Wheelman, The

by Duane Swierczynski

  “Hmmm. I don’t know. Wait—I painted the back bedroom a few months ago, and the set came with a plastic drop cloth. Never use ’em, because they’re for shit. Will that do?”

  “Yeah. Unfold it and put it over here, to his right, on the floor and over anything you don’t want splattered.”

  His captor found the plastic drop cloth and unwrapped it. His big pal unholstered a Sig Sauer pistol from under his right arm and yanked back, popping one into the chamber. His captor dropped out of Lennon’s sight. There was the sound of crinkling plastic.

  “Hey, Saugherty.”

  The captor’s head popped up. “Huh?”

  The big guy aimed and shot Saugherty in the chest. The man’s fingers tensed on the table, scraping at the surface, and then his head flopped forward, as if on a hinge that suddenly decided to unfold the wrong way. Then a gurgle, fingers slipping from the table, then a thud on the floor.

  Lennon looked up at the big guy.

  The big guy stared back at him. “What, you waiting for an explanation ?”

  Lennon stared at him.

  “Well, this is gonna be an extremely disappointing day for you.”

  The big guy disappeared and walked up the steps. The floorboards above creaked. He started making a phone call.

  Disappointment City

  “NEVER SHOULD’VE TRUSTED THAT PRICK,” MUMBLED A voice from the floor.

  The ex-cop, Saugherty, was still among the living.

  “Christ, does this hurt. Least he had the courtesy to have me put down some plastic. That way, my shit won’t get messed up.” He started to chuckle, then groaned. “Ah, don’t make me laugh.”

  Lennon listened. Waited.

  “You still with me up there? I know you can’t talk or nothing, but how about a little cough? Maybe a grunt? A whistle? You don’t need vocal cords to whistle. Or do you?”

  After some consideration, Lennon coughed.

  “At long last. Real conversation. I feel like Helen Keller’s teacher.”

  Lennon coughed again.

  “You know, you’re one of the last great raconteurs, Pat. Brief, and to the point, but engaging nonetheless.”

  Lennon coughed—impatiently this time.

  “Okay, okay. I don’t know if I’m going to remain conscious much longer. I’m seeing gray splotches as it is. So, here’s the deal. I’m going to hand you my piece, and you’re going to try to shoot that double-crossing prick in the face.”

  Well, now. Looks like it was going to be a disappointing day for someone else.

  “You understand me? Knock on the table with your free hand. I forget which one it is from down here.”

  Lennon tapped lightly with his right hand.

  “Goody. Now I’m not going to try to bargain with you. I’m no fool. Just do me a favor. Man to man. You get out of this, you kill that prick, how about you let me live. Just leave me be, and I’ll forget about you.”

  Whatever, Lennon thought.

  “Honest. Cough if you understand. Hell, I don’t care if you lie. I just need to know you understand me. And I’m going to count on the fact that you’re a human being beneath all that.”

  Lennon waited a moment or two—he sensed that Saugherty wouldn’t be satisfied unless Lennon appeared to be giving this some serious thought—then coughed.

  “Enough said.”

  After some grunting and mutterings, Lennon felt a smooth polymer Glock slide against his fingers. The piece thumped on the table. He reached out with his fingers and turned it around, then wrapped his hand around the grip. There.

  Welcome to Disappointment City. Population: the Gobshite Bastard Upstairs.

  “You got it?”

  Lennon coughed.

  “Okay. Good. I’m going to kiss floor for a while. Wake me up when the fun starts.”

  Moments passed.

  “Ah, Jesus,” Saugherty muttered. “Ah, motherfucker.”

  It was a long wait. Whatever the big guy upstairs was doing, he was taking his time. Lennon badly wanted to ask Saugherty a few questions. Who was the guy? Another cop? He had the aura of cop about him. What were he and Saugherty planning to do? Probably torture the location of the $650,000 out of Lennon, split it, then get rid of him. This guy, Saugherty, didn’t have the stomach for the torture thing himself, so he called in a heavy-hitter buddy of his. Someone he thought he could trust. Someone he’d misjudged.

