Wheelman, The

by Duane Swierczynski

  Holden spent the rest of Friday laying low, trying to keep his mind off the car and the money. Watched a few DVDs, had some take-out sushi and some Ketel One vodka, in honor of the Russians, who were down by the river that night putting Bling and Lennon down the tube. Holden looked around his cluttered apartment—the one they had used to plan the heist—and thought about packing up his shit. Actually packed up some shit, then stopped to have some more Ketel One.

  Saturday morning, hungover, he got the call from Wilcoxson. There were some “complications.”

  Lennon was still alive.

  “Go get the car,” Wilcoxson said. “Then call me back.”

  The car meaning the money. Holden had a really bad feeling about this. They couldn’t have listened to him yesterday? Listened to how motherfucking stupid it was to leave that much money just sittin’ around in a parking lot?

  Holden hopped a SEPTA green-line trolley out to Nineteenth and Market, then walked the few blocks to the lot. He walked up and down the rows, looking. He looked some more, then went back over everything again.

  No car.

  No car, no money.

  He called Wilcoxson, who was in the middle of some weird shit, it sounded like, and told him the bad news.

  “Fucking Lennon,” he said. “Okay, hang tight. I’m going to call you back.”

  Twenty minutes went by before Wilcoxson called him back. “I want you to meet me at my apartment. We’re going to get our money back. Bring somebody you can trust.”

  Sounded good to Holden. He just hadn’t counted on crouching down behind a sound partition for close to an hour waiting for that mute bastard.

  Finally, Lennon arrived and there was some back and forth, with Wilcoxson talking to him over a speaker, his voice all modified and shit. Holden was impressed; Wilcoxson had pulled together a plan fairly quickly, even with the Russian involved. “Don’t worry about the Russian being there,” Wilcoxson had told Holden over the phone. “We’re going to take care of him today. Let him join his son.”

  And now, there Lennon went, broken and gushing, out the door again, off to recover the $650,000 from wherever he’d stashed it. If he wanted to see his knocked-up ho again, he would be bringing it back here tomorrow, high noon.

  Holden stood up from his hiding spot and his knees cracked. Shit. He was stiff as hell, and his neck and back still hurt from that car wreck yesterday.

  He felt the pistol in the right pocket of his starter jacket. The plan was, wait for the Russian to come out of the booth, along with Wilcoxson. Then, when Wilcoxson gave the signal, he was supposed to shoot the Russian in the head. “The studio is soundproof—nobody’s going to hear a thing,” Wilcoxson had reassured him.

  Here came the Russian, holding his own gun in his hands. The Russian smiled uncomfortably at Holden. Holden nodded back, careful to show no expression on his face.

  “That went fairly well, didn’t it?” said Wilcoxson, who popped out of a small door to the right. “Tomorrow, Evsei, you will have your revenge, and some money to ease the pain.”

  The Russian nodded. He didn’t look happy about the arrangements. Not at all. He certainly wasn’t going to be happy about what Wilcoxson had planned, either.

  Then again, neither was Holden.

  Why settle for $325,000? He already knew the whole deal. Lennon was bringing the cash from the Wachovia job here tomorrow, in exchange for his woman.

  Holden shot the Russian in the head first.

  Wilcoxson looked surprised—he hadn’t given the signal yet. But not half as surprised as when Holden pointed the gun at him.

  There was nothing to worry about. The studio was soundproof.

  SATURDAY P.M. [LATER]

  I can imagine them hitting the sack after one of those robberies, just laughing their heads off and having fun.

  —PSYCHOLOGIST FRANK FARLEY, ON

  BANK ROBBERS CRAIG PRITCHERT

  AND NOVA GUTHRIE

  The House on Oregon Avenue

  ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, IT WAS QUITE A BARGAIN: An empty row house in South Philly.

  A doctor, with malpractice insurance problems and a suspended license, to attend to his multiple wounds.

  Bottle of Jameson. Stack of frozen dinners and a small microwave.

  Bottle of aspirin.

  Plastic digital alarm clock.

  Two pistols—both .38 Sig Sauers.

  Six boxes of ammunition.

  Price tag: $325,000.

