Frankie moved the shotgun back and forth slowly, covering the room. He waited forty seconds or so. None of the men moved. Frankie stood near the door.
Frankie opened the door quickly, backed through it, shut it and dragged one of the chairs in front of it. He waited.
Frankie stepped back from the door. He put the shotgun under his coat. He moved quickly down the deck. He removed his mask as he went. He went down the stairs quickly and across the parking lot. Russell was in the car. Frankie got in on the driver’s side and started the engine. The Chrysler, without lights, traveled quickly and quietly down the drive, under the oaks, into the dark.
AT FIVE MINUTES PAST TWO in the afternoon the silver Toronado, black vinyl roof, Rhode Island registration 651 RJ, came up Boylston Street and eased into the curb lane in front of a flocked emerald-green-and-white Fleetwood illegally parked in front of the 1776 Pub. The Toronado stopped in front of Brigham’s, a car length from the Tremont Street intersection.
Jackie Cogan, in a pilled suede coat, dropped his Salem on the sidewalk, stepped on it, and got into the Toronado. He shut the door. Without looking at the driver he said: “Hang a right and go a couple blocks.”
The driver wore a light gray, glen plaid suit. He had very long white hair. He put the Hydramatic in gear. “This isn’t near the courthouse, I assume,” he said.
“Nah,” Cogan said. “Just a big hole. All the construction jocks, that’s all there is. There’s always three or four of them, sitting in their cars, trying to get warm. Forget it.”
The driver turned the Toronado right on Tremont Street. “He was very concerned,” he said. “When I told him I called and Dillon said to see you, he was very concerned. How is the fellow?”
“He’s not good,” Cogan said. “He came in Monday, he was out about three weeks and he came in Monday and he hadda have a guy come in and take over for him. I don’t think he was in at all, Tuesday and Wednesday, and then yesterday he called me, the guy he had those days was tied up and could I get somebody. So I did. He’s not in today, either. They told, the doctor said if he took things easy, he was inna hospital over two and a half weeks, and then if he took it easy, he oughta be all right this week. So, he’s around but he looks shitty, and I saw him, I saw him yesterday. He’s still getting it in the arm and he says it makes him nervous, still, not smoking, he’d probably be better off if he was. Says it feels like somebody stuck a knife in his chest.”
“He probably won’t be able to handle anything for a while, then,” the driver said. He stopped at the red light at the Kneeland Street intersection.
“He sure can’t right now,” Cogan said. “I think, I personally think the guy’s in very bad shape. He was, you know, every time I ever saw the guy he was always bitching about how he felt lousy and everything, his stomach was bothering him and if it wasn’t that it was something else. But he’s really sick now, and you can tell because he don’t say anything about it unless you come right out and ask him, and even then he doesn’t really want to talk about it. I think he’s worried himself.”
The light changed and the Toronado crossed the intersection and the driver said: “He told me, when he heard, that if Dillon wasn’t available I was to talk to the fellow he sent.”
“When you get up the movie place there,” Cogan said, “see that? Go down the right there, and there’ll be a place you can park.”
“Is that you?” the driver said.
“Dillon said where you’d be and for me to go there and wait for you,” Cogan said. “I looked around all right, I didn’t see nobody else that might’ve been there to see you. Did you?”
The driver parked the Toronado behind a pink Thunderbird sedan. “Mark Trattman’s game got hit a couple nights ago,” the driver said.
“I heard that,” Cogan said. “Somewhere around fifty-three thousand they got?”
“Well,” the driver said, “probably closer to fifty. Two kids.”
“Yeah,” Cogan said.
“You or Dillon heard anything about two kids?” the driver said.
“You hear lots of things,” Cogan said. “I heard they had masks on, for one thing.”
“Correct,” the driver said.
“So,” Cogan said, “maybe they’re not kids.”
“They had long hair,” the driver said. “The people could see it sticking out, from under.”
“Look,” Cogan said, “my wife’s mother’s sick and we hadda go over and see her Sunday, so of course we hadda go to church, too, the old bat doesn’t get any wrong ideas. And the priest had long hair, for God’s sake. And they could’ve been wearing wigs or something. You can’t tell.”
“Well,” the driver said, “they were dressed like kids. They had dungarees on and they smelled like animals, Trattman said.”
“Trattman said,” Cogan said. “Look, anyway, there’s lots of guys that stink.”
“Trattman also said,” the driver said, “the one that talked had a voice like a kid.”
“Trattman said,” Cogan said.
“So far’s I know,” the driver said, “there’s nothing wrong with Trattman’s hearing, or his nose or anything.”
“Nope,” Cogan said. “Nothing I ever heard about, anyway.”
“But then, of course, when I talked to him …”
“You talked to Trattman?” Cogan said.
“No, of course not,” the driver said. “Trattman called Cangelisi, and they got word to him and then I talked to him.”
“Oh,” Cogan said.
“Is that important?” the driver said.
“Probably not,” Cogan said. “I was just wondering, how Trattman decided to call you. I wouldn’t’ve done that.”
“Well, I do talk to him,” the driver said.
“Yeah,” Cogan said, “but I don’t, and I didn’t know you, I knew there was somebody, of course, but I never heard of you before in my life. Just seemed funny, is all.”
“Well, I didn’t talk to him,” the driver said. “Trattman. But I talked to him last night and I talked to him again this morning.”
“So nobody,” Cogan said, “nobody’s actually talked to Trattman about this.”
“Just Cangelisi,” the driver said. “Trattman called him from the place and he couldn’t get him and he woke his wife up and everything.”
“Yeah,” Cogan said. “So all we got right now, to go on, is what Trattman told some guy. And that’s what I’m supposed to go out and find two kids on, what Trattman told some guy, I never even talked to.”
“That’s not what he said,” the driver said. “He said that I was to call Dillon, and I called Dillon, and then I talked to him and he told me to talk to the fellow that Dillon sent and see what you thought, I assume it’s you, anyway, what you thought ought to be done next.”
“What happened to Zach?” Cogan said.
“I’m not really sure,” the driver said. “They had some kind of a disagreement. I think it was about the way he handled the petition for cert. Zach. He didn’t tell me very much about it, but he did say he couldn’t represent him any more. I called Zach when he first called me, naturally.”
“Zach was with him for a long time,” Cogan said. “I talked to Zach a lot.”
“Not so long, actually,” the driver said. “About five years. No more’n that. When he first started out he had McGonigle.”
“Magoo?” Cogan said. “He came up here for a guy and they practically hadda carry him in court in a basket.”
“He’s had some bad luck,” the driver said. “And that was probably before you were born, when he had McGonigle. Then, Zach told me, well, he didn’t have as many problems then. That was really before he really needed a lot of legal work done. But then he had Mindich and then he had the fellow from New York, Mendoza, and then he used Zach. It’s good trade,’ Zach told me. Tor five years it’s good business. It’ll drive you nuts, but the money’s good.’ See, according to Zach, he blames you when things don’t come out the way he wants them to, and then he gets a new lawyer.”