Wheelman, The

by Duane Swierczynski

  Lennon knew he couldn’t stay in this lobby forever. He was wearing a sharp Italian suit, but he still looked like he had gone six rounds with a piece of industrial machinery. And lost. The Rittenhouse Hotel management would get nervous soon.

  Triple fuck.

  This is the way it always was. Lennon hated asking for help. He absolutely loathed it. Lennon grew up promising himself he would never ask his father for anything as long as he lived—his father considered basic food and run-down shelter in a bad neighborhood gifts enough—and Lennon stuck to that promise. Even in jail. Self-reliance was always his preferred course.

  But the moment he broke down and decided that asking for help was the most reasonable course, help was suddenly not available. There was no one to turn to. There was no help in this world. You were always lugging the load by yourself. Surround yourself with family, with loved ones, with minions, with partners, with whoever. But the truth remained: everyone has to do it alone.

  Lennon exited the hotel lobby and started walking toward Locust Street. He was so absorbed in his own thoughts, he almost didn’t see him.

  The dead man, walking out of the park.

  Kick Back

  FUCKING DEREK. HE NEVER TURNED HIS CELL PHONE on. What was the point of owning one of the fucking things if you never turned it on? So instead of chilling out for a couple of hours like he had promised himself—hey, throwing dead bodies down a fucking pipe is still hard work, no matter how you cut it—he was forced to drive all the way back down to Center City to check in on Derek and Lennon’s bitch.

  The doorman looked at him funny at first, then regained his composure. He must have remembered him from this morning, when Wilcoxson had called for him. That was the way it was going to be from now on. Instant respect. Especially with that $650 large all to himself. Maybe he’d buy Wilcoxson’s apartment with some of the money. The old guy sure wasn’t going to be needing it anymore.

  Holden took the elevator up. He keyed into Wilcoxson’s apartment and called out. “Yo, Derr.”

  Nothing.

  He walked into the bedroom and saw his cousin on the floor, dead. The girl was still handcuffed to the pole, but it looked like she was dead, too. Water was all over the floor, like someone had dumped a wash bucket. What the fuck?

  Holden kneeled over Derek and felt his neck for a pulse. Not that he’d really know what to check for, but his skin was cold anyway, so there wasn’t any need to get scientific about it. Derek’s neck felt funny—aside from being cold.

  Holden turned back around, and just in time.

  The bitch was yelling and throwing a knee at his face.

  I. O. You

  BEFORE JOHNNY KOTKIEWICZ TOOK A JOB AS HEAD OF security for the Rittenhouse Towers, he worked as a Philly cop, and eventually ended up in the Robbery/Homicide Division. He put in his twenty, then retired to the private sector. The Rittenhouse made him a nice offer; he accepted it. The money came in handy for his daughter, who was attending Villanova Law School. Maybe someday she would work for one of those hightoned Center City firms—Schnaeder Harrison, Soliss-Cohen—and afford to buy into this condominium, instead of working the entrance like her old man.

  He was proud of what he did. But he wanted better for his daughter. Same old parenting story.

  Kotkiewicz was here late on a Saturday night, which was unusual. But this had been an unusual day at the Rittenhouse. A cast of unusual characters had been floating around all day. First, a pretty young redhead, around 7 A.M. She went up to room 910, which belonged to Mr. Henry Wilcoxson, a Center City financial consultant. (At least, that’s what it said in the Rittenhouse security files.) Not unusual in itself. But the redhead left twenty minutes later. Later that morning, a beefy man who looked Slavic—Bosnian, Russian, maybe—also went up to room 910. An hour later, the redhead returned and took the elevator straight up to room 910. Barely twenty minutes later, a guy who looked like that white rapper—Eminem—entered the lobby, along with a doughier white guy. Their destination? Yep, 910. Forty minutes later, Mr. Wilcoxson, the Slavic gentleman, and Eminem left the building together. The doughy guy and the redhead were still upstairs.

  It was an odd assortment of people and behaviors, and odd collections made Kotkiewicz nervous. He was familiar with the daily patterns of Rittenhouse residents, as well as their guests, but this was something he’d never seen before.