  Lennon had returned to Dominick’s restaurant that afternoon and put forth a straightforward business proposition, in writing: He needed food, shelter, and medical attention. In return, Perelli would receive $325,000, half of the proceeds from the Wachovia job, upon its recovery. He wrote that the Russians had his girlfriend, and that they demanded the money from the Wachovia heist or they were going to execute her. And their unborn child. Perelli was a father; Lennon didn’t think it would hurt to play on the man’s familial sympathies. He added that he had a plan to recover the bank loot, as well as bury the Russians. All he needed was time to recover and heal.

  And think about his familial sympathies later.

  Perelli agreed.

  Perelli not only agreed, but had insisted on the suit, too. He got off on the whole idea of Lennon as a heister under his employ.

  “A bank robber can’t be running around in a Father fuckin’ Judge sweatshirt, for fuck’s sake,” he’d said. “Did Machine Gun Kelly wear a sweatshirt? Did Johnny Dillinger?”

  So when Perelli dispatched the unlicensed sawbones, he also sent along a guy to take Lennon’s measurements. The suit would be ready in a couple of hours, Perelli promised.

  Lennon didn’t really care about the suit. He cared about getting Katie back, getting the money back, and getting the fuck out of Philadelphia. Then he would think about this baby thing. It was too much right now. In the meantime, he ate, he drank enough to dull the pain, he rested. He woke up when the doctor arrived, and tried not to cry out when the doc mauled sensitive parts. Listened to him tsk-tsk, then resume work. Cautioned Lennon against drinking. Whatever. Then the doctor scribbled his pager number on a blue napkin and left. Lennon drank more Jameson’s and fell back asleep.

  The doorbell rang. It was a young kid, delivering the suit. A black Ermenegildo Zegna, from a shop called Boyd’s on Chestnut Street. Included was a dark blue Stacy Adams dress shirt, black socks with dark blue clocks on them, and a pair of black Giorgio Brutini shoes with a single strap buckle. Perelli had also thrown in a pair of sunglasses—Dior Homme by Hedi Slimane. The only items not plucked directly from the pages of British GQ were some undergarments by Hanes. Jesus fuck, tighty-whiteys. They must have been a personal favorite of Perelli’s.

  Lennon took a slow, wince-inducing shower. His face was tragic-looking; in places, it had the pattern of a tie-dyed shirt in blacks and purples and blues. But he was pleasantly surprised to find that all of the clothes fit perfectly. Even the tighty-whiteys. He dressed himself, even putting on the Giorgio Brutinis. He loaded the Sig Sauers, then put one in each jacket pocket. He pressed two fingers against his carotid artery.

  Then he lay down on top of the single mattress sitting in the middle of the empty master bedroom, and closed his eyes.

  A few fevered hours later, his eyes popped open.

  Three seconds later, the alarm went off. He was already dressed.

  It was time to go.

  The Grave By the River

  HOLDEN RICHARDS FOUND THE PIPE, NO SWEAT. Mikal, the Russian’s kid, had told him about it. Over on the Camden side, not too far from the bridge. That narrowed it down. There wasn’t too much new construction over here near the bridge—with the aquarium, and the Tweeter Center, and the rest of the tourist crap—tourists in Camden, if you can believe it—hardly enough room for a cockroach with a hard-on to squeeze through.

  But here they were, trying to fit another tourist attraction along the cramped waterfront. A children’s museum.

  Boy, would the kids be surprised to
discover what Uncle Holden was dumping down their drainage pipe.

  First down, the Russian. Let him and his kid have a happy reunion together. The Russian’s head remained remarkably intact, despite the point-blank shot to his face. The bullet entered his forehead, then exploded on its way out of the skull. The back of his head was shit, but his sturdy good looks would be preserved for the ages. As he let go of the Russian’s ankles, Holden wondered if he and his boy would end up cheek to cheek in the pipe, and what future archeologists would make of that.

  Next up: Wilcoxson. Bank robber extraordinaire. His face hadn’t fared as well. Holden had popped a cap straight on, and Wilcoxson’s face was pretty much ripped off, leaving a mess of pulp behind. He screamed for a while, his legs flailing around like he was riding an invisible bicycle. Thank God for the soundproofing, huh? Eventually, the fury died, and so did Wilcoxson.

