“Hey in there,” a voice said.
Lennon sat up and, once again, wished he’d done something differently. He wished he’d found a way to hold onto the Russian kid’s gun.
A guy in a cheap sport coat was outside the car, leveling a Glock 17 at him. Classic cop gun—seventeen rounds, but only thirty ounces fully loaded, easy-pull trigger. Classic cop two-hand stance, too.
“Unlock the door,” he said, his voice slurring a bit.
A plainclothes, out awfully late. Probably headed home from an after-hours cop bar, happened to catch sight of the car. Which was amazing—Lennon had hidden it well. But you never know what’ll catch a cop’s eye. Bastard probably smelled it.
Lennon sat up and caught sight of something odd parked down the hill on Kelly Drive. It was a Yellow Cab, headlights on, passenger door open.
“C’mon, buddy,” the cop said.
Lennon shrugged, then reached over and unlocked the back passenger door.
The cop kept the Glock trained on Lennon, but briefly turned around to wave the cabbie off. Then he opened the door and slid in next to Lennon, right there in the seat. The pistol stayed on him the whole time. This cop was drunk.
“How’s it going tonight? Me, I’m doing good. Gotta say, I keep stumbling into clover this evening. Had myself a couple of Memphis Dogs over at McGlinchey’s hours ago, and I haven’t had a single explosive diarrhea session yet. Maybe my stomach’s adapting.”
Lennon just stared at him. What did this guy want? This wasn’t a vagrant roust. This was something else.
“You ever had a Memphis Dog? Only a quarter. Paired with a pint of Yuengling Black and Tan, it’s the closest a Philly working stiff will ever get to nirvana.”
Lennon slowly raised his hands, holding an invisible pen with one, and using it to scribble an imaginary note on the other. Then he made a slicing motion across his throat.
“Oh yeah, that’s right. You can’t talk, can you, Pat?”
Oh no. This cop. He was working the Wachovia job.
Fuck.
“Why is that, anyway? Your I.O. didn’t elaborate. A bank job’d be my guess. Catch a bullet under the chin? Or did somebody try to double-cross you, slice you up like lunch meat, leave you for dead? Bank robbery can be such a dangerous profession. Frankly, I don’t know how you can derive any real satisfaction from it.”
Lennon didn’t move. He just stared. Sooner or later, this guy would get to the point. And then he’d decide how much of a risk it would be to try to take the gun away from him.
“I’ll bet you’re wondering quite a few things, aren’t you, Pat? You’re probably wondering how I know your name, and how I found you so quickly. Well rest easy, brother. Your questions pale in comparison to the list of questions I have in my own head. Such as: Why did I find you so easily? Aren’t you clever heist guys supposed to know how to get out of town quickly and quietly? I thought I’d be reading about your extradition from Montana at some point. But the fact that you’re still here makes me think the job didn’t come off as ducky as everybody thinks. Which raises even more questions.”
The guy—Lennon wasn’t exactly sure he was a cop anymore; he definitely used to be, but something about him said early retirement—paused to adjust the crotch of his pants. The pistol remained on target.
“Where are your partners? There were three of you. You’re the wheelman, and the black guy and the wigger were the heavies. Maybe they’re back waiting at the hideout up there in jiga-bootown, and you’re staked out here for some reason. That’s it, isn’t it? The money’s still here. You’re waiting until it’s safe.”
The guy paused, waiting Lennon out. After about a minute of silence, Lennon simply shrugged his shoulders.
“Strong silent type, aren’t ya? Well let me get to the point.”
At long last.
“I could shoot you in the face right now, in the next very second, and make $20,000. Which is very nice money.”
Definitely not a cop anymore. Not that cops didn’t do shit like that, but he wouldn’t be yapping about it. Of course, the fact that he was yapping about it also meant that this guy was going to shoot Lennon in the face, no matter what. Next, he was going to ask about the money.
“Or, we could go recover that bank money, when it’s safe, and arrange a deal. Nod once if you understand me.”
Lennon nodded once.