  He made a phone call or two, and had a few things faxed over to him. Following a hunch. Like always.

  So Kotkiewicz decided to stick around. Judy wasn’t thrilled; she was looking forward to Johnny bringing home some takeout from Kum-Lin’s and she had rented a movie, Road to Perdition. This was the same old story, too; Kotkiewicz torn between the work, and the wife.

  As the evening wore on, Kotkiewicz thought maybe he’d been foolish.

  And then another stranger entered the lobby and made a beeline for room 910. Mr. Wilcoxson’s pad again. He was obviously joining the redhead and the doughy boy. But for what?

  Five minutes later, the new stranger—a brown-haired, blue-eyed guy with the nastiest set of facial bruises he’d ever seen—stepped off the elevator and walked out of the lobby.

  Barely a minute passed. And then:

  Eminem walked into the lobby again. Kotkiewicz was prepared. Eminem nodded at him, then Kotkiewicz threw a last look at the I.O. sitting on his desk. He’d been studying it all afternoon, trying to rely on his memory. But this last glance clinched it. Bingo. Holden Richards. Suspect in the Wachovia bank heist the day before.

  Then he flipped to another I.O. Richards was one of three guys.

  Hot damn. The other stranger. Mr. Purple Bruises.

  Kotkiewicz picked up the phone. When he looked up, Bruises was walking back into the lobby.

  Surgical Grade

  “I BET YOU THINK I’M PISSED OFF ’BOUT MY COUSIN HERE.” She didn’t reply.

  “Well, you know, I’m not. Not really.”

  Nothing.

  “I’m all bidness tonight. You know what I’m saying?”

  Nothing.

  “Alright, play it hard. I can play it hard, too.” The white guy—the other white guy from this morning, this was—stood up. “Be right back.”

  Katie watched him walk out of the bedroom. She looked around the room one last time—was there something she had missed? Something that would get her out of these handcuffs? No, of course there wouldn’t be. She’d been looking all afternoon, all evening, all night. The digital clock on Henry’s dresser was out of view. She could see the imitation wood-grain top, but not the numbers. She had no idea what time it was. And she had no idea how she was going to get out of this one.

  Her entire body ached; her shoulder muscles were starting to spasm. She had lost control of her bladder more times than she cared to remember.

  The white guy walked back into the bedroom. He was holding a kitchen knife.

  Wonderful.

  What would Michael say, if he could see her now?

  “I know you’re knocked up and all. Wilcoxson told me all about it. And I was there when he told your old man. Boy, did he look surprised.”

  Katie didn’t look at him, but her mind was reeling. If this little idiot was telling the truth, it was a cruel disappointment. The news was supposed to have been delivered in the warm breeze, with cold flutes of champagne in hand. Not here in Philadelphia. Not by Henry.

  Why did Henry tell Patrick about the baby? Jesus, was he trying to make the Russian feel sorry for all of them? Playing the unborn-baby card?

  She could only imagine what Patrick must be thinking.

  “You want me to do you a favor?” the white boy asked, kneeling closer to her, holding the tip of the knife up to her nose. “How about I give you an abortion, solve all your problems?”

  Katie looked at the knife handle. It was a Tenmijuraku, one of those high-end Japanese kitchen knives made with a single piece of surgical stainless steel. Henry enjoyed cooking, and insisted on owning the best kitchen tools. The white bo
y wielding the knife, however, probably didn’t appreciate the difference. Tenmijuraku, Ginsu, whatever. As long as it could slice a tin can in half. Or a woman, handcuffed to a pole in a luxury apartment.

  This white boy comes anywhere near my legs with that thing, Katie thought, I’m going to pummel him with my knees. Or try to.

  Unfortunately, that’s exactly what seemed to be on the white boy’s mind.

  Ta Tuirse Orm

  LENNON TRIED THE DOORKNOB; AS HE SUSPECTED, IT was open. Henry. Holden. The failed heist. Too many coincidences; he’d sort them out later. He took one of the Sig Sauers out of his jacket pocket—he’d stashed the other one downstairs, in the park—and slowly edged his way into Wilcoxson’s apartment. No sign of anybody in the living room. He heard a voice speaking in the bedroom, which was down a short hallway. He edged around corners, taking it nice and cautious. But the only people in the apartment, it seemed, were in the bedroom.

