The Friends of Eddie Coyle Read Free Page A

car.”
    “Then on Tuesday we could drive down to court together,” the driver said.
    “That’s right,” the stocky man said. “Make a nice outing. Give you a chance to say hello to all your old friends up there. What the hell’re you chasing now, queers?”
    “They got me on drugs,” the driver said. “So far all I got is pot, but they tell me there’s some hash floating around in the real swinging places, and they borrowed me to look for it.”
    The stocky man said: “But you’re still interested in machine guns, I suppose.”
    “Yes indeed,” the driver said. “I always had a strong interest in a machine gun or two.”
    “That’s what I was thinking,” the stocky man said. “I said to myself, Old Dave is reliable. I wonder what he’s doing now, if he remembers his old friends and the machine guns. That’s why I looked you up.”
    “Just what old friends, for example?” the driver said.
    “Well, I was thinking, for example,” the stocky man said, “maybe the U.S. Attorney up there. He’s an old friend of yours, as I recall.”
    “You thought I might enjoy a chance to talk with him,” the driver said.
    “I figured it was worth asking,” the stocky man said.
    “That’s an awful long way to go to see somebody I can talk to on the phone,” the driver said. “Still, if I had a strong reason.”
    “Well,” the stocky man said, “I got three kids and a wife at home, and I can’t afford to do no more time, you know? The kids’re growing up and they go to school and the other kids make fun of them and all. Hell, I’m almost forty-five years old.”
    “That’s your strong reason,” the driver said. “I need one for me. What’re they holding over you, about five years?”
    “My lawyer guesses about two or so,” the stocky man said.
    “You’ll do well to get out with two,” the driver said. “You had about two hundred cases of C.C. on that truck, way I remember it, and none of it belonged to you. Belonged to a fellow up in Burlington, I think it was, and you made a mistake like that before.”
    “I keep telling you,” the stocky man said, “it was all a mistake. I was minding my own business and getting along the best I could and this fellow called me up, knew I was out of work, and he asks me, would I drive a truck for him? That’s all there was to it. I didn’t know that guy from Burlington from Adam.”
    “I can see how that could happen,” the driver said. “Man like you lives in Wrentham, Massachusetts, must get a lot of calls to drive a semi from Burlington to Portland, especially when I never heard of you making a living driving a truck before. I can see how that could happen. I’m surprised the jury didn’t believe you.”
    “My stupid lawyer,” the stocky man said. “He’s not as smart as you. Wouldn’t let me take the stand and tell them how it happened. They never heard the whole story.”
    “Why don’t you appeal on that?” the driver said.
    “I thought about it,” the stocky man said. “Incompetence of counsel. I knew a fellow got out on that one. Trouble is, I haven’t got time to write up the papers. I know where there’s a guy that does it, but he’s down in Danbury I think, and I don’t want to see him particularly. Anyway, I was wondering if maybe there wasn’t an easier way of handling it.”
    “Like me saying hello to somebody,” the driver said.
    “Actually, something a little stronger than that,” the stocky man said. “I was thinking more in terms of you having the prosecutor tell the judge how I been helping my uncle like a bastard.”
    “Well, I would,” the driver said. “But then again, you haven’t been. We’re old buddies and all, Eddie, but I got to take Scout’s Honor when I do that. And what am I going to tell them about you? That you were instrumental in recovering two hundred cases of Canadian Club? I don’t think that’s going to help you much.”
    “I called you a few times,” the stocky man said.
    “You