  Now the Big Guy. What was going through his head? Maybe the Big Guy wanted the $650,000 for himself. But that seemed to be too low a figure to risk killing a former partner. Either Big Guy was stupid and greedy, or there was something else going on. Lennon leaned toward the latter. He thought about what the Big Guy said. This is going to be an extremely disappointing day for you. That meant he had other plans for Lennon. If it was just about the money, Big Guy would have commenced torture proceedings immediately. He didn’t. He went upstairs to call somebody. Who?

  When the front door upstairs squealed and sets of heavy feet trampled into what Lennon imagined to be the kitchen, the answer came to him.

  Shit.

  Big Guy was in bed with the Russian mob.

  Russian mob wanted the money.

  Russian mob also probably wanted to talk to him about the dead boys in the pipe down by the river.

  That’s why he was still alive. To be tortured later.

  Lennon remembered the pistol in his hand. He squeezed the grip.

  “Christ on a cracker,” Saugherty mumbled from the floor. “Sounds like a platoon up there.”

  Lennon tried to count footsteps, figure out how many he was dealing with, but lost track. He looked around the garage, hoping for an answer. A way out. Anything.

  “I don’t mean to be a downer, Pat, but I think you’re a dead man.”

  Speed Loader

  PATRICK SELWAY LENNON MIGHT BE A DEAD MAN, thought Saugherty, but I’m not.

  They keep underestimating you. They underestimated you right off the force, and they’re still underestimating you now. Mothers, too, of all people. Shooting him in the chest. Mothers worked with him in the Fifteenth District back in the day. Mothers always teased him about not wearing his armor. Saugherty wanted it that way—the guy who said fuck you to Level II. Saugherty secretly wore it anyway.

  He had noticed an interesting side effect to a steady diet of Jack Daniel’s and pounds of bacon and beef burgers with no bun: rapid weight loss. Fucking Atkins. Amazing. Saugherty lost the fat, kept the muscle, and wore the armor without anyone knowing. Saugherty wore it all the time. It was his second skin. It was damn near a fetish, if Saugherty wanted to be honest about it. One more secret. One more way they kept underestimating him.

  Mothers popped him in the chest, just like a good cop is taught to do. Center of gravity. And yeah, the blow knocked the living shit out of him. But no permanent damage. Skin badly bruised, not broken.

  Saugherty had faked his writhing on the floor, but only to a degree. The shit hurt. Thankfully, Mothers didn’t go for the insurance shot. Thought one bullet was all it would take. Now Saugherty was going to find out what was really going on.

  Saugherty knew the mayor-porking-the-Leon-Street-chick thing was bullshit. The mayor was straighter than a grizzly’s dick: a proud Baptist from North Philly, goo-goo eyes in love with his wife of thirty-five years. He had other shit he was involved in—namely, this cash disbursement in the neighborhood, which was a cover for some debt he owed old friends. White trim simply wasn’t one of his vices.

  At the time, Saugherty hadn’t really cared. Mothers was offering decent money for a quick job, and that was that.

  But now it was suddenly something else. Something worth more than $325,000.

  Something that involved a large number of accomplices.

  Saugherty was doubly glad he had given his gun to the mute bank robber. Originally, he had thought it was over-insurance: distract Mothers long enough to get off a clean shot of his own. That’s right. Mothers hadn’t even checked him for a weapon. His belt
piece had gone to the mute guy, but Saugherty had kept a snub-nosed pistol in a short holster perched at the small of his back. Mute bank robber squeezes off a few rounds; Mothers takes one or two but returns fire, and Saugherty clips him from below. Perfect.

  Now, Saugherty realized, giving up his gun to the mute was going to be essential. Let him make the first move, take the first hits. Saugherty tried to concentrate on how many footfalls he heard, how many guys were with Mothers.

  If he were forced to guesstimate, he’d say three.

  Hopefully, the mute could take out one, maybe two, before getting clipped himself. That left at least two for Saugherty. Not a problem, if he could surprise them. Mothers first—he was probably the most dangerous—then the others.

  Saugherty reached down and wrapped his fingers around the hidden pistol.

  “Hey,” he called up to the mute. “Aim for the center of gravity.”

