Wheelman, The

by Duane Swierczynski

  A few weeks ago, Katie had called him. Confided in him. Asked him what Lennon would think. She didn’t want to tell him right away; he was in the middle of planning a job in Philadelphia, and she never liked to disturb him while his brain was embroiled in a job. Wilcoxson invited Katie to dinner, and they spoke warmly, Katie confiding in Wilcoxson like a daughter would confide in her father. (Her own father, a minor armed robber, had been killed in a shoot-out in 1978.)

  But as much as Wilcoxson loved that she trusted him implicitly, his heart sank.

  A child.

  A child would tie her to Lennon, at least for the foreseeable future.

  That night, he decided that Lennon would have to be eliminated.

  Around the same time, Wilcoxson had made the acquaintance of an ambitious young musician named Mikal Fieuchevsky, who also happened to be the son of a Russian mafiya vor. It was at a December “Power 100” party thrown by a local magazine, and Mikal had approached him about fund-raising. (For all the movers and shakers in the city knew, Wilcoxson was a moderately successful “financial consultant.”) Mikal was trying to complete his first album, and although his father had kicked in some money, it was nowhere near enough to do the project the way Mikal had wanted. Mikal wanted name producers, top-shelf recording gear and session players. This was going to be his statement, Mikal said, his eyes wide. No more South Jersey dives and resorts; he was going to break out huge like Springsteen or Bon Jovi, but with a modern sound. Blues, hip-hop, electronica, he went on, with Wilcoxson only half-listening. He wasn’t much of a music fan.

  But later, when Katie came to him and the Lennon problem emerged, and he thought back on Mikal’s need for money, and a connection was made.

  That was what Wilcoxson did best. Make connections. He’d always believed that genius was measured by the connections you could make, either in terms of information or people or financial assets.

  Wilcoxson decided to sell out Lennon’s job to Mikal.

  During phone calls over the next week, Wilcoxson pried small details out of Katie, and they were enough to piece together the heist. A small article in the Philadelphia Inquirer clinched it—a large amount of cash was going to be delivered to the Wachovia Bank at Seventeenth and Market in October. From there, Wilcoxson was able to figure out exactly what Lennon planned to do. (After all, he’d taught him how to do it.) He also fingered Lennon’s partners. Only a handful of pros were working the Philly scene. He approached the likely candidate, and that candidate agreed to betray his partners.

  Wilcoxson told Mikal to tell his team where to be, and boom, they’d be $650,000 richer. Minus Wilcoxson’s $65,000 fee, of course. Mikal was more than happy to agree to the conditions of the deal, which included the removal of the bank robbers from the face of the earth.

  Exit Patrick Selway Lennon.

  Enter Wilcoxson, to pick up the pieces. He would deal with a baby just fine, if it meant having Katie. But if it were to disappear like its father, that would be just as well.

  Wilcoxson watched her on the floor, bleeding.

  Now to calm the crazy Russian asshole. He didn’t feel bad about Mikal getting snuffed—hey, the guy didn’t follow through on his end of the deal. The young Russian had let one of the bank robbers live, and if it was Lennon, there was more work to be done.

  Besides, there was $650,000 out there waiting to be claimed.

  SATURDAY p.m.

  Here’s our credentials.

  —HARRY PIERPONT, MEMBER OF THE DILLINGER

  GANG, SHOWING A PRISON WARDEN A GUN

  Smell the Roses

  RAY PERELLI WAS PLEASED WITH HIMSELF. WITH ONLY word of mouth and a quick phone conversation, this bank robber guy was coming to him. Russian pricks were looking all over the city for him, and nothing. Perelli had him. Or was going to have him, in a manner of minutes.

  Now. What the hell was he going to do with him?

  Perelli had told the bank robber, “I’ve got what you’re looking for.” He knew the guy had to be looking for something. Otherwise, he would have lammed out of here long ago. Was it money from a recent heist? Is that what the Russians were holding over his head? Nah. Couldn’t be. Smart bank robber wouldn’t hang around for that, would he? What were the odds of recovering money from the Reds? Something else. C’mon, Ray, let’s pull an answer out of our ass.

