minutes, then 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.
Not too far down the road, Lennon’s blood—spilled almost eighteen hours ago—soaked into the grass and mud beside the Schuylkill River.
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.
“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
The guy—Lennon wasn’t exactly sure he was a cop anymore; he definitely used to be, but something about him said
“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
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.