  The $650 Insult

  THE TWO FATHERS SAT TOGETHER AT A BOOTH IN THE Dining Car on Frankford Avenue, near the Academy Road exit of I-95. It was early, early—nearly 8:00 A.M. It had been a long night. A flurry of phone calls that had roused them both from their beds. Another round of phone calls to get the facts straight. And finally, two more phone calls to arrange this breakfast.

  “How is your Lisa?” Evsei Fieuchevsky asked.

  “Fine, fine,” said his guest, Raymond Perelli. “Your boys treated her fine.”

  “That’s nice to hear.”

  “And … your boy?”

  Fieuchevsky grimaced. “Still missing.”

  “Motherfuck.”

  “Yes. Mother. Fuck.”

  Lisa.

  Mikal.

  The fathers hadn’t known about the connection between the two.

  Lisa Perelli had been dating La Salle University senior Andrew Whalen for three months—ever since the end of winter break, when one of Lisa’s friends had dumped Whalen and she was there to pick up the pieces. They got along famously. Lisa already knew Andrew’s ticks; she’d heard Kimberly complain enough about them. She knew how to circumvent them, use them, fashion him into what she wanted. Mostly.

  By sheer coincidence, Andrew Whalen played in a rock band with Mikal Fieuchevsky, the son of a suspected Russian mafiya vor based in Northeast Philadelphia.

  The Southeastern Pennsylvania Crime Commission did not see this as sheer coincidence. They had been wiretapping Andrew Whalen’s dorm and home phone lines since January 10, 2003, when news of the Whalen-Perelli affair first made it back to headquarters. The Crime Commission saw it as a direct link between the dying Italian mob and the leaner, younger, tougher Russian mob. The relationship was a ruse, they reasoned; Whalen got his dick sucked at least three times a week (according to surveillance tapes and photos), and in exchange, acted as an intermediary between Evsei Fieuchevsky, suspected mafiya vor, and Ray Perelli, a capo with what remained of the pathetic Philly mob, passing messages and instructions and sometimes cash. Ray “Chardonnay” Perelli treated his young messenger well, the Crime Commission discovered. Aside from the cock-worship courtesy of his daughter, Whalen was treated to a vintage Yahama DX7-II to use during gigs. A birthday present.

  The Crime Commission was dead wrong. Andrew Whalen was aware of Mikal’s father’s somewhat dubious background, but had no idea about Lisa. All he knew was that she was a bit possessive, yeah, but she was also the most sensual woman he’d ever been with. High maintenance, but with excellent performance. It was worth it. It kept him coming back to her. The DX7-II hadn’t hurt, either.

  “Here,” Fieuchevsky said, sliding an envelope across the maroon Formica table. “This is to make up for damage we might have caused.”

  Perelli smiled. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I insist.”

  Perelli made a show of refusing the envelope, but took it after a few moments and slid it into his jacket pocket.

  “There anything I can do for you?”

  Now it was Fieuchevsky’s turn to lay on the fake warm smile. “No, no. Our business is done. Enjoy your chipped beef.”

  “Hey, I wanna help.”

  This dance continued throughout Perelli’s chipped beef—or, as he liked to call it, “shit on a shingle”—and Fieuchevsky’s tomato omelet and three orders of bacon and Stoli on the rocks. It was awkward and ingratiating and cautious. It finally wound down to a graceful conclusion when Fieuchevsky slid an FBI Wanted poster, folded in threes, across the table.

  “If you, or any of your people, have occasion to see this man,” he explained, “I would be most appreciative to have a word with him first.”

  Perelli took the poster and slid it into his pocket. “I’d be delighted.”

  Fieuchevsky thought, Slovenly dago bastard couldn’t find his cock under rolls of his meatball fat.

  Perelli thought, Russian pricks are losing it. Time to get back into the game.

  A cell phone chirped. It was Fieuchevsky’s. He listened, then told Perelli that he had to be going. Perelli suddenly had to be going, too, and thanked Fieuchevsky profusely for the $8.95 breakfast.

  Outside, in his silver BMW, Perelli ripped open the envelope. His jaw dropped. It contained a personal check for $650. In the memo line were the words: “College window bars.”

  The fucking bars on the dorm window.

  Three thick-necked Russkie goons come pouncing in on his daughter, and all the commie bastard has to offer is $650?

