“That,” Cogan said, “I’ll do the best I can for you. That’s something you’re gonna have to decide.”
“HE’S NOT WALKING RIGHT,” Gill said. He wore a dark blue tanker jacket and sat opposite Cogan in the Hayes Bickford across the street from the Lobster Tail.
“Of course he’s not walking right,” Cogan said. “He’s hurt. He’s all beat to shit.”
“It takes him a long time to do something,” Gill said. “I seen him, he was getting out of his car. It takes him a long time.”
“He’s all taped up,” Cogan said.
“He’s sure slow,” Gill said.
“He don’t feel good,” Cogan said. “You wouldn’t feel good, either.”
“What’re we gonna do, Jack?” Gill said.
“You’re gonna drive the car,” Cogan said. “Never mind thinking about what I’m gonna do. You just think about what you’re gonna do.”
“I’m gonna get some money,” Gill said.
“Five hundred,” Cogan said, “same as always, five hundred. You don’t fuck anything up.”
“I ever fuck anything up with you?” Kenny said.
“Kenny,” Cogan said, “the world’s full of guys that never fucked up, and then they did something and they fucked up once and they’re doing time. So this’s no night to start, not when I’m with you. What’d you get for a car?”
“Olds,” Gill said. “Last year’s Four-four-two. Nice car.”
“Don’t get attached to it,” Cogan said. “You got everything in it, I gave you?”
“Sure,” Gill said.
“The way I gave it to you and all,” Cogan said.
“Yeah,” Gill said.
“Okay,” Cogan said, “all you gotta do is, you got to drive.”
“Who is this guy?” Gill said.
“Don’t matter,” Cogan said.
“No,” Gill said, “I mean, really. Who is this guy? This the guy Steve and Barry beat up?”
“Kenny,” Cogan said.
“I didn’t mean nothing.” Gill said. “I was just wondering. I was, there was this guy, really got beat up, he was running a card game. And this guy, he’s hurt, I was wondering if it was the same guy.”
“Who told you about the guy with the card game, Kenny,” Cogan said.
“Jack,” Gill said, “like I said, I was just wondering. I didn’t mean nothing. What’d he do with the card game?”
“He had a couple guys come in and knock it over,” Cogan said.
“Oh,” Gill said. “See, well, I couldn’t understand it. Steve and Barry.”
“You figured I should’ve asked you,” Cogan said.
“I could’ve used the money, Jack,” Gill said.
“You can always use the money,” Cogan said. “Thing of it is, and I didn’t ask them, incidentally, you got that?”
“Sure,” Gill said.
“The thing needed two guys,” Cogan said. “That’s why you didn’t get called.”
“I could’ve got another guy,” Gill said. “I could’ve got the guy I had with me onna dogs.”
“Uh huh,” Cogan said, “well, okay, Kenny. Next time I need two guys, I’ll call you.”
“He would’ve been all right,” Kenny said. “He’s a good guy. Only, I don’t think he’s gonna hang around much now.”
“Okay, Kenny,” Cogan said, “you just keep things in mind, I need two guys some time, I’ll maybe call you first and if you can get me a guy, I’ll use you. Okay?”
“Okay,” Kenny said. “See, I was just thinking, was all, Jack.”
“That’s your weak spot, Kenny,” Cogan said. “Never mind it. Just do like I tell you, everything’ll be all right.”
“Does he know?” Gill said.
“Nah,” Cogan said, “he oughta, but he probably doesn’t. I don’t think so, no.”
Wearing a gray and red tattersall coat, Mark Trattman, his hands in his pockets, emerged from the Lobster Tail alone. The attendant in the snorkel coat started walking down the street.
“Son of a bitch,” Cogan said. “Didn’t score tonight for a change.”
“He was drinking his drink through them little plastic things you’re supposed to steer them with,” Gill said. “Those little green and white things.”
“Yeah,” Cogan said. He set his coffee cup down. “Where’s the fuckin’ car?”
“Around the side,” Gill said. “I thought you said—”
“Never mind what you thought I said,” Cogan said. “Move your big dumb ass. The guy’s going home.”
“I don’t get it,” Gill said.
“Neither’s he, tonight,” Cogan said. “Never again, either. Come on, for Christ sake, we’re gonna get home early for a change.”
The yellow 4-4-2 trailed Trattman’s tan Coupe de Ville through eight consecutive green lights on Commonwealth Avenue, westbound. Cogan rode in the back, sitting behind the driver’s seat. He kept his hands down, out of sight.
“Jesus,” Gill said, “he’s pretty good at this. He hits them all, just’s they turn.”
“He knows the speed,” Cogan said. “They’re set for nineteen or twenty miles an hour, I think it is. Something like that. He does it all the time, for Christ sake. He oughta.”
“Jack,” Gill said, “what if, what if he hasn’t gotta stop?”
“We’ll take him home and put him to fuckin’ bed then,” Cogan said. “Just keep after him, Kenny, and remember what I told you about thinking. Don’t worry about nothing. Just you change lanes now and then and everything’ll be all right.”
On the long hill at the synagogue, the Cadillac swung into the right lane and the brake lights came on as it approached the intersection of Chestnut Hill Avenue. The traffic light was red. A streetcar moved west toward Lake Street beyond the intersection.
“Middle lane, Kenny,” Cogan said. “There’s three lanes, it goes to three lanes up here. Take the middle.” He began to straighten up in the back seat. He leaned over and cranked down the right rear passenger window with his left hand.
The 4-4-2 approached the Cadillac quickly off the left rear.
“Right up even,” Cogan said, “nice and smooth.”
The traffic light remained red. There were no other cars. The traffic lights on Chestnut Hill Avenue turned yellow.
“Right up next to him,” Cogan said. “Then a little bit ahead. Put me right next to him, Kenny. Atta boy.”
Gill stopped the 4-4-2 with the open right rear window even with the driver’s window of the Cadillac. Trattman looked lazily at the car. He looked back at the traffic light.
Cogan ran the 30-06 Savage semi-automatic rifle out the rear window of the 4-4-2 and fired five times. The first bullet crazed Trattman’s window. Trattman lurched off to the right and was snubbed up abruptly. Cogan said: “Good for you, Markie, always wear your seat belt.”
The Cadillac started to creep forward as Cogan finished firing, Trattman bent forward at an angle over the passenger seat. When Gill swung the 4-4-2 left on Chestnut Hill Avenue, the Cadillac was halfway across; it ran up against the curbstone as the lights in the apartments at the intersection started to come on.
RUSSELL, CARRYING A BROWN-PAPER BAG, came out of the Arlington Street MBTA station just before six o’clock and turned off Arlington at St. James. At the newsstand on the corner the old man was cutting wire on bundles of the Globe. Two men in business suits waited in a light green Ford sedan at the newsstand, the passenger with his head and left hand out of the window, offering change. The driver watched Russell turn right on St. James. Holding the microphone in his right hand, the driver spoke into it: “All units, this is unit three. He finally made it.”
Russell crossed the street, pausing for a Greyhound bus to pull into the terminal parking lot, in from Bangor. The driver of the third Yellow Cab in line at the terminal spoke into his microphone: “Unit four to all units. I got him now. He’s on the sidewalk. He’s about to enter the station.”