“Goody. So here’s how we’re going to—”
Lennon swatted his right arm outward, his wrist catching the guy’s wrist and deflecting the Glock away, pointing it at the back windshield.
But not before the guy managed to squeeze the trigger. He was fast. He must have been prepared for Lennon to try something like this.
The shot felt like a hammer slamming his left shoulder. The area exploded into numbness as his blood tried to circulate itself anywhere but there. The blood failed, and started geysering out of his shoulder, soaking the Penn State sweatshirt. It looked black in the darkness.
“Now see that,” the guy said, calmly pulling his gun hand away from Lennon’s weakening right arm. “We’re not going to get anywhere like this. And I’m not ready to let you make your decision so hastily. A man should be able to think about these kinds of things in peace and quiet. Where’s the keys to this car?”
Lennon shut his eyes, trying both to block the pain and plan his next move. There would be no point in trying the same stunt twice. He had to think.
The guy tapped him in the face with the still-hot barrel of the pistol. “Hey. Come on now. Simple question. Keys.”
Keys. Above the driver’s seat visor. Keys meant the guy wanted to drive him somewhere. It was a chance to think, to plan something. He couldn’t drive with a gun on Lennon the whole time.
Lennon gestured to the visor. The guy smiled. “Well thankee greatly.” He stepped out of the car, walked around to the driver’s side door, opened it, and snatched the keys up. Then he walked around the back again and used the keyless button to pop the trunk. “Damn, Pat, you should see the shit back here,” he called from the outside. “Sorry to say, this ain’t going to be very comfortable.”
It wasn’t.
SATURDAY a.m.
Do I look like a bank robber to you?
—WILLIE SUTTON
Sickness and Wealth
KATIE LEFT MICHAEL IN THE COTTAGE AT 1:55 A.M. AND asked him to stay there until she called. He said it was okay; he had some loose ends he had to tie up anyway. He told her to be safe, and call him if anything got out of hand. He’d be there in a heartbeat. Katie said she’d be fine. She really didn’t want to involve him in this.
At 6:10, Katie’s flight from San Juan landed at Philadelphia International Airport. By 6:40, she was in a rented car, a black Buick Regal, her one piece of luggage stowed in the trunk. By 7:05, she was at Rittenhouse Square. By 7:08, she was knocking on the door of room 910 in the Rittenhouse Towers, a combination luxury hotel/condominium complex. At 7:10, the door opened.
“Katie?”
“Morning, Henry.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be on vacation?”
Katie pushed past him. The door led to a $1,275,000 three-bedroom apartment: ceiling-to-floor windows, revealing views of both rivers, parquet floors. Nice, but by no means the best apartment in the building. Henry Wilcoxson didn’t like to live too ostentatiously. He was a semiretired jugmarker, a man who plotted bank robberies for other teams in exchange for a percentage of the profits. Wilcoxson had worked with Lennon years ago, which was how Katie had met him. The man had taught them both a great deal; he was the closest thing either of them had to a mentor.
Wilcoxson had settled in Philadelphia, despite the fact that he had once escaped two different prisons here—Eastern State and Holmesburg—back in the 1950s under a different name. Now he owned a number of restaurants and coffee shops in the city and suburbs, and except for rare occasions, was out of the business. Wilcoxson liked to dabble, offer advice, but not much else.
“Coffee? I was just
making a pot.”
“No you weren’t. There’s still sleep in your eyes. Have you heard anything?”
“No,” Wilcoxson said. “Nothing that wasn’t in the news. All signs of a successful conclusion. But I take it that Patrick didn’t make it to your predetermined meeting place.”
Katie didn’t seem to hear him. She put down her luggage, then paced, gray-faced, around the apartment, idly looking out the window at the two gleaming blue Liberty Place towers. “Can I use your bathroom?”
Wilcoxson smiled confusedly at first, then looked at Katie again and remembered. “Of course.”
