Killing Them Softly (Cogan's Trade Movie Tie-in Edition)

from Stuart Manor, Cogan said: “You’re going too fast.”
    â€œJesus,” Frankie said, “they’re gonna have all kinds of cops up here.” He held the Duster steady at seventy on the two-lane road.
    â€œAnd one of them’s gonna catch us,” Cogan said. “Slow down.”
    â€œI can’t,” Frankie said.
    â€œKid,” Cogan said, “look, slow down, all right?”
    â€œI can’t,” Frankie said. “Honest to God, I can’t.”
    â€œKid,” Cogan said, “my car’s in Massachusetts. We got a long way to go. I don’t wanna get caught.”
    â€œYou wanna drive?” Frankie said.
    â€œYeah,” Cogan said.
    Frankie pulled the Duster off on the shoulder of Route 64. He opened the driver’s side door quickly and got out and trotted around the back of the car. Cogan slid across the seats. Frankie got in on the passenger side.
    â€œOkay,” Cogan said, putting the Duster in drive, “now, this means, you’re gonna have to dump the gun.”
    â€œOkay,” Frankie said.
    Cogan stopped the Duster on the overpass at theShawsheen River in Andover, Massachusetts. Frankie opened the passenger window and launched the gun out into the darkness. He started to close the window.
    â€œWait,” Cogan said.
    There was a splash.
    â€œOkay,” Cogan said. He put the Duster in gear again. “Grass and stuff don’t take care of prints,” he said. “Water does.”
    Cogan wheeled the Duster into the parking lot at the Northshore Plaza west of Salem. Behind Jordan Marsh’s there was a blue LTD.
    â€œYou know what you got to do, now,” Cogan said, driving toward the LTD.
    â€œSure,” Frankie said. “I go back down to where my car is and I leave this one and I go home.”
    â€œYou just leave it,” Cogan said.
    â€œOh Christ,” Frankie said, “I wipe it down.”
    â€œYou’re all right and everything,” Cogan said.
    â€œ
Yeah
,” Frankie said.
    â€œWhere’s your car again?” Cogan said.
    â€œFor Christ sake,” Frankie said, “it’s down at, it’s inna lot at Auburndale.”
    â€œJust making sure,” Cogan said. “You couldn’t drive right, there. Some times guys forget.”
    Cogan pulled the Duster up next to the LTD. The parking lot was lighted, but empty. Cogan opened the driver’s side door. Frankie started sliding across the seat. Cogan got out. Frankie slid into the driver’s seat. He put his hands on the wheel. Cogan held the door handle in his left hand. With his right hand he removed a Smith and Wesson thirty-eight Police Special, two-inch barrel, from beneath his coat.
    â€œYou’re gonna remember, now,” Cogan said, holding the revolver below the level of the window.
    â€œI know, I know,” Frankie said, “I dump the fuckin’car and I get my car and I don’t go too fast and I—”
    Cogan raised the revolver and shot Frankie in the face, once. Frankie fell off toward the passenger seat. Cogan leaned in the window and put the muzzle of the revolver against Frankie’s chest and fired four times, the powder blast burning Frankie’s coat. The body shuddered with each shot.
    Cogan put the revolver in the pocket of his car coat. He took unlined leather gloves from the other pocket, and a red handkerchief. He began to wipe the Duster down.

I N THE MIDDLE of the afternoon, Cogan parked his flame-painted white El Camino pickup beside the silver Toronado in the lot at the Holiday Inn at South Attleboro, Massachusetts. The sign next to the Toronado said: “Welcome, South Jaycees.” Cogan went inside.
    In the lounge the driver sat at the bar, dawdling with a large ginger ale. Cogan took the stool next to him.
    â€œYou’re late,” the driver said.
    â€œMy mother used to tell me that,” Cogan said. “ ‘You’ll be late for your own funeral.’ I hope so.”
    â€œHad yourself quite a party,” the driver said.
    â€œI do the best I can,” Cogan said. To the bartender he said: “Beer.”
    The bartender filled a stein with Michelob.
    â€œEverything’s under control now, I take it,” the driver said. “At long last.”
    â€œYou know,” Cogan said, “for a guy I’m trying to help out and everything, you’re awful hard to get along with. I could’ve made you