NEWS BULLETS
Briefly … CITY/REGION
Cement foundation poured for New Jersey’s children’s museum
After countless political delays and bitter turf squabbles, the new Children’s Discovery Museum in Camden, NJ, took one step closer to reality as workers laid the museum’s thick concrete foundation. “The first kids will be running through the front doors in about seven months,” promised wunderkind developer Jeffrey Greenblatt. “This will breathe new life into the dead urban center that is Camden.”
Briefly … CITY/REGION
13thdead Perelli associate … linked to mystery slayer?
The mob wars in Philadelphia continue to heat up this summer, even though members from both the Perelli and Barone families deny they’re feuding. The latest victim: 45-year-old Manny Namako, a suspected arsonist and bookmaker, found dead in the bathroom of his South Philly row home. “The police need to investigate this for what it is: a madman with a rifle preying on innocent businessmen,” mob lawyer Dan Behuniak told reporters yesterday.
Officially, police refuse to acknowledge the rumors that a vigilante dubbed “Mr. K” has been systematically erasing alleged wise guys for the past nine weeks.
But one law-enforcement insider confirms: “Yeah, there’s somebody out there. He’s pissed. And he’s a good shot, too.”
CITY/REGION
Strange odor disturbs summer visitors to NJ kids’ museum
“Like old fish and cheese … ick!” says Alison Eaton, 10, of her July visit to the Children’s Discovery Museum.
Kids are discovering things, all right. They’re discovering how adept their noses are at detecting foul odors.
For some unexplained reason, the brand-new museum is inundated with an odor that one security guard—a Vietnam War veteran—could only compare it to “the stench of bloated bodies floating along the Mekong Delta.”
“We have the best environmental forensic analysts in the country working on it,” responds Jeffrey Greenblatt, the young, troubled developer who has watched multiple projects fizzle at the last moment. This, however, could spell the breaking point for Greenblatt, real-estate analysts say, as well as the end of new development in Philadelphia or Camden for years to come.
Briefly … CITY/REGION
$100 from Wachovia heist recovered
LAS VEGAS, NV.—Police made an arrest today in the months-old Wachovia bank heist after a Philly resident used a hundred dollar bill to pay for beer and pornography magazines in a convenience store.
Dylan McManus, 20, aroused the suspicions of the clerk when he insisted he was a “high roller from Philadelphia” and didn’t need to be carrying I.D. for beer. The clerk took the bill, then called the FBI, who traced McManus to a motel in Laughlin.
Previously, McManus had been employed as a security guard at Park-o-Matic, a park-it-yourself lot based in downtown Philadelphia.
PRAISE FOR THE WHEELMAN BY DUANE SWIERCZYNSKI
“A bittersweet slice of noir … . Swierczynski’s novel, like those of [Elmore] Leonard, offers an undertow of humor beneath the churning sea of man’s inhumanity. His knowledge of both the City of Brotherly Love and the mind-set of bank robbers helps make The Wheelman the delight it is.”
—Patrick Anderson, The Washington Post
“Adrenaline-charged … fast-moving and funny, The Wheelman is Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride in an R-rated amusement park.”
—Booklist
“The Wheelman is as lean and intrepid as its title character, an assured and accomplished novel with a devilish sense of humor. In this, just his second novel, Duane Swierczynski puts the rest of the crime-writing world on notice. So learn to spell the last name. He’s going to be around for a while.”
—Laura Lippman, Edgar Award–winning author of Every Secret Thing
“A great heist story in the rich tradition of Richard Stark’s Parker novels and Stanley Kubrick’s The Killing … keeps readers holding their breath to see what’s going to happen next. It is clearly the work of a maturing writer who is possessed of a keen style and abundant talent.”
—The Philadelphia Inquirer
“[A] promising debut … the gripping tale of a heist gone wrong.”
—Robert Wade, The San Diego Union-Tribune
“Dark stuff … hilariously funny at the same time. Swierczynski has come up with his own twisted and thoroughly enjoyable genre. Bring on some more, sir.”
—Rocky Mountain News
“Swierczynski has an uncommon gift for the banal lunacy of criminal dialogue, a delightfully devious eye for character, and a surprisingly well-developed narrative engine for a beginner.”
—Dick Adler, Chicago Tribune
“I cancelled a night out and stayed up all night reading. That’s how much I loved this book … at every turn, I was blindsided. Hilarious and bloody violent.”
—Ken Bruen, author of the Shamus Award–winning The Guards
“A double-joined plot that twists and turns so furiously he could take the gold if contortionists competed in the Olympics … . The Wheelman is twisted, funny, violent—and a blast.”
—Mystery Scene
“Astonishing! Duane Swierczynski has written one of the great all-time heist novels and this guy’s just getting started.”
—Jason Starr, Barry Award–winning author of Twisted City
“I loved it. Can’t wait for the next one.”
—Robert Ferrigno, author of Prayers for the Assassin
“An exciting, gritty, adrenaline-charged tale … . Swierczynski is definitely a rising star in contemporary American crime fiction; his oddball cast of characters is reminiscent of the Donald Westlake’s Dortmunder Gang—on steroids!”