  A dead guy, facedown on the floor. The back of what appeared to be Holden Richards’s head. And Katie, handcuffed backward to a pole.

  Holden was holding a butcher knife in one hand and trying to loosen Katie’s pants with his other hand. The button on her jeans was already undone, the gold zipper halfway down.

  Relief flooded Lennon. Katie was alive. Even better, she was alive, and not guarded by a phalanx of beefy Russian gangsters. Just Holden, the little fuck.

  Soon to be ex-fuck.

  Katie saw him and smirked. She was still here.

  “My brother’s back, and you’re gonna be in trouble,” she sang softly.

  Holden’s head whipped around, knife in hand, fabric in the other, looking like the cover of a rape counseling video. His mouth flopped open.

  “Lennon? Who told you to come here?”

  Lennon responded by aiming the gun at his face.

  “The only reason he’s not shooting,” said Katie, “is that he doesn’t want to get blood all over me. Now put the knife on the floor, fuck-o, and crawl backward.”

  Holden seemed to think this over; the knife in his hand jumped a bit. But after realizing that his only option—stabbing the girl, getting shot in the head—wasn’t a good one, he relented. The knife clanged when it hit the floor.

  “Now kiss the floor, facedown. That’s it. Slide away … slowly. Toward the bed. Uh-huh. By the way, you know that wet stuff you’re lying in? It’s piss. Never handcuff a pregnant woman to a pole all day.”

  Lennon watched Holden shudder.

  “The keys to these cuffs are in the dead guy’s pocket,” Katie said. “I hope.”

  Lennon checked both front pockets; the keys were in the left. He uncuffed Katie, then gently helped her crawl to a lying position on a dry spot of the floor. Katie touched his cheek, ran a thumb across his chin. She smirked again. Lennon winked. He leaned in close to her ear. He whispered: “Cén chaoi a bhfuil tú?”

  “Ta tuirse orm,” she replied.

  Lennon was supposed to be a mute. But too many people could interpret sign language. So Lennon had taught Katie—who had been born in Massachusetts, not Ireland—some Gaelic, which they used in secret, or in sign. She told him she was tired.

  Lennon walked over to Holden. His objective was now relatively simple: Holden had sold the Wachovia job to somebody. Lennon needed to know who, and where the money was now. He wasn’t very good at the heavy stuff—even in bank situations—but the way things were going, Lennon didn’t think he’d have too much trouble improvising on the spot.

  Something caught his eye. An iridescent flash of blue reflecting from a window in Wilcoxson’s bedroom.

  “Patrick,” Katie said.

  She’d seen it, too.

  Blue, then red lights, flickering through the air outside the window.

  Repenthouse

  LENNON ONCE READ AN ENCYCLOPEDIA THAT LISTED everyone who was ever on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list. Many Top Tenners, as the FBI called them, were bank robbers, and Lennon skipped to those first. It was interesting. Whenever a bank robber made the top ten, it usually fit a particular pattern: three or four guys hit a series of banks, then in the last job, some cop or citizen gets killed. Three guys scatter, and two of them inevitably get picked up within thirty-six hours. The third guy usually goes the distance.

  The lesson: if you can manage to make it past the first thirty-six hours, you have a strong chance of going the distance, making a long run. Of course, your captured compadres might rat you out, so it’s best to avoid your usual haunts, especially the place where you planned the caper.

  It was rapidly approaching the thirty-six-hour mark, and there were two heisters still at large. Lennon and Holden. The cops were outside.

  Lennon decided he wasn’t going to be the one picked up. He was going for the big run.

  They had no idea how many were waiting outside, or if the Feds were involved. They had no escape routes in mind; neither of them knew the building all that well.

  “And what do we do with him?” Katie asked, gesturing to the bedroom door. Lennon had gagged Holden, then handcuffed him, face-forward, to the pole. Then he’d locked him in there with his dead friend.

