Free Killing Them Softly (Cogan's Trade Movie Tie-in Edition) by George V. Higgins

“There’s the easy way and there’s the hard way. The easy way’s for all you guys to just go ahead and start doing what these guys’re doing. The hard way’s to make us come around and all, which’s gonna make me nervous. And, see him?” Frankie gestured toward Russell with the shotgun. “Me, feeling good, that’s a lot like him, nervous. When
I
get nervous, well, you oughta see him, is what I think, but I wouldn’t want to. Not if he had the gun. Which he does. Now what we want, we want what you got in your wallets and your shoes and your coats and like that. And them neat little belts that got the zippers on the inside, them, too, what’s inthem. You can either start putting it out now, or you can sit there and act like you haven’t got it in your sock or something. Then after everybody’s all through putting out what they wanna put out, me and my nervous friend’re gonna go around and make sure. And the guys, the guys that didn’t remember everything, we’re at least gonna knock their teeth out. How’s that, huh?”
    None of the men said anything.
    â€œGood,” Frankie said. “That’s the way I feel, too. The less guys that get hurt, the better. So, don’t fuck around. Just give it all up and keep quiet and nobody gets hurt. It’s only money.”
    The rest of the men got out their wallets and put money on the tables. Two men removed loafers, with brass hardware on the insteps, and took money out and put it on the tables. One man, in a blue plaid shirt, removed his belt, opened a zipper compartment on the inside and took out four fifty-dollar bills, folded once in half lengthwise. He put them on the table in front of him.
    Frankie returned to the door. Russell moved from table to table, collecting the money. He put the money in the open attaché case. He shut the case. Russell put the thirty-eight in his belt. He picked up one case in each hand. Frankie stepped forward two paces. Russell passed behind him and stood near the door.
    â€œI changed my mind,” Frankie said. “He’s too nervous. He wants to leave. I never fuck with this guy. We’re not gonna go over you after all. You been very smart. Stay smart. Nobody’s dead. Don’t try to follow us.
    Russell opened the door and went out. He walked quickly on the deck to the stairs. He set down the bag in his right hand and used the hand to remove the skimask. He put the mask in his pocket. He picked up the bag. He went down the stairs quietly, with the two cases.
    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.

A T 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