The Bible’s Hell
LENNON SHOULD HAVE PASSED OUT BY NOW. A GUNSHOT wound and a pistol-whipping in the trunk of the car—“Gotta keep you humble,” the ex-cop explained—should have sent vital instructions to his brain to shut down already. But no. Lennon stayed painfully conscious, albeit in a thick brain fog, the entire time: across the city’s bumpy streets, into a garage, out of the trunk, and onto a thick wooden door which rested on two short metal cabinets.
He was strapped down by chains and thick elastic bungee-type bands, the kind you use to strap furniture to a roof. The ex-cop was careful to steer clear of Lennon’s shoulder and lower right arm, but managed to strap him down every other way.
He had no idea where in the city he was—if he was even in the city. Or who this guy really was, and what was next.
Lennon did know one thing: this fucker was not getting the money. If he was going to die, it would be with $650,000 to his name.
“You know, I was just standing here all worried about trying to find a gag for you,” said the ex-cop. “But that’s not really a worry now, is it?”
The garage was a two-car model. The stolen Chevy Cavalier sat in one slot; Lennon was strapped to the table in the other. This guy—if he even lived here—used the garage as storage for tools and random junk. An ergonomic shovel. A wet/dry vac. A bike frame. A rusted gas grill with tank. Shelves lined every available wall, and they were packed to the point of being swaybacked.
“We’ve got a ticking clock here. If you don’t see a doctor soon, you’re going to bleed to death. Believe me, I know. I’ve seen guys take a dozen slugs and live. But just one GSW, left untreated, will kill you. Even if the bullet passed all the way through—which I think it did, because there’s a nice hole in the backseat. Still, that shoulder of yours is going to be trouble in a couple of hours. And let me say, it doesn’t look all that great now. It’s starting to stink.”
His captor placed a Bic ballpoint pen in Lennon’s right hand and slid a legal pad beneath it.
“Just write down where I can find the money. I go check it out and make sure, then come back with a doctor.”
Lennon just stared at him.
“Now I’ve got to come clean with you—there’s no deal to be made. That was just some shit I said to get you to cooperate. Now you’ve got a stronger incentive: staying alive. You do want to stay alive, don’t you?”
Honestly, at this point, Lennon wasn’t exactly sure.
“Of course you do. And being alive in federal custody is a lot better than being buried in the middle of Pennypack Park.” The guy wrapped his meaty hand around Lennon’s writing hand and squeezed. “Do you know what ‘Pennypack’ means? ‘Deep dead water.’ I never knew that until recently, and I’ve lived up here my whole life.”
A pause.
Lennon started scribbling on the legal pad.
“There we go,” the guy said, leaning over to take a look.
He frowned.
“Oh. Fuck me, is that it? Okay, pal. Have it your way.” He disappeared, and Lennon heard a door slam.
Immediately Lennon knew he’d made a mistake. He should have swallowed his rage and scribbled down a plausible location—hell, point him to any parking lot downtown and give him a phony make, model, and license number. That would at least take him out of the picture for a while; from his guesstimates, it was about a thirty-minute drive between where he was now and downtown Philly.
Lennon thought about that name—Pennypack Park. That rang a bell. Lennon consulted the map of Philly he’d stored in his brain for the job. Nothing downtown. Nothing in South or West Philly, either; he’d scoped those areas for possible getaway routes. Maybe it was near suburbs.
Pennypack, Pennypack. The name bugged him. In for over six hundred thousand, out for a pennypack. But where did that fit into the map of Philly? The biggest park in the city was Fairmount, and Kelly Drive shot up right through the middle of that. The guy had driven too far to be near Center City still, unless he had doubled back to be clever.
Lennon heard the guy’s weight creaking on the floorboards above. Probably his kitchen, right above the garage. Water and gas pipes snaked around and up into the ceiling. He could hear his voice above, murmuring. Talking on the phone to somebody.
A short while later, Lennon found out who.
Nightmare in Red
“I HAVE NEWS,” WILCOXSON SAID OVER THE CELL PHONE.