  At the time, Holden had been tempted to go back and pop a cap in the bitch, too, just to get it over with. Lennon would show up tomorrow with the $650,000 no matter what, and then Holden would kill him. Right now, she was stashed at Wilcoxson’s Ritten-house Square pad, with his cousin Derek keeping an eye on her. Wilcoxson had agreed to that plan, but he’d also seemed nervous about letting some other dude hang with her while she was handcuffed to a pole. Like he was her man, or something. Something hinky was up there.

  Holden thought about it for a while, then realized there really was no good reason to keep her alive. He picked up his cell and dialed Derek.

  Bathroom with a Book

  LISA PERELLI KEYED INTO THE FRONT DOOR, AND IMMEDIATELY felt this weird vibe. Somebody else was here. Had her father rented this place out without telling her?

  Of course, why would he tell her?

  She was here to pick up Andrew’s things. This house on Oregon Avenue was one of many that her father owned. It was the one she had used during the past six weeks. Her and Andrew.

  Lisa hated Andrew’s dorm room—it was like a shoebox, only with worse interior design. Andrew, meanwhile, hated camping out on the couch at Lisa’s father’s place in South Philly. Andrew never said why until one day, a month and a half ago, when he finally broke down and admitted the truth: he couldn’t use the bathroom at her father’s house. Not the way he usually did in the mornings. Andrew veiled it in all kinds of cute terms—I’m a regular guy, I need to read in the morning—but Lisa knew what he was talking about. Funny thing was, Lisa was the same way. That’s why she hated crashing at the dorms. She just couldn’t feel comfortable getting up, walking down a hallway past a bunch of strange doors with strange boys behind them, walking up two flights of stairs, then using the common women’s bathroom. She wasn’t used to that sort of thing. That’s why she never chose to live on campus in the first place.

  The only solution: Dad’s Oregon Avenue rental property, complete with one and a half baths. A full bathroom upstairs, and another smaller one on the first floor.

  It was like playing house, only without the risk. Andrew had some minor things there—an Aerobed, a stack of paperback books, extra contact lenses, and a cardboard box with underwear, deodorant, a toothbrush, and a huge tube of Crest. Lisa brought candles and stored jug bottles of Pinot Grigio in the fridge, and stacked some of her unmentionables neatly in the master bedroom closet.

  Her dad didn’t know they stayed there; Lisa had filched the keys one night.

  The same keys that were in her hand now, still halfway jammed into the front-door lock.

  Lisa listened.

  Somebody was definitely here. Upstairs.

  She closed the door behind her and locked it.

  Gamma Delta Gazelle

  IT WASN’T THAT KATIE ESPECIALLY MINDED BEING HAND-cuffed to a pole all day. She could deal with that. She didn’t even mind the tender bruising on her face from where that Russian had punched her. She could deal with that, too.

  What she couldn’t deal with: how badly she needed to pee.

  It was a pregnancy thing.

  Katie was in Henry’s bedroom, that much she knew. She’d been in here once before, when he’d given her and Patrick the grand tour. She didn’t expect her next visit to Henry’s bedroom to involve loss of consciousness, handcuffs, and a support column, around which her arms were secured backward, behind her back. Henry didn’t seem like the kinky type.

  After the Russian had decked her, she’d woken up on the couch. The Russian had a black revolver pressed to the back of Henry’s head. “They want you to make a tape recording,” he said calmly, his eyes trying to communicate something else. “I suggest we do what they say, then sort this out later.”

  Katie didn’t argue the point. She had felt bad—she obviously had led the Russian right here and gotten Henry tangled up in this. Patrick would have never involved Henry. Not for a million bucks. She was disgusted with herself. There was so much she needed to learn.

  Michael kept telling her that. Not in a snide way. Just in his typical, nonjudgmental, matter-of-fact way. Michael was a real professional. It’s what had attracted her to him in the first place.

  Katie spoke the words Henry gave her into the tape recorder, trying to reassure Patrick by how calm she could sound. As if nothing were wrong. She tried to think of a code word, something to let Patrick know where she was, but couldn’t think of anything. It all happened too fast.