—Lansing State Journal
“A blistering, edge-of-your-seat tale from a major new talent. This book was an absolute joy to read.”
—Richard Aleas, Edgar-nominated author of Little Girl Lost
“Heist novels don’t get any better than this. The Wheelman grabs hold of you and refuses to let go.”
—Allan Guthrie, Edgar-nominated author of Kiss Her Goodbye
“If Donald Westlake were on speed and in a nasty mood, the result might be a lot like The Wheelman … . A welcome throwback to a genre that was once prominent in American crime fiction.”
—The Flint Journal
“[A] fast-paced, violent yet funny book. Swierczynski may well be the future of crime fiction writing.”
—Bookbitch.com
“The Wheelman mixes the darkness, grit, and ultra-violence of Ken Bruen’s Irish noir with the bad-ass cool of Richard Stark’s Parker books … [it’s] a noir cocktail that’ll knock you on your butt and keep you up all night at the same time. This book rocks.”
—Mystery Ink
“The Wheelman is way more Pulp Fiction than “pulp fiction.” It’s brief and nearly absurd in its violence—Peckinpah animated by Warner Brothers.”
—Bookslut.com
“Swierczynski seems to get such a kick out of writing about eccentric crooks, it’s almost criminal.”
—J. Kingston Pierce, January Magazine
“I may have to go take back yet another online article, the one for Salon about how crime novels were bad. I give [Swierczynski] high props for avoiding the sentimental hero stuff that bugs me in so many books. The writing and the dialogue were great, the Philly details and bank-robber lore tasty.”
—Ben Yagoda,
author of The Sound on the Page: Style and Voice in Writing
“If you like the distracted, short scenes of Ken Bruen, the bizarre characters of Elmore Leonard, and can tolerate the body count of Lee Child, you’ll devour Duane Swierczynski’s book in an instant … . It’s super-duper fast noir pulp.”
—ReviewingtheEvidence.com
“Oh, what style!”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Duane Swierczynski is one of the best new things to happen to crime fiction in a long time. A kick-ass writer with wicked cool skills and th
e instincts of a seasoned veteran. Keep your eyes on him. He’s going places.”
—Victor Gischler, Edgar-nominated author of Suicide Squeeze
“Fast-paced.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The Wheelman is a white-knuckle thrill ride that grabs you by the throat. Unable to put down from the opening sentence to the end.” —Brian Keene, Bram Stoker Award–winning author of
Terminal and City of the Dead
“I just plowed through The Wheelman like a senior citizen crashing through a farmer’s market. I loved it. Swierczynski’s sensibility’s so black, you’d need an ultraviolet light to see it. Lennon makes Westlake’s Parker look as soft as an Easter Peep.”
—Charles Pappas, author of It’s A Bitter Little World:
The Smartest Toughest Nastiest Quotes from Film Noir
Special Thanks to …
Sunshine, for debuting it.
The Pope, for inspiring it.
Tenacious DHS, for pimping it.
Marc, for buying it, editing it, vastly improving it.
Marsha, for believing in it.
Father Luke, for blessing it.
Meredith, Parker, and Sarah, without whom there would be no “it.”
And to My Heist Crew: Robert Berkel, John Cunningham, Becki Heller, Jessie Hutcheson, and the rest of Team Minotaur. J.T., K-Buster, Kafka, and the PointBlankers. Mark “the Man” Stanton. Simon Hynd and Micky MacPherson. Gary the Hat. Loren Feldman. Jason Schwartz. Rich Rys. Paul, Hickey, B.H., Lori and my co-workers at the CP. Mike “Rego” Regan. Tony Fiorentino. Deacon Clark. Mr. Aleas. Mr. Keene. Mr. Starr. The Other Mr. Smith (Anthony Neil). The Gischler. La Salle University. Wachovia Bank. And to all of my friends and family.
About the Author
DUANE SWIERCZYNSKI IS EDITOR-IN-CHIEF OF THE Philadelphia City Paper. A receipt for This Here’s a Stick-Up, Duane’s nonfiction book on American bank robbery, was found in the getaway car of a San Francisco bandit who’d hit at least thirty California banks. Duane lives in Philadelphia. Visit his Web site at www.duaneswierczynski.com.
READ ON FOR AN EXCERPT OF
THE BLONDE
BY DUANE SWIERCZYNSKI
COMING FROM ST. MARTIN’S MINOTAUR
NOVEMBER 2006
9:13 p.m.
Liberties Bar, Philadelphia International Airport
“I POISONED YOUR DRINK.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“Um, I don’t think I did.”
The blonde lifted her cosmopolitan. “Cheers.”
But Jack didn’t return the gesture. He kept a hand on his pint glass, which held the last two inches of the boilermaker he’d been nursing for the past fifteen minutes.
“Did you say you poisoned me?”
“Are you from Philadelphia?”
“What did you poison me with?”
“Can’t you be gracious and answer a girl’s question?”
