Tempted by Trouble (13 page)

“Oh, I understand.” Eddie Coyle nodded. “You stayed here because of Cora Mature.”

“She told you her real name.”

“Her maiden name.”

“She’s Cora Knight now.”

He nodded. “I couldn’t call her Trouble everywhere we went.”

“She could’ve given you another phony name.”

“She could’ve. But she didn’t.” Eddie Coyle said, “Dmytryk Knight.”

I made myself comfortable on my barstool. “What brings you to Detroit?”

“I think your wife told you.”

“Since this is our first date and this is our first drink, humor me.”

He smiled. “I came here last week to go to church, then go out and see the city.”

“You don’t seem like a religious man.”

“I went to visit a couple of megachurches. Where a man can get lost in the crowd.”

“So you’re a religious zealot who frequents gentlemen’s clubs, then goes to pray.”

Eddie Coyle checked his watch. “Well, why don’t you tell me why you are here?”

I looked at my pocket watch and raised my drink, washed down some nervousness, nodded, then said, “So, my wife tells me that you’re in the banking industry.”

“Withdrawals only.”

I paused before I lowered my voice. “My wife said you could use me in some capacity.”

He sipped his wine and paused. “You sure you want to work in this industry?”

“I want my wife to stop working in the industry she’s in now. Thanks for buying her a coat, but that was crossing the line. For me, as a married man, a fifty-two-hundred-dollar full-length fur coat was too much.”

“I understand. But at that moment, I didn’t know she was married. She told me after.”

A moment went by. I was with a man who had seen my wife in a way only a husband should see his wife. My ego didn’t feel good, not at all. But many men had seen my wife in the same way.

I said, “Now, Eddie Coyle, your turn. Before this gets too deep, tell me about yourself.”

“Nothing to tell.”

“There is always something. Besides, you know who I am. What’s your birth name?”

“Eddie Coyle.”

“I watch old movies.”

“We have something in common.”

“So you can do better. You could’ve at least called yourself Mr. Majestyk.”

“Charles Bronson. He was damn good in that movie. The man had morals. But I’d have to say that I was more like Frank Renda. Only I have more self-control and common sense.”

“So, Eddie Coyle, give me a better name or I take a walk.”

He took a moment, then he said, “Lew.”

“Lew what?”

“Lew Hunter. But that’s all you get. But you can call me Eddie Coyle, like everyone else does. Just call me Eddie Coyle.”

“You know my story, Eddie Coyle. You know where I live. And you know my wife.”

“Fair is fair.”

“Exactly. I’m at a bit of a disadvantage here. And I’ve always been a fair man.”

“I was out of this aspect of the banking business for a while, for almost five years.”

“What brought you back?”

“Well, I try not to talk about it because I’m not the kind of man who likes to complain when life has dealt him a bad hand, but I do think about my ruined home in Austell, Georgia. I was there in Austell for a while. But last summer we had about ten days of nonstop rain and Noonday Creek had swollen and closed highways down. That flood filled my house and destroyed everything I owned.”

“Sorry to hear.”

“I had battled my ex-wife and alimony and child support, but nothing took away as much as that damn flood. I almost drowned in my own truck. But I had broken free, fought a surging river in the downpour and darkness, and held on to a fallen tree, rode that tree until it hit ground two miles later.”

“Sounds unbelievable.”

“That was my Katrina. So pardon me if I sound bitter as I drink wine and relive the tragedy. All I owned was what I had on. The only money I had was inside my pockets. That act of God had wrecked my home and my life, had washed away my positive spirits. I’ll never tithe again. That had turned out to be another bad investment. So, Dmytryk, that’s part of my story. The part I’m recovering from.”

“No wife?”

Eddie Coyle shook his head and smiled. “Not at the moment.”

“I see.”

“I’m on break. Women love you if you are willing to kill for them or die for them. If you’re making a killing and bringing in money or somewhere working until you die, they love you to death, bury you, and move on to the next guy who is willing to kill for them or die for them. I’m taking a break from killing myself.”

One of the televisions was on a live party in New York.

I said, “So, my wife says you need a driver.”