  Killing Holden would be a waste. Lennon was already responsible for the deaths of at least six people, and that was about six over his personal limit. He used to pride himself on his choice of a nonviolent criminal profession.

  “Let the FBI have at him,” Lennon whispered.

  “Does he know anything about Wachovia?”

  “Nothing important.”

  “Okay then.”

  There wasn’t much time left. If the guy down at the desk had any brains, he’d know the exact door through which to send the police.

  “Let me grab my luggage, and let’s go,” Katie said. “That’s a nice suit, by the way. It almost distracts from your face.”

  “Tell you about it later,” Lennon said, still taking care to keep his voice low. He didn’t know if Holden could hear them or not, and he still wanted to keep his speaking voice a secret.

  Up or down? Katie decided they should go up. The Feds would expect their fugitives to see flashing lights and try to scramble for the exits. That’s why they flashed the lights in the first place. There were eleven more floors above Wilcoxson’s apartment. Plenty of places to hide. If they could find a cooperative neighbor.

  “Do we have a plan?” Lennon asked.

  “Yes,” Katie said. “We knock. If nobody answers, we go in. If somebody answers, we show them that gun of yours—nice gun, by the way.”

  “Tell you about it later.”

  “Did it come with the suit?”

  Lennon smirked at her.

  They settled on the eighteenth floor. Not quite the luxe penthouses, but nice enough views to guarantee some serious space. Better to keep someone under wraps in a bigger place. You could isolate them in one room, move around in the others. Breathe a little, plan your next move.

  “Which one?”

  “That one. 1809. It’s going to be my wedding date.”

  Lennon cocked his eyebrow. “Your what?”

  “I’ll tell you about it later. Ready?”

  Katie knocked while Lennon pressed himself up against the outside wall, Sig Sauer clutched in both hands. Nothing. Katie glanced at Lennon and cocked her eyebrow. Lennon raised his index finger. Steady on.

  Still nothing.

  Lennon nodded. He handed the gun to Katie, who aimed it, chest-level, at the door. Katie stepped back and Lennon prepared to boot the bastard in.

  A lock tumbled, then clicked into place. The door slowly opened.

  Here we go.

  Katie steeled herself. Waited for a face to appear. Lennon froze, mid-kick.

  A guy in a tuxedo opened the door. But he didn’t wait to see who was there. He turned around, without looking, and walked back down a long hallway. They could hear the faint din of conversation and a wailing saxophone, deep inside the penthouse. A party.

  Katie shrugged, grabbed her luggage, and walked in.

 
; There was a full bathroom just off the main hallway. Katie and Lennon went inside; Lennon locked the door behind them.

  “You don’t mind if I shower, do you?” Katie asked. “I had a series of accidents this afternoon and this evening.”

  Lennon turned his back to her and busied himself with her luggage.

  “Want anything pressed, dearie?”

  “Just hang the black Vera Wang on the back of the door. The steam will take care of the rest.”

  “Will do.”

  Katie took a brief shower. Brief for Katie meant ultra-brief; she never took more than five minutes anyway. It was Lennon who usually took his time under the hot spraying water. He always did his best thinking in his shower at home, among other personal hygiene locations.

  She toweled off and looked at Lennon. “Where’s the money?”

  Lennon was secretly relieved. He didn’t want to discuss the elephant in the room just yet. The eight-ounce elephant, tucked away in Katie’s uterus. He was worried they would start discussing that, and who put it there, instead of how they were going to get their money and get out of there.

  “I’ll be fucked if I know,” he said.

  “The Russians don’t have it, obviously. They wouldn’t have bothered with me and that tape and everything else if they had. And it’s fairly clear their coconspirator, your former partner, doesn’t have it, either.”

  Lennon had been playing around with this in his head all night. Nix the Russians, and Holden. Who had the loot?

  “Wilcoxson,” he said.

  “It’s possible, but I don’t think so. He’s involved because I led the Russians here. Accidentally.” She looked at him. “I might have been a bit careless this morning.”

  Lennon considered this, stared at Katie’s belly. Nothing really showed yet. “I’ve been careless, too. I don’t even want to tell you what the fuck I’ve been through.”

  “Your face certainly paints an interesting picture. As does the suit.”