Wheelman, The

“That’s nice to hear.”

“And … your boy?”

Fieuchevsky grimaced. “Still missing.”

“Motherfuck.”

“Yes. Mother. Fuck.”

Lisa.

Mikal.

The fathers hadn’t known about the connection between the two.

Lisa Perelli had been dating La Salle University senior Andrew Whalen for three months—ever since the end of winter break, when one of Lisa’s friends had dumped Whalen and she was there to pick up the pieces. They got along famously. Lisa already knew Andrew’s ticks; she’d heard Kimberly complain enough about them. She knew how to circumvent them, use them, fashion him into what she wanted. Mostly.

By sheer coincidence, Andrew Whalen played in a rock band with Mikal Fieuchevsky, the son of a suspected Russian mafiya vor based in Northeast Philadelphia.

The Southeastern Pennsylvania Crime Commission did not see this as sheer coincidence. They had been wiretapping Andrew Whalen’s dorm and home phone lines since January 10, 2003, when news of the Whalen-Perelli affair first made it back to headquarters. The Crime Commission saw it as a direct link between the dying Italian mob and the leaner, younger, tougher Russian mob. The relationship was a ruse, they reasoned; Whalen got his dick sucked at least three times a week (according to surveillance tapes and photos), and in exchange, acted as an intermediary between Evsei Fieuchevsky, suspected mafiya vor, and Ray Perelli, a capo with what remained of the pathetic Philly mob, passing messages and instructions and sometimes cash. Ray “Chardonnay” Perelli treated his young messenger well, the Crime Commission discovered. Aside from the cock- worship courtesy of his daughter, Whalen was treated to a vintage Yahama DX7-II to use during gigs. A birthday present.

The Crime Commission was dead wrong. Andrew Whalen was aware of Mikal’s father’s somewhat dubious background, but had no idea about Lisa. All he knew was that she was a bit possessive, yeah, but she was also the most sensual woman he’d ever been with. High maintenance, but with excellent performance. It was worth it. It kept him coming back to her. The DX7-II hadn’t hurt, either.

“Here,” Fieuchevsky said, sliding an envelope across the maroon Formica table. “This is to make up for damage we might have caused.”

Perelli smiled. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I insist.”

Perelli made a show of refusing the envelope, but took it after a few moments and slid it into his jacket pocket.

“There anything I can do for you?”

Now it was Fieuchevsky’s turn to lay on the fake warm smile. “No, no. Our business is done. Enjoy your chipped beef.”

“Hey, I wanna help.”

This dance continued throughout Perelli’s chipped beef—or, as he liked to call it, “shit on a shingle”—and Fieuchevsky’s tomato omelet and three orders of bacon and Stoli on the rocks. It was awkward and ingratiating and cautious. It finally wound down to a graceful conclusion when Fieuchevsky slid an FBI Wanted poster, folded in threes, across the table.

“If you, or any of your people, have occasion to see this man,” he explained, “I would be most appreciative to have a word with him first.”

Perelli took the poster and slid it into his pocket. “I’d be delighted.”

Fieuchevsky thought, Slovenly dago bastard couldn’t find his cock under rolls of his meatball fat.

Perelli thought, Russian pricks are losing it. Time to get back into the game.

A cell phone chirped. It was Fieuchevsky’s. He listened, then told Perelli that he had to be going. Perelli suddenly had to be going, too, and thanked Fieuchevsky profusely for the $8.95 breakfast.

Outside, in his silver BMW, Perelli ripped open the envelope. His jaw dropped. It contained a personal check for $650. In the memo line were the words: “College window bars.”

The fucking bars on the dorm window.

Three thick-necked Russkie goons come pouncing in on his daughter, and all the commie bastard has to offer is $650?

Perelli wanted to puke up his chipped beef. All over that Fieufuck-sky’s car windshield.

And then he had the nerve to ask for a favor.

Find this guy. Patrick Selway Lennon. A bank robber.

Ah, fuck you, you Russian prick. Find your own asshole, then finger it a few times for good luck. Those Russian bastards, sweeping into town, acting as if they’ve run things since forever. Smirking over the flurry of indictments in the crazy summer of 2001. Then there were the goofy antics, like the cops finding that one-legged bag man under the bed of the boss’s wife while the boss was on trial for his life. The Russians, picking over the spoils of a once-great empire.

Perelli drove away mad. Really fucking mad.

The Third Crew

WHEN THE BLACK GUYS WITH THE GUNS ENTERED the garage, Saugherty saw right away he had guessed right. There was Mothers, plus three other guys. Not that it made him feel any better.

Maybe the mute would get lucky and clip two of these guys. Leaving only two for Saugherty. Not great odds, but it could be done.

“Cut him out,” said a voice.

Two dudes with blades started snipping the bungee cords off the mute. The mute had obviously hidden the gun somewhere for the time being. Come on now, Saugherty thought. Start spraying. Pop pop. One guy, two guys down. Leaving two for Saugherty. His gun hand was already getting sweaty. It was hard playing dead while steeling yourself up for action at the same time. His chest hurt, bad. He hoped he wouldn’t have a muscle spasm at an inopportune moment.

Then, something unexpected happened.

The mute bolted from the table—an old thick wooden door Saugherty had found trash-picking in Mt. Airy years ago—and pulled it over on himself at the same time. He scuttled across the floor of the garage, the door on his back, looking like a crab trying desperately to hang onto his shell. The mute was trying to use the door as a shield.

The three guys with the guns laughed. They catcalled, “Hey, white boy. Where you going?” Who could blame them? It looked pathetic.

“That door ain’t going to help you, Mr. Lennon,” Mothers said, a smile on his lips.

The guys removed submachine guns from their puffy coats. Loaded clips. Switched off trigger guards. The two others had black semiautomatic pistols, which they yanked on to pump bullets into the chambers. The garage was full of the sound of clean sharp metal clicks. Just one submachine gun would be enough to cut Saugherty and the mute in half. Hell, these guys had enough heavy firepower to launch an assault on a police precinct.

“All we need is one arm,” Mothers continued. “The rest don’t matter. These guys here can surgically remove your limbs through that fucking door in seconds. You won’t live long, but you’ll live long enough to be useful to them.”

The door wobbled. Was the mute finally going for his gun?

And if he was, what the fuck was he hoping to accomplish with it?

The situation had gone from fucked to cluster-fucked. The only tactical advantage Saugherty had was that all four men now had their backs to him. He could try to stand up and get off six rapid, clean shots into each … no, that was ridiculous. He couldn’t possibly take down more than two without the others spinning around and spraying him into pieces.

The door lifted a few inches from the floor of the garage. The business end of Saugherty’s Glock poked