He nodded. “I need another wheelman.”

“To be up-front, as you either know or have guessed, I’ve never done anything like that before.”

“Can you drive?”

“At times I drive my wife crazy. Been doing that for six years. So, yeah, I can drive.”

“You have a sense of humor.”

“At times. But it’s esoteric, dark, and seldom appreciated.”

“If you stay calm and drive, you can do it. That’s what a wheelman does.”

“And I take it to mean I don’t have to go inside, but I would have a large responsibility.”

“Outside of making the withdrawal, you would have the largest responsibility of us all.”

I looked at the swank bar I was inside at the moment, at the five-star restaurant, looked up at the wall and took in the extensive collection of wines, then I stared at a lifestyle that had abandoned me, and then I looked at my callused hands.

“I read that the average take on a bank job is about four grand. That’s not a lot.”

“We do better. Most bank robbers work alone. We work as a team. Most use drugs or alcohol. We’re clean. Most have never robbed a bank. We have experience. Most live near the bank they rob. We’re not that stupid. Most escape on a bicycle or by foot. We’re not that stupid. And making a grand a head is not enough to get me out of bed. We have inside information. We’re not amateurs.”

“Why not one big job?”

He smiled. “One day.”

A moment went by.

I said, “I’m ready to work in the banking industry. I’m as ready as I’m ever going to be.”

He downed the last of his wine, then looked at his watch before he stood up. “We’re making a decent-sized withdrawal in the next seven to ten days. It won’t be enough to make you the next Donald Trump, but if you’re conservative, your cut will buy you and Cora some breathing room for a few months.”

“My schedule is wide open.” I stood, then grabbed my hat and coat. “But I have one condition.”

“Which is?”

“The first fifty-two hundred I make, that goes back in your pockets. Cora is my wife. If anybody buys her a coat, even if it’s a secondhand coat from the Goodwill, that’s for me to do, not any other man. So, that money you spent to keep my wife from catching a cold, which I appreciate, will be considered a loan.”

He nodded. “No hard feelings about yesterday or last night.”

“Depends.”

By then we were at the elevator. As soon as it opened we stepped on, but before the door closed we were interrupted by a swarm of inebriated, happy people who crowded onto the elevator, and that left over a dozen people standing shoulder-to-shoulder in a crowd of loudness and laughter, colognes and perfumes. I opened my pocket watch and found enough light to see that it was seconds before midnight. Hundreds of patrons were blowing party favors and singing “Auld Lang Syne.” One woman was sloppy drunk and two men were holding her upright. She was giggling and putting her hands on both men in a way that let me know how her year would start. Outside, down by the bridges and across the waters, fireworks were going off. It was the start of a brand-new year in a bankrupt America.

I felt nothing. It was a new year and that meant absolutely nothing to me.

The descent from the seventy-second floor was both spectacular and nerve-racking. It was a descent that was as metaphorical as it was frightening. The view of Windsor kept my mind in a bad place.

I asked Eddie Coyle, “Did you engage in any form of sexual activity with my wife?”

“It was all business.”

“Well, we live in a world where oral sex is the new good-night kiss.”

“Everything with Trouble—Cora—everything with Cora was all business.”

“Then no hard feelings.”

He smiled and I smiled and we held eye contact while we shook hands.

He said, “This has been fun, but I have to get back to Rome now.”

“When is the job opportunity?”

“The job is in a week, so I need you to meet me there in three days. The crew will be there, so you need to come down and get the approval of the crew. Guys are named Rick and Sammy. We have a stage-two driver. I always use a woman for stage two. You’ll meet her too.”

“Roads should be wide open, so I’ll drive down tomorrow.”

“It’s a long drive, especially in this weather. Snowing up top and raining down bottom.”

“I can handle it. It’s a little over seven hundred miles. Gives me time to think.”

“One more thing.”

“I’m listening.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know a good place to dump a body?”

