Published in 1970, The Friends of Eddie Coyle took the crime novel to a sad, unglamorous place. During the course of its story, a weary old gunrunner departs the scene and a young pup making the same mistakes neatly takes his place in the unbroken continuance of the criminal order.
George V. Higgins' Boston in the late '60s crawls with repeat offenders on various levels of a hierarchical termite-ridden totem pole: people who've served time for offending, people who are going "legit" but still have their hands in the game and their ears to the tracks, some who are in the process of re-offending, some who are offending and on bail or on notice for sentencing for some entirely different crime. Sharing this web are the detectives, undercover cops, and new players in the criminal game, as well as mafiosi and corrupt citizens making their own ill-gotten gains from it all.
They all precariously traipse a web connecting themselves to each other, where one ripple in any corner of the web can bring the spider right to you, or to someone close to you, who, as it happens, is probably, at best, a fair-weather friend. That's Eddie's friends, and that's what he is to them. Even fulfilling the "what have you done for me lately" requirements doesn't make him or anyone else safe.
Coyle is facing jail time for driving a heist vehicle, and throughout the novel is dancing an odd slow tango with police to try to get his case tossed or his time lessened. But all he has to offer them are measly crumbs, and the way in which he doles those out is critical, and he knows it, because his "friends" are always listening to see who might be trying to rat them out. Rats don't live long. The real art is surviving, because in this world, everyone has ratted, is ratting or will rat.
The Friends of Eddie Coyle is about a man, and men, playing on the fine edge. Coyle is a repeat loser, wise in his way, yet ever stupid -- a man who knows the game and the players; except, in this round, he just can't see who has their hands in the game. In this game he's bluffing, but he bluffs too long. For even if he gains a small victory he's just, in the end, shooting dice on the Titanic.
Coyle's hopes to avoid yet another jail stint are desperate, and hopeless, his maneuvers to work a system where his influence is negligible, are pathetic. He holds onto the last fragment of hope but he's written his book and he is too far in for a rewrite; his denouement is a black hole, and gravity is something he can't beat.
The overall mood of the story is one of sadness. This is not a crime novel that sensationalizes or romanticizes crime. Coyle and his friends eat Velveeta cheese sandwiches and drink Cokes and do a lot of sitting and waiting in cars. It's a banal world and its inevitabilities Shakespeare would easily recognize. With so much paranoia afoot, it's no wonder that Coyle's downfall is largely due to a misunderstanding, a mere suspicion of something he didn't do. There's a great sense of Shakespearean irony in this; the fates will do what they do. In this world, agency is moot.
I have to state a bias, and that is that I'm not a big crime-novel fan, and -- as good as this is -- I'm still not a convert. The main reason I wanted to read this is because the same-titled 1973 movie adaptation is one of my favorite films of the 1970s. Now that I've read this book, I feel like the movie to some degree better realizes the possibilities of this material.
The novel is famous for being largely dialogue driven, and that's fine -- I appreciate that this carries itself along so remarkably wholly on dialogue. I appreciate the lean-and-mean ballsiness of that. But, the book doesn't give us facial expressions, or a sense of inner moods or even much scene setting. In the book, we're left to guess at the subtleties of Eddie's mood, while in the film we are privileged to see the world-weary resignation on Robert Mitchum's *face* -- and it speaks volumes. Robert Mitchum is what's missing in the book, he gives us a heart and soul that, yes, is there, but not as richly.
Elmore Leonard called this the greatest of all crime novels, and Dennis Lehane in his introduction to this edition puts it in his top five -- a "game-changer" for the crime novel, he calls it. I respect that, and what I did like about the book is that it had the kind of tragic existentialism I look for in my fiction. I wish, actually, it had had more, but that is why I usually read non-genre fiction, where the plot imperatives take a back seat to pure explorations of feeling and thought and ideas. I think Higgins was trying to break out of those genre conventions to take the crime novel toward that universe, and for that, I have total respect.
I was going to rate this a solid 3 for most of the way, but then Higgins came up with a beautiful, boffo circle-back ending that had me shaking my head in complete appreciation. So now it's 4.
(KevinR@Ky 2016)