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BY HIS THIRD BOILERMAKER, THE WORLD SEEMED TO make more sense. Sure, his house was burning … burnt … extinguished … but so what? That’s why God made insurance. Saugherty watched Dominick’s, looking for his boy, the bank robber. Sooner or later, he had to come back out the front. Sooner or later, he had to go for his $650,000. Sooner or later, Saugherty would get to finish the job he started late last night.
Somebody tapped him on the shoulder.
“Hey, buddy—what you lookin’ at over there?”
Saugherty turned to face the guy standing to his right. The man was big and pasty, with oversized tortoiseshell glasses and a bushy black moustache.
Saugherty opened his mouth to speak, but he didn’t have the chance to answer the question. A fist smashed his nose, and then another hit the back of his head as he slid off of the stool. Saugherty held up a hand to protest, but somebody grabbed it by the wrist, then snapped his forearm in half.
After that, he lost track of the fists and shoes.
A Killing in the Sun
THE CONVERTED WAREHOUSE SEEMED DESERTED—NO lights on in the windows, no cars in the small parking lot to the left. But Lennon knew the place had to be lousy with Russians. Especially after this morning. They were probably lined up, waiting to take turns. Russian brothers, friends, fathers. With guns. Knives. Probably chainsaws and rabid attack dogs, too.
And Katie.
How did they find her so quickly? Or put the two of them together, for that matter? Next to no one knew anything about Lennon’s family. Bling knew, but Bling was dead. The Russians had worked the network fast. That, or Katie had somehow heard the heist had gone wrong, and somehow figured out that the Russians were behind it, and went looking for payback, and now this. But that was a lot of somehows and maybes.
The other troubling possibility, of course, was that Katie was part of this whole setup, and was using herself as bait to lure Lennon out in the open so that he could be killed.
Either way, not cheery thoughts.
Neither was the fact that the Italian gangster back there had pretty much handed him a gun and told him to go kill a bunch of Russians. Likely, enemies in some Philadelphia turf war. Lennon didn’t want to be in the middle of that shit.
Now, standing in the bright sun that baked Delaware Avenue, Lennon had nothing but these thoughts … and two loaded guns. If this were an action thriller, Lennon supposed he would also happen to be a master burglar, and would know how to sneak into virtually any building. But Lennon was not a burglar—he was a getaway driver. The studio looked huge, and probably had a dozen side entrances, but Lennon had no idea how to navigate any of them. He didn’t know any Vietnam-style diversionary tactics.
Lennon pressed two fingers to his neck.
Ah, fuck it, he thought.
He pressed the buzzer next to the tag marked INTES STUDIOS.
The intercom crackled. “Yes?”
“Yo,” Lennon said, in his best Philly accent. “We gotcher guy out heah.”
“Yes, bring him in, please. Down the hall, to your right.” There was a sharp buzz, and a lock mechanism opened.
Okay then.
Plastic signs directed Lennon through a lobby, down a slender hallway, to the right, and to another right. The doors marked INTES were already propped open with wooden shims. Inside was a lounge, and beyond that, a window-paneled recording studio.
Lennon had both guns in his hands and was ready to start blasting at will. But he wasn’t ready for what awaited him inside the studio.
There was only one guy, standing inside a glass recording booth. A tall, swarthy man with gray hair slicked back on his thick skull, pointing a shotgun at him.
There was a tiny static pop, and a voice came over the speakers.
“Hello, Mr. Lennon.”
It wasn’t the guy standing there. The voice was distorted, warped. Its owner was nowhere in sight.
Lennon aimed his guns at the man in front of him anyway. Even though it was an awful shot, going through glass. These Russians probably planned it that way. He didn’t have much of a chance of hitting him, not with shattering glass knocking his bullets out of line. And long before that, the man could easily pull his trigger and spray Lennon with a cone-shaped burst. Not to mention there were probably other gunmen hidden around the room, keeping their sights trained on him. It was a turkey shoot. Lennon was the turkey.
“We work for Evsei Fieuchevsky. His son, Mikal, is missing. You were one of the last people to see him.”