 

 

 

 

When I made it
home, Cora was sitting up on the bed, wearing her green and pink Life Is Good pajamas, waiting for me. She already knew how the meeting with Eddie Coyle had gone. I saw anxiety and optimism in her eyes. I stood in the doorway, my wet coat dripping water on the carpet. I was a changed man. In the soft lights inside our bedroom, she looked both young and innocent again, nothing like the woman I had seen at that club, nothing like the woman who had been consumed with hostility this morning. She looked like the woman I’d met when I was working on the line.

She whispered tentatively, “Happy New Year.”

“Is it?” I’d almost told her I’d seen a man and woman murdered. I said, “Not for everyone.”

She took a breath. “So we’re in with Eddie Coyle?”

“I’m in with Eddie Coyle. You’re done with Eddie Coyle.”

“Dmytryk—”

“
Say it.
”

A moment passed before Cora said, “I’m done with Eddie Coyle.”

“It’s done,” I snapped.

The room went quiet.

Cora looked like she was afraid of me. She looked at me like I was a monster.

I took a breath, swallowed, and softened my tone. “How are you holding up?”

“What happened to your suit pants? They’re wet and ruined.”

“I’m in business with Eddie Coyle. That’s what you wanted, so the rocks come with the farm.”

“What happened, Dmytryk?”

I said, “Cora, you have what you wanted. Let’s leave it alone for now.”

“What happened? You look . . . strange . . . what happened tonight?”

I paused for another moment, the images of death inside my head.

I asked, “Have I not been a good husband to you?”

“What?”

“Answer the damn question, Cora.”

“Yes. You have your moments when you get frustrated, and you say things—”

“Same for you, Cora. Same for you.”

She took a moment. “You’ve been a good husband. Yes.”

I took another breath, struggled to clear my head.

Cora asked, “Are you okay?”

“No.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry for the way I talked to you. I’m sorry for cursing at you. That’s not the way a man should talk to his wife. That’s not the way two people should communicate, even at times like this.”

“I’m sorry for what I said too, Dmytryk. That wasn’t me talking. It was the stress.”

Gunshots echoed inside my ears. “So you’re done at that gentlemen’s club.”

“I’m done.”

“I want to make sure we’re on the same page.”

“You were right. I never should have worked there. It made things worse, not better.”

“We’ll get through this. We’ll get to the other side of this, Cora.”

“I know we will. I’ve been praying all day.”

“How did that work out for you? Did it change anything?”

“I need you to forgive me too.”

A long moment passed before I spoke again. “Where is the fur coat Eddie Coyle bought you?”

“Did you hear me?”

“What, Cora? Did I hear what?”

“I need you to forgive me too.”

“I do forgive you.”

“Do you?”

“If you’ve told me the truth, then I do forgive you.”

When I went to the dresser to take off my cuff links and necktie, I looked in the mirror and saw my father staring back at me. Henrick used to wear classic and timeless three-button suits. He wore steel-toe boots from Monday until Saturday, but on Sunday he shaved and put on a crisp white shirt and dressed like the man he had wanted to be. My father shined when he dressed like a businessman. Classic, leather, handcrafted, lace-up shoes like the ones I had on were his style for our Presbyterian Sundays. My father didn’t believe in superstitions, neither did he own the ability to praise what was intangible, but my mother owned those sensibilities, so we all sojourned as a family. Henrick ran the house, but Zibba read the Bible and made the rules. People respected people who went to church, and the churches were crowded. Some people went to socialize and some went mainly for the music, which was why the churches with the best choirs had the largest congregations. More than once my father told me that there were liars in the world and people were afraid to speak their truths. Not many mustered the courage to tell the truth and many never became who they were destined to be because they were too busy trying to emulate someone else.

He told me that there would be trials in life and a man is defined by how he reacts to his trials.

His trial had been inside a boxing ring, where a blow to the side of a man’s head ended a life. He had become a boxer because that was his father’s wish. So it goes. My father’s gloved hand had killed a man and left that man’s family without a husband or a father. A man had died for no reason. It was impossible for my father to comprehend a god who would allow a hardworking father to be the instrument of destruction against another innocent man. Despite what my father felt or didn’t feel, on Sunday mornings he put on his suit and a crisp white shirt, laced up his wingtips and smiled as he led my mother and me to the family car, and then, if the radio was on, church music led us down our path.