The Wheelman by Duane Swierczynski Read Free Book Online Page A

crawled into the cramped backseat to try to heal.
    Sure, it was returning to the scene of the crime/betrayal, but it was also the last place the Russians would think to look for him. In a few hours Lennon would get up, steal another car, drive to the long-term lot, reclaim the money, and get the hell out of this city. Then he would figure out Katie, and the Russians, and how the two fit together. If they fit together.
    Not too far down the road, Lennon’s blood—spilled almost eighteen hours ago—soaked into the grass and mud beside the Schuylkill River.
    Montana Extradition
     
    U NCONSCIOUSNESS. BLACKNESS.
    Then:
    Tapping on glass.
    Goddamnit. He was tired of being disturbed. The way his luck was running, it was probably a cop. Maybe that drunk La Salle kid had already called in his car. He should have found somewhere else to sleep. Or at least slept outside in the cold underbrush, away from the car. But that wouldn’t have helped him heal any faster. Getting brained again and again hadn’t done much for his logical thought processes. He was working this one through a brain fog.
    “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