask with his pistol barrel and shook out the cobwebs as he turned toward the door. A pro, an athlete at the top of his game. He was at the height of his powers.
Jem stood across from him like a mirror image: the dusty navy blue jumpsuit zipped over the armored vest, the gun in his gloved hand, and the white goalie mask marked up with black stitch scars, his eyes two dark sockets.
Happy voices approaching, muffled. Keys turning in reinforced locks, strongbars releasing.
A spear of daylight. A woman’s hand on the knob and the kick of a chunky black shoe—and the swish of a black floral skirt walking into Doug’s life.
HE SEIZED THE BRANCH manager’s arm and spun her around in front of him, showing her the pistol without jamming it in her face. Her eyes were green and bright and full, but it was his mask that scared short her scream, not the Colt.
Jem kicked the door shut behind the assistant manager, smacking the cardboard caddy out of the guy’s hand. Two steaming cups of coffee splattered against the wall, leaving a runny brown stain.
Doug took the bank keys from the manager’s hand and felt her going weak. He walked her down the short hallway to the tellers’ row behind the front counter, where Gloansy—identically dressed, masked, and Kevlar-bulked—waited. The bank manager startled at the sight of him, but she had no breath left for screaming. Doug passed her off to Gloansy, who laid her and the gray-suited assistant manager face-first on the carpeting behind the cages. Gloansy started yanking off their shoes, his voice deepened and filtered by the mask.
Lie still. Shut your eyes. Nobody gets hurt.
Doug moved with Jem through the open security door into the lobby. Dez stood beside the front door, hidden from Kenmore Square by the drawn blinds. He checked the window before flashing a blue-gloved thumb, and Doug and Jem crossed the only portion of the lobby visible from the ATM vestibule.
Jem unfolded a deep canvas hockey bag on the floor. Doug turned the stubbiest key on the manager’s ring in the night-deposit cabinet lock, and silver plastic deposit bags spilled to the floor like salmon from a cut net. A holiday weekend’s worth. Doug gathered them up five and six at a time, soft bags of cash and checks bundled in deposit slips, dumping the catch into Jem’s open duffel.
After raiding the night drop, Doug went on alone to the access door behind the ATM. He matched key to lock, then looked over to the tellers’ cages where Jem had the branch manager on her feet. She looked small without shoes, head down, hair slipping over her face.
“Again,” Jem commanded her. “Louder.”
She said, staring at the floor, “Four. Five. Seven. Eight.”
Doug ignored the choke in her voice and punched the code into the mechanical dial over the key. The door swung open on the ATM closet, and Doug unlatched the feeder and pulled the cash cassette. After the long weekend it was less than half full. He scooped out the sheets of postage stamps as an afterthought and dumped them with the tens and twenties into the bag. Then he flipped the service switch, reloaded the empty cassette, and hustled back past the check-writing counter, running the bag through the open security door to the tellers’ cages.
There, he retrieved a small strongbox from a drawer at the head teller’s station. Beneath some dummy forms and a leftover stack of flimsy giveaway 1996 desk calendars was a brown coin envelope containing the cylindrical vault key.
THEY COULD HAVE BEEN a couple waiting for an elevator, except for the gun: Jem and the manager standing together before the wide vault door. Jem was holding her close, exploring the curve of her ass through her skirt with the muzzle of his .45 as he whispered something in her ear. Doug made noise coming up behind them and Jem’s gun moved to her hip.
Jem said, “She says the time lock’s set for eight eighteen.”
The digital clock built into the vault door said 8:17. They stood for that one minute in silence, Doug behind the manager, listening to her breathing, watching the hands of her self-hugging arms grip her sides.
The clock changed to 8:18. Doug inserted the key over the thick black dial.
“We know all about panic codes,” Jem told the manager. “Now open it clean.”
Her hand came out stiffly, steadying itself against the cool steel door and leaving a brief, steamy palm print there before starting in on the dial. When she hesitated after the second turn, Doug knew she had made a mistake.
“No fucking stalling,” said Jem.
She dried her quivering hand on her skirt. The second time, she made it past the third number of the combination before her nerves betrayed her, her fingers twisting the dial too far.
“For Christ!” said Jem.
“I’m sorry!” she wailed, half in anger, half in terror.
Jem put the gun to her ear. “You have kids?”
She veered away from him, her voice strangled. “No.”
“A husband? Boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Christ! Parents, then. Do you have parents? Who the fuck can I threaten?”
Doug stepped in, easing Jem’s gun away from her face. “How many attempts before the lock triggers a duress delay?”
She swallowed. “Three.”
Doug said, “And how long until it can be opened again after that?”
“I think—fifteen minutes.”
“Write it down,” said Jem. “Write out the combination, I will fucking do it myself.”
Doug looked at her grimacing face in profile, feeling her fear. “You don’t want us here another fifteen minutes.”
She considered that a second, then reached fast for the dial, her hand darting like a bird from a cage. Doug caught her wrist, held it firm.
“Slow,” he said. “Take your time. Once you start, do not stop.”
She wrapped a fist around her thumb. When he released her, her hand went cautiously
to the dial. Her fingers obeyed her this time, shaking again only as she approached the final number. The interior clack was audible.
Jem spun the locking wheel and the door released, opening on massive hinges, the vault emitting a cool, cottony yawn after a long weekend’s sleep.
Doug grabbed the manager’s arm and walked her away. She paused in sight of her office, their entry point, where they had brought the ceiling down on top of her desk.
“It’s my birthday,” she whispered.
Doug walked her fast out to Gloansy, who put her back with the assistant manager, facedown on the floor. Dez stood near with his scarred mask cocked at a quizzical angle. A radio check, him listening to the unseen wire rising up from inside his jumpsuit collar.
“Nothing,” Dez said. The police frequencies were all clear.
AS A CONQUEST, VAULT interiors always disappointed Doug. The public access areas such as the safe-deposit rooms were kept polished and showroom clean, but the actual money rooms were no more impressive than utility closets.
This vault was no exception. The main cabinet door containing the cash reserves was made of thin metal and fastened with a flimsy desk lock, which Doug busted open in one stroke. Despite the vault’s hard-target exterior, once you were in, you were in. He ignored the heavy racks of rolled coins and instead pulled down stacked bundles of circulated paper currency. The color-coded paper straps that banded the bills told him the denominations at a glance: red for $5s, yellow for $10s, violet for $20s, brown for $50s, and beautiful mustard for $100s. He snapped them off as he went, fanning the wads of cash, spot-checking for dye packs and tracers.