That voice. Even with the distortion, Lennon could tell it wasn’t Russian. The diction was too clean. It also had a nagging familiarity. Lennon recognized not the tone, but the way this guy put words together. He couldn’t quite place it.
“Mr. Fieuchevsky has your girlfriend at another location. He very badly wants his son back.”
Lennon darted his eyes around the studio, looking for a mirror that could be two-way. The speaker was watching him. Waiting for reactions.
“Before we discuss terms, Mr. Fieuchevksy would like to play something for you. A love song.”
A what?
There was a click, a slight hiss over the speakers, and then a man coughing. “Okay,” the voice, presumably on a tape, said. “‘Life,’ take five.” A run of guitar notes, then silence, then loud strumming at a march tempo, almost like a funeral dirge. A minor chord. After two bars, a fuzzy bass and a muted drum machine kicked in. Then vocals:
I can see the writing on the wall
When I hear you coming down the hall
Have you finished all that you’ve begun?
I can feel my life coming undone
The song continued, but the volume dropped low, so that it played over the background.
“That song, ‘Life Come Undone,’ was written and performed by Mikal Fieuchevsky. It was one of many tracks from the album he had been recording during the past few weeks.”
The song continued beneath the speaker’s voice, almost as if a bizarre spoken-word segment had been appended to the middle of the recording.
“You see, Mr. Lennon, Mikal isn’t just this man’s son. He’s the future of rock music. And you’d better pray to God he is alive and well.”
Lennon stared at the quiet Russian through the glass. From the sound of that piece of shite, he thought, it’s probably better he stays missing.
Living Expenses
EVSEI HAD INSISTED ON THAT LAST BIT. PLAYING HIS son’s lame-ass song. Wilcoxson had tried to explain that Lennon wouldn’t give a shit, that Evsei should stick to the plan and make his demands as quickly as possible.
But the Mad Russian refused to bend. He had sent one of his guys into Intes Studios in the early morning hours to recover the unfinished digital recordings, and had spent some time listening through the rough tracks at home, crying and drinking Stoli and listening to portions again. This was my son, he’d said. That bank robber will hear what he destroyed. Evsei had tried to play some songs for Wilcoxson, but he had demurred, insisting that they’d better stick to their schedule, otherwise they risked losing Lennon.
Whatever.
“Let us get down to it,” Wilcoxson said from a master control booth equipped with a video monitor overlooking both the lounge and studio. “You committed a particular crime yesterday, one that resulted in the exchange of $650,000. To spare your girlfriend, you will bring that money here, and give it to Mr. Fieuchevsky.”
Wilcoxson watched Lennon’s face on the monitor carefully. He didn’t react, but he knew that inside, the guy had to be reeling. Wilcoxson badly wanted to make him flinch. Just once. Make him speak. Plead. Beg.
Instead, Lennon just stared at them.
Wilcoxson exhaled, then started speaking again. “Mr. Lennon, you don’t know—
Cigar Time
“—ABOUT YOUR GIRLFRIEND’S CONDITION, DO YOU?”
Condition. Hmmm.
“We’ve left you something on the couch. Go ahead. Take a look.”
Lennon low
ered his left pistol slightly, then looked. There was a white plastic wand resting on top of a pillow. Careful to keep his right hand aimed at the Russian—useless gesture as it was—Lennon tucked his other pistol in his waistband and slowly walked to the couch. He picked up the object. It looked like a thermometer case, with a little plastic window. The space inside the window was white, except for a thin blue line that bisected it.
“It’s not easy, getting a urine sample from an unwilling woman. We had to bring her around again, force her to submit, then render her unconscious for our own safety. Chloroform is a nasty, sloppy chemical. Crude.”
Lennon stared at the blue line, finally realizing.
“Not good for the baby.”
Realizing how stupid he had been.
That explained the secrecy, the weird moods. Of course. She hadn’t wanted to distract him from the bank plans. That was Katie. Anything important always waited until after a job. More connections formed in Lennon’s head. That was why she had insisted on somewhere nice—a resort—even though they had spent most of the winter lazing around. She had wanted the day to be special. An infusion of cash, a beautiful view, sunshine, an announcement.
Pregnant.
But who … ?
Lennon felt the room tip slightly on its axis.
