The Friends of Eddie Coyle

by George V. Higgins

You hold in your hands the game-changing crime novel of the last fifty years. It is also quite possibly one of the four or five best crime novels ever written. It casts such a long shadow that all of us who toil in the genre known as American noir do so in its shade. Same goes for all of us who write novels set in Boston.

No one, before or since, has ever written dialogue this scabrous, this hysterically funny, this pungently authentic—not Elmore Leonard, who cites this novel as a primary influence, not Richard Price, not even George V. Higgins himself, who spent the rest of his career trying to fix what wasn’t broken,

soon reveals itself to be a demented novel of manners,

Jackie Brown at twenty-six, with no expression on his face, said that he could get some guns.

I bet if I was to go down to the Shrine there and go to confession I’d get three Hail Marys and the priest’d ask me confidentially if I could get him something light he could carry under his coat.

Thirty-eights, I’ll take a three-fifty-seven mag if I have to.

Thirty pieces. I’ll give you twelve hundred.” “Balls,” Jackie Brown said. “I got to have at least seventy apiece.” “I’ll go fifteen hundred,” the stocky man said. “Split the difference,” Jackie Brown said. “Eighteen hundred.” “I’ll have to see the stuff,” the stocky man said. “Sure,” Jackie Brown said. His expression changed: he smiled.

What the hell’re you chasing now, queers?” “They got me on drugs,” the driver said.

Hell, I’m almost forty-five years old.”

“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.

Look at those stupid bastards, fifteen minutes, down seventeen points, Buffalo’s running right through them.

One of the screws saw him getting chummy with the chaplain up there, which is usually the tip-off with Arthur.

one of those German Mausers, machinepistol, remember the kind that had that wooden holster that you could put on and use it like a rifle?

“Two three-fifty-sevens, not that it matters.

What’s it all going to cost me?” “Usual rate,” the stocky man said. “Buck and a half for all the guns, every one of them, I mean. I’ll throw in the ammo, account you’re a good customer and all.” “Twelve bills,” the second man said. “Fair enough.”

“Okay,” the second man said. “What I’ll do is call Dillon as soon as I know where I’m going to be and tell him I told my wife I was going to be there, and have him tell her if she calls that I went out but I’m coming back and he’ll have me call her. Then for him to call me and tell me she called. I’ll leave a number. I’ll do that before nine. You call Dillon and tell him you called me at home and my wife said I was at Dillon’s, and he won’t think anything, he’ll give you the number and you can call me up and we’ll meet somewhere. Okay?”

The Panthers’re the best thing ever happened to the Mafia, far as they’re concerned. They’ll trade you ten niggers for one wop any day of the week. I think it’s beautiful.”

The wise guys’re bigots, you know.”

Now why would Eddie Fingers be hanging around a guy who’s selling machine guns?” “Eddie Fingers is looking to pick up some guns,” Waters said.

think he’s talking to me so if somebody sees him doing business, it’ll be all right, he’s undercover.”

“I give you twenty dollars apiece for iron that costs you fucking nothing,”

I know what you’re dumping the money on, I know all right, but as long as you can function, it’s okay with me.

next thing I know they inform me that we are going partners.

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.

They got a truck for guys that drive cars, they got something else for guys that walk, like me.

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.

We can’t spend our lives in Ireland just because the kids might get bitten by a snake some time.”

He was afraid of stepping on a snake.

He removed the blindfold, expecting to be shot.

“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.”

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.”

“I can get you five machine guns by Friday,” Jackie Brown said. “M-sixteen rifles. Three hundred and fifty dollars apiece. You want ammo, it’s extra.” “How much extra?” Andrea said. “Two hundred and fifty dollars for five hundred rounds,” Jackie Brown said. “That’s two thousand dollars,” Andrea said. “More or less,” Jackie Brown said.

“How long you know the Duck?” the stubbled man said. “Since I got grabbed at the Weirs about five years ago and he was in the next cell with me,” Jackie Brown said. “You still ride?” the stubbled man said. “No,” Jackie Brown said. “That was before I heard about making money. I was just having fun then.”

This life’s hard, but it’s harder if you’re stupid.

“All right,” Jackie Brown said. “I’m gonna be nice to you. Here’s the whole five hundred for the guns. I oughta keep back a couple hundred for this putting me in the ditch with the ammo. But fuck it, my big weakness is I’m a nice guy. Now you get the rest of the stuff and you call me, okay?”

“Yeah,” Foley said, “he’s an expediter over at Arliss Trucking, night expediter, but you just try to find him there. He works about as much as Santa Claus.” “Arliss Trucking,” Waters said, “now where have I heard that one before?” “It’s in eight or ten files,” Foley said. “It’s a goddamned front for the boys. They all get reportable income from Arliss, and none of them work there.

“In Wilbraham, early today, four gunmen burst into the home of a young bank officer, terrorized his family, and compelled him to hand over the contents of the vault at the Connecticut River Bank and Trust Company branch in that town.

“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.

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.

“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.”

“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.”

“The only thing that’s more of a machine gun is the Colt, the AR-fifteen.

“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.”

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.”

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.”

“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.”

On 128, he eased the Roadrunner into a three-lane pack of first-shift electronics workers heading home,

I just wished I knew, so I’d know, you know?”

He extracted a plasticized card from the wallet. In the blue-tinged glare of the parking lot lights, he began to read: “ ‘You are under arrest for violation of a federal law. Before we ask you any questions, we want you to understand your rights under the Constitution of the United States.’ ”

“You’re under arrest for violation of U.S. Code twenty-six, Section fifty-eight-sixty-one, possession of a machine gun without being registered as the owner and possessor of a machine gun.”