  There was a knock at the door. The Russian forced Henry up to answer it. It was two young-looking white boys who desperately wanted to look black. They didn’t look at Henry. She didn’t know them, but she started putting the pieces together. One of the white boys was probably the third guy on the Wachovia job—aside from Lennon and Bling. And this third guy had sold the job out to the Russians.

  The thicker of the two white boys handcuffed her to a support column in Henry’s bedroom. Henry tried to reassure her: “Everything’s going to be fine”—before he was hustled out the door with the other white boy and the Russian. They were off to find Patrick. Or threaten him. Or kill him. Or bring him back here, then threaten and kill him. That was probably it. Why else would the Russian keep her alive?

  Fifteen minutes later, it first occurred to Katie that she had to pee.

  Thirty minutes later, she knew she was going to have to do something drastic, or otherwise wet herself. As well as Henry’s fancy Pergo bedroom floor.

  “Hey.”

  Her captor. He was a young-looking blond-haired Alpha Chi thick-neck, complete with college sweatshirt and scuffed baggy pants. Joe Frat, with a heavy pistol. He obviously wasn’t a member of the Russian mafiya; he was an errand boy. An extremely odd choice for an errand boy.

  “Want a blow job?”

  It took some more sweet talk, but the Alpha Chi thick-neck eventually agreed to her proposal. After all, he’d led a life where it was easy to believe that random women wanted nothing more than to take his cock into their mouths. But he was no fool, this boy. First, he made her promise that she wouldn’t use any teeth. Katie promised. Then she asked him if he wouldn’t mind servicing her first, otherwise, it would just be demeaning. Alpha Chi eagerly agreed to her amendment to the proposal. That sounded even better—she must be really into him. The thick-neck said he really liked doing that. He probably had a very satisfied Gamma Delta gazelle somewhere in the city.

  He dropped to his knees, then unbuttoned Katie’s jeans and lowered the zipper.

  “Be gentle with me,” she cooed, and waited for him to look up at her.

  When he did, she smashed her knee into his Adam’s apple. It was the most effective way to kill a man with a single body part, be it the flat of a hand, an elbow, or a knee. Patrick had taught her that. Joe Frat died fairly quickly, scraping the Pergo floors with his thick monkey-boy fingers until they stopped twitching.

  The only problem was: she had no way of searching him for a key.

  She had no way to contact Michael.

  And she still very badly, very desperately, had to pee.

  Many, many hours later, the cell phone in the cor
pse’s pants pocket rang.

  No One Answers

  LENNON STOLE A CAR A FEW BLOCKS AWAY FROM THE safe house in South Philly, then drove up Twentieth Street all the way to Center City. The clouds were low and the wind was cold. Lennon found a parking spot on Rittenhouse Square, miraculously enough. The doorman didn’t bother with him, once he told him where he was headed. Lennon put his ear to Wilcoxson’s door and listened, then knocked.

  Fuck.

  There was no answer.

  Wilcoxson was his ace in the hole—the only guy in Philadelphia he could trust. Lennon hadn’t clued him in to the Wachovia heist ahead of time; better for Wilcoxson not to know. The old man had retired from the business years ago. No sense dragging him into something that could come back to bite him on the arse. Still, Wilcoxson had always been there for him in the past, and there was no reason not to go to him now. Lennon felt hopelessly outnumbered—Russian and Italian gangsters here, rogue cops there. This wasn’t his city. He needed help, protection. A few hours just to breathe. Wilcoxson could give that to him. Mentor to mentee, one last time. For old time’s sake.

  But Wilcoxson wasn’t home.

  Double fuck.

  Lennon walked back down the hallway to the elevator, then took a car down to the lobby again. He scanned the lobby, hoping he might see Wilcoxson, lazing about, maybe kissing a Rittenhouse Square socialite good night, until we meet again, blah blah blah. Lennon had always wanted money just to live. Wilcoxson wanted money to buy a better life. The old man had grown up dirt poor in Brooklyn and clawed his way up and out during the 1960s. He never wanted to go back.