Three For Flinching
WILCOXSON SAW IT: LENNON’S FACE TWITCHED. HIS knees even appeared to buckle for an instant. He had gotten to him. Hit him in the space between the plates of armor. Lennon was going to do anything he wanted. The rest was academic.
“So listen carefully, Mr. Lennon. Listen to mommy.”
Wilcoxson pressed PLAY, and the tape he’d prepared started spinning.
“Patrick, it’s me. The time is 11:43, Saturday, March 30th. I am here in Philadelphia, not elsewhere as previously arranged. I came back. They tell me you’re alive, and that you are supposed to bring them what they want, otherwise they’re going to kill me. This is what they told me to say. I’ll be unharmed and released if you do what they say.” A pause; some murmuring. “See you soon.”
Wilcoxson pressed STOP, then looked at Lennon on the video screen. The poor guy was working hard, trying to keep the emotions about Katie stuffed out of the way. After all, Wilcoxson had taught him years ago that the secret to any successful heist was taking human failure out of the equation. That meant taking humanity out of the equation. Hunger, lust, anger, joy had no place in a bank robbery. Somebody pops your partner, the guy you’ve been pulling heists with since fifth grade? Forget about it. Cry later; make your getaway now.
But this was easier said than done. Wilcoxson was sure that Lennon could think of nothing but Katie, and what might be happening to her. Russian fuckers, doping her and forcing her to pee into a cup. Rough hands over her. Tying her up. Stripping her. Probably smirking. Yes, Wilcoxson was sure it was eating Lennon up alive. It would eat him up, too, if the roles were reversed.
“I want you to drop those guns.”
And Lennon instantly lowered them. The man had a strange, blank look on his face, as if the only way to keep emotion in check was to completely unplug from reality.
“Drop them. On the ground.”
He did, like a zombie.
“Good. You’re on your way to saving the lives of your girlfriend and your unborn child. And by the way, congratulations. Now Mr. Fieuchevsky has a few parting words for you, before you go to recover the money.”
The Russian needed no prodding. He emerged from the booth, shotgun in hand, with a wicked smile like a Doberman bearing its teeth.
Wilcoxson had to watch this very carefully. Fieuchevsky had insisted on something, anything, to calm the raging forces inside. They had spent fifteen minutes up in Wilcoxson’s Rittenhouse Square apartment negotiating how much punishment Lennon should receive this afternoon. The Russian wanted carte blanche; as long as the bank robber could walk, he could recover the money. Wilcoxson said no, absolutely not. You can’t demoralize him right away. You have to give him some shred of hope, get what you want, then crush him like a bug. Save some for later, Evsei, he’d pleaded. You’ll get your chance.
The negotiations got down to specifics: after a heated exchange, Wilcoxson finally agreed to allow the Russian three body blows with the butt of the shotgun. No head, no chest, no groin. Then let Lennon walk away, and go bring back the money.
Personally, Wilcoxson thought the internal pain—wondering what was happening to Katie this afternoon—was punishment enough. But the Russian thought differently.
And as it turned out, Fieuchevsky threw all their negotiations out the window. The first blow was a rifle-butt hit to the face. Lennon’s head snapped in the opposite direction, and a geyser of crimson fluid sprayed out of his mouth. He staggered backward, hands flailing out, reaching for something to steady himself.
Christ, this Russian was a cocksucker.
Second blow: right to the chest, while Lennon was recovering from the first. A jackhammer shot to the ribs and protective sack around the heart. Jesus. Lennon was powerless to fight back. Fighting back would mean disaster for Katie.
Wilcoxson could have announced the third blow ahead of time. Of course. Groin. Now Lennon was on the floor, clawing at the industrial carpet, presumably trying to dig his way out of the studio. The man had better pray Katie carried this baby to term; it didn’t look like Lennon was going to have much luck reproducing in the future. Not with a shot like that.
Wilcoxson had to intervene when it looked like Fieuchevsky was going for a fourth, a fifth, and maybe even a seventeenth shot. He pressed the mike button and said: “Go now, Mr. Lennon. Save your family’s life. Report here tomorrow. Noon.”