“I’m not going to like this news, am I?” Katie asked. She was walking around Rittenhouse Square, sipping a paper cup of decaffeinated tea, trying hard not to lose her cool. It was getting harder and harder every day—emotions, body temperature, everything out of whack. She was tempted to call Michael, but that was weak. She just got here. She could figure this out by herself.
“No. The latest deal fell through.”
She knew the code, but didn’t understand what Henry was saying. The Wachovia bank had been robbed. It was in all of the local papers.
“According to the business section,” she said, “the deal went through.”
“Indeed. Initially. But it fell through during the financing, and someone else stepped in.”
“Someone on the inside?”
“No, an outside company.”
“Who?”
There was a pause. “I don’t know if I should reveal that kind of information, since it hasn’t been reported anywhere. In fact, not even the SEC has receiving filings yet.”
SEC = FBI.
“Fucking tell me,” Katie said.
“Look, let’s have lunch and talk about this in greater detail. There are other options for you. And your family.”
“Who the fuck was it, Henry?”
He sighed. “Your husband wouldn’t like me discussing his business with you like this, but all things considered, maybe it’s better you hear it from me. It was a foreign company, with increasing financial interests in this part of the state.”
“Do you mean the company based in Milan?”
“No. Uh … St. Petersburg.”
Katie was silent. Russians?
What were the Russians doing involved in this? Think, think. The hijacked funding was meant for urban renewal. Maybe the Russian mob had their hand on the building and trades folks, or were on tap to do the demolitions. Shit. Katie knew little about Philadelphia—just the physical layout and a few rudimentary historical facts, such as the fact that the Italian mob had been decimated in this town over the past twenty years. Katie had no idea the Russians were such a force. Think. What was their interest here? How did they find out about the heist?
And what did they do with Patrick?
“Do you have a PR contact for that company?”
“Oh Jesus,” Wilcoxson said. “Katie, no.”
Say Hello To Mothers
A HALF HOUR MUST HAVE PASSED. LENNON COULD feel the blood spurting out of his shoulder in slow, steady waves. He grew bored with making an inventory of the items in his captor’s garage—channel locks, hammers, picture frames, band saw, power screwdriver … but at least it kept his mind off Katie. For a few moments. Until he started thinking about Katie again.
Lennon had to rethink this. There was some other leak—not Katie.
Why, then, did she pop into his head the first moment he realized there’d been a double cross?
Her behavior over the past month. Weird. Katie was not a secretive girl—not to him, an
yway. It wasn’t one huge thing, just a series of small, seemingly inconsequential things. Sudden errands to run. Phone calls that suddenly turned polite after he returned home. The “history” on their Internet browser routinely erased.
Stop it, Lennon. Think about who else could have sold you out. Not Bling. Bling was dead.
But you didn’t open the body bag, did you? You don’t even know both body bags went down the pipe. Where were Holden and Bling during the crash? The backseat. Where did the van hit? Pretty much Lennon’s driver’s side door. Did the crash knock Holden and Bling out? Or did Holden and Bling owe the Russian mob money, and decide to cash in their getaway driver to settle the debt?
No, not Bling. Bling was almost as ridiculous as Katie.
Unless it was Bling and Katie.
No.
Think about the bleeding first. How to stop the bleeding. How to get unstrapped from this table. How to get the hell out of this garage.
Then answers.
A door opened behind him. “I can’t believe it,” a voice said. “Pat, are you still awake?”
Lennon stared at the ceiling.
Someone slapped him in the face. “Hey, come on. Don’t be rude. I’ve brought along a friend. Patrick Selway Lennon, bank robber and fugitive, meet the man who’s going to get a few answers out of you.”
The other guy walked around the table, eyeing Lennon up and down. He was a big guy. Not fat or especially strong-looking, just big and wide and tall. He had a thick black moustache tucked under his nose, a sleepy-eyed expression on his face, and a Borsalino hat on his head. The man looked tired, mean, and permanently rumpled.
“Say hi, Pat,” the ex-cop said. “Oh, that’s right, I forgot. Sorry.”
The big guy turned away and started looking around the garage. “You got a drop cloth or something?”
Wheelman, The Page 5