  After ninety seconds of deep thought, Perelli decided to make a phone call.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, yeah, Evsei?” Perelli pronounced it evsee. This was not the correct pronunciation.

  “Who is this?”

  “Ray Perelli.”

  “Who?”

  Perelli wanted to say, Hey, fuck you, you vodka-slurping Russian cocksucker. But this was an information-gathering phone call. Insults would get him nowhere.

  “We had breakfast, just a little while ago.”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Perelli. Forgive me. I’ve been distracted, this business with my son.”

  “Hey, don’t worry about it. I can only imagine.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I seem to have somebody you’re looking for.”

  “What did you say?”

  “That bank robber guy. One of my men rounded him up. I’m going to be seeing him soon.”

  A pause.

  “That is very good news, Mr. Perelli. I cannot tell you how much this pleases me.”

  “Yeah, it’s great. Only problem is, I need a little something from you.”

  “Ahhh,” the Russian said. “Cash.”

  “No,” said Perelli, insulted for the second time this morning. “Just some info. See, I lured this guy here under what you might call false pretenses. I told him I had something he wanted. Only, I don’t know what he wants. Can you tell me?”

  The Russian chuckled. “Oh, I have something he wants.”

  “What’s that?”

  “His pregnant girlfriend. You tell the bank robber I have a loaded gun to his girlfriend’s belly.”

  Jesus Christ, Perelli thought. These Red bastards don’t fuck around.

  “I guess that’ll work,” he said quietly. “But how do I prove it to him?”

  “Hmmm. Hold on a minute.”

  Perelli held. He had waved off the cash thing, but only temporarily. Yeah, this thing was going to come down to cash. He wanted to see how far the Russian prick would go, how high a price he would affix to the forehead of his son’s murderer. It wasn’t going to be $650, Perelli knew that much.

  “Okay. I have something. If the bank robber doesn’t believe you, tell him, ‘Smell the roses.’”

  “Say what?”

  “It will mean something to him. Between him and his girlfriend.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’ve got a source here.”

  Weird. But Evsei had no reason to lie about this. It would give Perelli something to work with.

  “Great. And since you brought it up, what kind of price is on this guy’s head, anyway?”

  “We can discuss that later.”

  “Yeah. Well, you see, I kind of wanted to get that ironed out now.”

  “When I see the bank robber, you will be amply rewarded.”

  Amply. What the fuck did “amply” mean? What, was he going to kick in another $650?

  Hose Down the White Tile

  SAUGHERTY FOLLOWED LENNON AND THE PARKING GUY all the way down Broad Street into the depths of South Philadelphia. Saugherty noticed that Lennon had pulled a gun—the very Glock 19 he’d given him early this morning—on the parking attendant before they climbed into the car, and he could only assume that it was pointed at the guy the entire ride. Despite this, he obeyed all traffic laws, which was impressive, considering.

  They pulled up to Ninth and Catherine, near a one-hundred-year-old South Philly restaurant called Dominick’s Little Italy. The place was very familiar to Saugherty. Famous for 1960s-era gangland powwows and grisly 1980s-era gangland hits, Dominick’s also served up some amazing Italian food. Saugherty h
ad taken his ex-wife here for their fifth anniversary. He had enjoyed pointing out the local capos and wannabes sitting at each table. His wife had been too nervous to enjoy herself. “Will you stop pointing,” she’d hushed him, under her breath.

  The thing that stuck most in his memory about Dominick’s Little Italy: all the white tile. It was everywhere—the floor, the walls … maybe even the ceiling, for all he remembered. White tile, bordered by black tiles. The main dining room looked like one big high school shower. Saugherty joked at the time that the white tiles just made it easier to hose down the blood after a mob hit. His ex didn’t think that was funny, either.

  What was Lennon doing down here? Was he forcing the parking attendant to buy him a plate of raviolis?

  There was a small dive bar catty-corner to Dominick’s. Saugherty parked the car. He was relieved to find that it was one of those old-man bars he loved—no fancy bar menu, no karaoke, no microbrews. Just wood paneling and two beers on tap. Coasters were about the fanciest thing in the joint. Squared white tile covered the floor. The ceiling was stamped tin, painted over. The stool seats were covered with puffy vinyl, and there were peanuts in black plastic bowls on the bar top. Best of all, there was a huge greasy window, partially obscured by a set of 1950s-era blinds, that gave Saugherty a front and side view of Dominick’s. When Lennon left the premises, Saugherty would know about it.