Fieuchevsky stood there, shotgun hoisted up in the air with both hands, looking confused. Then he remembered himself and lowered the gun. He looked as disappointed as a man could.
Lennon crawled out of the studio.
Wilcoxson flicked off the mike and breathed. This might actually work.
“Shit,” said Holden Richards, standing up from behind the partition. “Remind me never to be on the other side of that gun.”
Anatomy of a Double Cross
HOLDEN HAD BEEN HIDING BEHIND THAT FUCKING partition for an hour now, waiting for Lennon to show up. It wasn’t comfortable, and his neck and back ached like a mother-fucker after that crazy shit yesterday.
Yesterday.
Fifteen minutes after the Wachovia job.
Wilcoxson had said, No sweat. The Russians are gonna pull their van out in front of you guys, surround you, put hoods over your heads, take you somewhere, pop the other guys, let you go.
Yeah, they pulled their van out all right.
Best Holden could figure it, Lennon was going too fast, and the Russians didn’t have time to get out in front like they had planned. So they just gunned it, and smashed right into the Subaru.
Sure, Holden had been bracing for a sudden stop, but not that fucking kind of stop. The Forester achieved liftoff, spun in the air a couple of times, landed top-first on the wet mud next to the Schuylkill River, then slid a while, so long that Holden was starting to think they were going to end up in the river, and that would be it. But no. The car skidded to a halt, the Russians got their act together and finally—finally—surrounded them with those crazy black submachine guns they got, but it didn’t matter. Lennon was gone, convulsing and spitting before he passed out. Bling was still awake, so Holden started hammering his face with his elbow. Who cares? Nigger was going down a tube anyway.
Truth be told, Holden felt a little bad about Bling. He was the guy who’d introduced him to Wilcoxson in the first place, vouched for him. Holden had no idea there was a loose network of dudes in his profession, scattered across the country. It was like the Mafia, but not, at the same time. Just guys who knew other guys, vouching for each other. So Bling vouched for Holden, and met Wilcoxson one night for dinner at that steak joint, Smith and Wollensky, had himself a fat Montana prime rib. Wilcoxson told him he had a future. He could always sp
ot talent, he said.
And that was it. Then nothing, for months. Bling used him for a couple of jobs, nothing big. Wilcoxson didn’t call him for shit.
Which bugged Holden.
Bling was fine, but he never tapped him for the big heists, the kind that Wilcoxson said he was ready to pull. He wanted Wilcoxson to give him something that would set him up. He was tired of kicking around his same old West Philly apartment. You didn’t see Bling around the neighborhood—Negro was out kickin’ it in resort hotels.
So when the call finally came from Wilcoxson a few weeks back, Holden said yes, not even a thought to it.
The call from Bling came the next day. Wilcoxson had vouched for him, instead of Bling doin’ it the other way around. A nice fat score, Bling told him. “Don’t fuck it up,” he said. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Keep flapping your gums there, Bling. Holden knew what Wilcoxson was really up to, and Bling didn’t. Fuck Bling. This was his ticket in. No more West Philly decaying mansion shit—hello, resort hotel circuit.
Wilcoxson told him, “Holden, I need somebody I can trust.” The implication: Bling was somebody he couldn’t trust. All Holden had to do, Wilcoxson said, was keep him posted, and then have a little patience right after the job.
A little patience, yeah. And a motherfucking neck brace.
After the Russians took Bling and Lennon away—they stripped them naked and put their corpses in body bags and everything—Holden wanted to go right after the money. His gut told him to grab it and run. Forget Wilcoxson, who had promised half of the proceeds instead of the third Bling had promised. Half, third. Why not take it all?
No. That wasn’t thinking big picture. Wilcoxson could set him up. $650,000 was nothing compared to what was in the future.
Cops watch parking lots right after, Wilcoxson explained. You don’t want to go anywhere near that car. It’ll be there. Don’t worry. Holden couldn’t help worrying. Is this how the pros really did it? Bling and Lennon didn’t seem worried. Wilcoxson didn’t seem worried. But it bugged the living shit out of Holden, leaving that kind of money behind, just sitting in a parking lot in the middle of the city.
Wheelman, The Page 10