  Perelli wanted to puke up his chipped beef. All over that Fieufuck-sky’s car windshield.

  And then he had the nerve to ask for a favor.

  Find this guy. Patrick Selway Lennon. A bank robber.

  Ah, fuck you, you Russian prick. Find your own asshole, then finger it a few times for good luck. Those Russian bastards, sweeping into town, acting as if they’ve run things since forever. Smirking over the flurry of indictments in the crazy summer of 2001. Then there were the goofy antics, like the cops finding that one-legged bag man under the bed of the boss’s wife while the boss was on trial for his life. The Russians, picking over the spoils of a once-great empire.

  Perelli drove away mad. Really fucking mad.

  The Third Crew

  WHEN THE BLACK GUYS WITH THE GUNS ENTERED the garage, Saugherty saw right away he had guessed right. There was Mothers, plus three other guys. Not that it made him feel any better.

  Maybe the mute would get lucky and clip two of these guys. Leaving only two for Saugherty. Not great odds, but it could be done.

  “Cut him out,” said a voice.

  Two dudes with blades started snipping the bungee cords off the mute. The mute had obviously hidden the gun somewhere for the time being. Come on now, Saugherty thought. Start spraying. Pop pop. One guy, two guys down. Leaving two for Saugherty. His gun hand was already getting sweaty. It was hard playing dead while steeling yourself up for action at the same time. His chest hurt, bad. He hoped he wouldn’t have a muscle spasm at an inopportune moment.

  Then, something unexpected happened.

  The mute bolted from the table—an old thick wooden door Saugherty had found trash-picking in Mt. Airy years ago—and pulled it over on himself at the same time. He scuttled across the floor of the garage, the door on his back, looking like a crab trying desperately to hang onto his shell. The mute was trying to use the door as a shield.

  The three guys with the guns laughed. They catcalled, “Hey, white boy. Where you going?” Who could blame them? It looked pathetic.

  “That door ain’t going to help you, Mr. Lennon,” Mothers said, a smile on his lips.

  The guys removed submachine guns from their puffy coats. Loaded clips. Switched off trigger guards. The two others had black semiautomatic pistols, which they yanked on to pump bullets into the chambers. The garage was full of the sound of clean sharp metal clicks. Just one submachine gun would be enough to cut Saugherty and the mute in half. Hell, these guys had enough heavy firepower to launch an assault on a police precinct.

  “All we need is one arm,�
�� Mothers continued. “The rest don’t matter. These guys here can surgically remove your limbs through that fucking door in seconds. You won’t live long, but you’ll live long enough to be useful to them.”

  The door wobbled. Was the mute finally going for his gun?

  And if he was, what the fuck was he hoping to accomplish with it?

  The situation had gone from fucked to cluster-fucked. The only tactical advantage Saugherty had was that all four men now had their backs to him. He could try to stand up and get off six rapid, clean shots into each … no, that was ridiculous. He couldn’t possibly take down more than two without the others spinning around and spraying him into pieces.

  The door lifted a few inches from the floor of the garage. The business end of Saugherty’s Glock poked out.

  The guys laughed even harder and readied themselves to take aim.

  What the fuck was the mute thinking?

  “Okay. Will somebody kindly remove this bastard’s leg?”

  Saugherty traced the barrel’s aim. Across the floor of the garage, above Saugherty’s head, behind him, and into what? He stole a glance.

  The tank of his gas grill.

  Oh no.

  “Remove this, ya fuckin’ arseholes,” the mute said. He fired the Glock.

  Out the Door

  THE EXPLOSION POUNDED HIM BACK INTO THE WALL OF the garage, but the door held. Lennon could feel the heat trying to blast through the wood. It wasn’t going to hold up much longer. It was probably already on fire. He slowly climbed to his feet with Saugherty’s gun in his hand. He looked over the wooden door.

  Saugherty’s garage was an inferno. Pretty much everything inside was either blackened or ablaze, including the black guys with the guns. (Guess they weren’t Russian mob after all.) One of them squirmed on the floor, and Lennon pumped a bullet into him. He scanned for other stragglers through the smoke. This was no time to be uncertain. He was neck-deep in murder. He might as well make the most of it.