  Which left only one thing to do: order a fucking drink already.

  Saugherty asked for a boilermaker—a shot of whiskey dropped into a mug of beer. The bartender didn’t ask what kind of whiskey, what kind of beer. Saugherty liked that. The glass sank and tapped the bottom of the mug with a dull thud, like two submarines tapping each other underwater. Saugherty downed it, then asked for a shot of Jack Daniel’s and another beer. Jack and beer. That had been his drink of choice ten years ago, when shit with his ex had gotten out of control. He’d finish his shift, then head to the Ashton Tavern just down the road a piece from his house on Colony Drive.

  The house that was burning.

  Saugherty saluted it, and enjoyed the trip down memory lane. Every so often, he’d look across the street to see what was going on at Dominick’s.

  Two Guns

  LENNON WAS LED THROUGH THE RESTAURANT AND hallway and kitchen to a back office. A heavyset man wearing a crisp white button-down shirt was sitting behind an empty desk. This wasn’t the man’s usual desk. He was just borrowing it. “You’re Lennon,” he said. “I can tell by the face. Man, you look bad. Have a seat. You want something to drink? There’s a pen and paper there. Write down what you want.” The parking attendant left without a word.

  Lennon sat down, but he didn’t pick up the pen. He waited.

  “Really. Go ahead. Anything you want. They’ve got a fully stocked bar here.”

  He picked up the pen and the legal pad beneath it. He scribbled a few words on the surface, then flipped the pad to show his host: THE MONEY?

  The guy smiled. “I’ll tell you right now, I don’t have your money. Did I give you the impression I had your money? I don’t think I did.”

  In some ways, this was a relief. The $650,000 was still out there somewhere. Lennon scribbled some more. He turned the pad over.

  ICE WATER. CHICKEN BREAST.

  “That’s more like it. Get some food in your belly. If you don’t mind me saying, I’m assuming you don’t always look like a bum. Or smell like one.”

  The guy picked up a phone, punched in three buttons, said “Come here,” then gave a teenaged boy in a white coat Lennon’s order. The guy specified Boar’s Head chicken breast, then turned his attention back to Lennon.

  “You know, my daughter gave me a book last Christmas. What the hell was it called? Something like Outlaw Heroes of the 1930s. Guys in there were Dillinger, Baby Face, Pretty Boy, the Barkers, Al Karpis, all those guys. I like how it was titled ‘Heroes.’ Ever see it?”

  Lennon had. He was a voracious reader of true crime and history—that’s how he had spent his wasted winter. Catching up on his reading, both crime stuff and a stack of science fiction novels. (Katie liked the sci-fi, too—Dick, Bester, Sturgeon—so they traded paperbacks back and forth at a feverish pace.) Outlaw Heroes was okay; nothing special. He remembered flipping through it on a lazy December afternoon. The guy clearly cribbed most of his stuff from other histories.

  Lennon didn’t write anything on the pad. He preferred to listen. Sooner or later, this guy was going to get to the point.

  “Okay. Maybe you don’t read much. You’re busy. I’ll get to the point. The Russian mob has your girlfriend. Intes Studios, down on Delaware Avenue. Suite 117.”

  Lennon stared at him. Girlfriend?

  “I can tell by your look that you might doubt me. Well, they told me to tell you to smell the roses. That make any sense? That’s supposed to be proof.”

  Fucking hell.

  These bastards had Katie.

  “Smell the roses” was one of their in-jokes from years ago. One Christmas, Lennnon found himself at one of Katie’s girlfriend’s houses for a holiday party. There was a big guy there. Named Joe. Joe was a bit of an idiot. Physical trainer from Florida. He spotted Lennon in a corner and took it upon himself to bring Lennon out of his shell. (Lennon was actually embroiled in a getaway plan, spinning the details and arrangements around in his head. He always did his best thinking in large groups, while nobody paid attention to him.) After a few awkward attempts at small talk, the guy grabbed Lennon by his shoulders and shook him. “C’mon, man, open up and live! You gotta smell the roses, dude!” From that point on, “smell the roses” had cropped up in countless conversations. It became shorthand for people who didn’t understand The Life. It became shorthand for pretty much anybody who annoyed Katie and Lennon.