Jack looked around the airport bar, which was done up like a Colonial-era public house, only with neon Coors Light signs. Instead of two more airline gates in the terminal, they’d put in a square bar, surrounded by small tables jammed up against one another. Sit at the bar and you were treated to the view of the backs of the neon signs—all black metal and tubing and dust—a dented metal ice bin, red plastic speed pourers stuck in the tops of Herradura, Absolut Citron, Dewar’s, and a plastic cocktail napkin dispenser with the logo JACK & COKE: AMERICA’S COCKTAIL.
For commuters with a long layover, this was the only place to be. What, were you going to shop for plastic Liberty Bells and Rocky T-shirts all evening? The bar was packed.
But amazingly, no one else seemed to have heard her. Not the guy in the shark-colored suit standing next to the girl. Not the bartender, with a black vest and white sleeves rolled up to the elbow.
“You’re kidding.”
“About you being from Philadelphia?”
“About you poisoning me.”
“That again? For the record, yes, I poisoned you. I squeezed a tasteless, odorless liquid into your beer while you were busy staring at a brunette with a shapely ass and low-hanging breasts. The one on her cell, running her fingers through her hair.”
Jack considered this. “Okay. So where’s the dropper?”
“Dropper?”
“The one you used to squeeze poison into my drink. You had to use something.”
“Oh, I’ll show you the dropper. But first you have to answer my question. Are you from Philadelphia?”
“What does it matter? You’ve just poisoned me, and I’m about to die in Philadelphia, so I guess, from this point on, I’ll always be in Philadelphia.”
“Not unless they ship your body home.”
“I meant my ghost. My ghost will always be in Philadelphia.”
“You believe in ghosts?”
Jack smiled despite himself. This was delightfully weird. He’d been delaying the inevitable—a cab ride through a strange city to a bland corporate hotel room to catch what little sleep he could before his dreaded morning appointment.
“Let’s see the dropper.”
The pretty blonde smiled in return. “Not until you answer my question.”
What was the harm? Granted, this was perhaps the strangest pickup line he’d ever heard—if that’s what this was. For all he knew, it was the opening bit of an elaborate con game that targeted weary business travelers in airport bars. But that was fine. Jack knew if this conversation led to him taking out his wallet or revealing his Social Security number, he’d stop it right there. No harm, no foul.
“No, I’m not from Philadelphia.”
“Goody. I hate Philadelphia.”
“You’re from here, I take it?”
“I’m not from here, and yes, you can take it.”
“That’s harsh.”
“What’s there to like?”
“The Liberty Bell?”
“Funny you should mention that. I was reading about it in the airline magazine. They have this back page where they tell the story of some famous national monument every month. Or however often the magazine is published. Anyway, the Liberty Bell cracked the very first time it was rung.”
“Back in 1776.”
“Wrong. You should have read this story, my friend. Philly’s been trading on a lie for, like, years. It wasn’t rung in 1776. And worse yet, the bell? It was forged in England. You know, uh, the country we revolted against? Like, hello!”
“You’ve just ruined Philadelphia for me.”
“Sweetheart, I haven’t even started.”
Jack smiled and finished the rest of the beer in his pint glass. There was no rush. He might as well order another—minus the whiskey. He’d already had two boilermakers, and it hadn’t helped any. The drama of the past few months hung heavy in his mind. Might as well take it slow for a while, check out the people in the airport. The ones with a purpose in life. With a clear idea of where they were going, what they were doing.
The only thing waiting for Jack Eisley was a night in a bland hotel room and an appointment at eight o’clock in the morning. He was in no hurry to get to either.
The blonde was looking at his hand. At first, Jack thought she was looking at his wedding ring. Which he was still wearing, for some dumb reason. But then he saw that she was focused on the glass in his hand.
“You finished your drink,” she said.
“You’re very observant. Still working on yours?”
The girl smiled coyly. “Why? You offering to buy me a drink? Even after I poisoned yours?”
“It’s the least I can do. What are you having? A martini?”
“Never you mind that. Though I think I should tell you what to expect. Symptom wise.”
“From the undetectable liquid poison.”
“Right.”
“Go ahead.”
“It works in stages. At first …” She glanced at a silver watch on her wrist. “Well, about an hour from now, you’ll start to feel a kn
ot in your stomach. Not too long after, I hope you’ll be near a bathroom, because that’s when the power vomiting starts.”
“Sounds lovely.”
“Think about your worst hangover ever. You know, where you’re sitting on the cold tile of your bathroom floor, begging God to show mercy on your poor alcoholic soul? Telling him how you’ve seen the error of your ways, and you promise never, ever to touch the demon rum again? Well, that’s a tenth of what you’ll feel when this poison hits you. And in ten hours, you’ll be dead.”
Jack knew his mind was screwing with him—of course he knew—but damn if his stomach didn’t tie itself into a little knot right at that moment. Ah, the power of suggestion. The power of suggestion of death.
Okay, this girl was fucking psycho. Last thing he needed was another one of those.
Wheelman, The Page 18