The Friends of Eddie Coyle by George V. Higgins

pictures that he had taken. There was a Zenith desk set with two pens and an AM-FM radio in the front center area; his wife had given it to him for company when he had to work late. Yesterday’s
Wall Street Journal
lay folded on the near corner of the desk. Mrs. Greenan collected the mail each morning and brought him the
Journal
before sorting the rest of it. Her routine had been interrupted. She would be helpless all day. In the morning, regular customers would be calling to inquire about their deposits and withdrawals, because the tickets and checks would not arrive when expected. No, that was not correct: there would be something in the papers about this, something on television.
    The other two men converged from the positions they had taken up in the bank. Each of them produced a bright green plastic bag from under his coat, and shook it out. They went into the vault. They did not speak. The black revolver remained steady.
    The other two men emerged from the vault. They placed the green plastic bags on the floor. One of them produced anotherbag and shook it out. He went back into the vault. The second man drew his gun and nodded.
    The spokesman said: “When he comes out, you remind your people about the alarm. Then tell them there is going to be some shooting, but no one’s going to get hurt. I’m going to have to take out those cameras you got there.”
    “Why do you bother?” Sam said. “Those are for people who cash bad checks that you ordinarily don’t notice in the course of business. Everybody in here’s been staring at you guys for the past ten minutes. They can’t identify you. Why take the chance? There’s a drugstore next door and he’s open by now. If you think this place is soundproof, it isn’t. You start shooting and you’ll bring somebody for sure.”
    “Helpful, aren’t you?” the spokesman said.
    “I don’t want to get hurt and I don’t want anybody else to get hurt,” Sam said. “You said you’d use that thing. I believe you. Those cameras haven’t seen anything I haven’t seen: just a bunch of frightened people and three men with stockings over their faces. You got to kill all of us, too.”
    “All right,” the spokesman said. The third man came out of the vault, the third bag partly full. “Tell them this: my friends’re going to go out and get in the car. Then we’re going out and get in the car and go back to your house. Your people’re to open the bank and say absolutely nothing to nobody for at least an hour. If they do that, maybe you won’t get killed.”
    “Will you listen to me, please?” Sam said. “We’re going to leave now. As soon as the door shuts in the back, get up and take your usual places. Open the doors and pull the curtains. Start to do business as usual, as best you can. It’s very important that thesemen have at least an hour to get away. I know it’ll be difficult for you. Do the best you can, and if anyone comes in wanting a large amount of cash, you’ll have to tell them there’s something wrong with the vault and we’ve called a repairman to open it.”
    To the spokesman, he said: “Will you have one of your friends there close the vault?”
    The spokesman pointed toward the vault door. The second man swung it shut. The spokesman nodded and the two men picked up the plastic bags and disappeared into the corridor leading to the back door.
    “Please remember what I’ve said,” Sam said. “Everything depends on you to see that no one gets hurt. Please do your very best.”
    In the car there was no sign of the plastic bags. Then Sam noticed that one of the men was missing. He sat in the back seat with the spokesman. The driver started the engine.
    “Now, Mr. Partridge,” the spokesman said, “I’m going to ask you to put this blindfold on again and get down on the floor of the car. Me and my friend in the front’re going to take off the stockings. When we get to your house I will help you out of the car. You’ll take the blindfold