  That meant Katie was here, in Philadelphia. And with some associates of the man behind this desk. Against her will, or perhaps otherwise. This didn’t make sense yet.

  Then again, nothing from the past twenty-four hours made sense.

  The guy opened a desk drawer and pulled out a revolver. A black .38 with rubber handgrips. He popped open the chamber, placed it on the desk, then slid it across to Lennon. A box of bullets followed.

  “They’re expecting me to hand-deliver you,” the guy said. “But I figure you can deliver yourself. Am I right?”

  Lennon took the gun and bullets, waiting for the punch line. There had to be something else.

  “Drink your ice water, eat your chicken, then go do what you have to. When it’s done, feel free to come back here. I might have something else for you.”

  Lennon balanced the gun and box in his lap, then scribbled a hasty question. YOUR PROPOSAL?

  The guy read it and smirked. “Nah, no proposal. I changed my mind.”

  Lennon stood up, gun and box in his hands.

  “Don’t you want to wait for your food? No, I guess you wouldn’t. Tell you what. I’ll have ’em save it for you. Come on back later. Bring your woman. We’ll have dinner. Then we can talk. Maybe there’s some business opportunities for you in Philadelphia.”

  Lennon left the office, but he still heard the guy talking behind him.

  “Hey—you might want to use the back entrance. My guy said somebody followed you from the parking lot.”

  Preservation Mode

  FOR CLOSE TO THIRTY MINUTES, WILCOXSON TAP-DANCED like a motherfucker. No, Evsei. Don’t kill the girl. Killing the girl will do nothing. No, Evsei, trust me. Put her on my bed. She’s better as bait, and Lennon will only go for it if she’s alive. You want Lennon, remember? The guy who killed your son. The only way you’re going to lure him out into the open is to use his girlfriend, and that only works if she’s alive.

  Evsei, the crazy fucker, wanted to gut Katie with a steak knife right there in the apartment, then dump both bodies in front of Lennon before hoisting him onto a meat hook. A regular family reunion. The Russian was absolutely blood crazy. No wonder young Mikal had been so eager to strike out on his own.

 
; Wilcoxson needed Katie alive. That was the only thing that mattered. He also needed to figure out a way to let Evsei take his revenge on Lennon—a walking dead man, anyway—and extricate Katie and himself from the situation. And then allow both of them to take an extended vacation without having to worry about looking over his shoulder the whole time. Unlike the pathetic Italian mob, the Russian mafiya had tentacles.

  But Wilcoxson also needed that $650,000 recovered. Fieuchevksy knew nothing about his son’s plan to rob the bank robbers; in fact, he was still waiting for an explanation as to why his son was meeting with bank robbers in the first place.

  So Wilcoxson whipped up a little speech.

  “I made a few calls,” he told the Russian. “Your son was not involved in that bank robbery.”

  Fieuchevsky’s eyes closed and his lips tightened.

  “He was approached by one of the robbers—this Patrick Lennon—who presented your son with an investment opportunity. Lennon needed seed money to bankroll his next job, and your son gave him $10,000. In return, your son was promised six and a half times that amount—$65,000.”

  “But,” Fieuchevsky started, “I gave him money.”

  “The important thing to remember is that your son, Mikal, approached this as a business deal. He didn’t know he was dealing with a bank heister.”

  “What did he need the money for?”

  “Your son is the victim here. Remember that.”

  “Didn’t I give him enough?”

  “Evsei,” said Wilcoxson. “Listen to me. How would you like to kill this bank robber guy, and also make a lot of money in the process?”

  This stopped the Mad Russian. He listened intently to Wilcoxson’s plan—the details spinning out on the spot.

  To Wilcoxson’s surprise, he nodded.

  “Good,” Wilcoxson said. “Let me get the tape recorder.”