Pause. “This guy do the Wachovia job yesterday?”
“Yeah.”
Platt whistled. “What, are you trying to earn your Boy Scout merit badge thirty years too late?”
“Fuck you, you bagadonuts.”
“Hey, calm down. You know what—
“Like where?”
“These pro heist guys are predictable. If he’s still in the city, it’s because the money is still in the city. Try long-term parking lots, bus station lockers, storage joints. If he’s trying to get out of the city, he’ll be at the airport—which makes him a bit easier to track—or driving, which makes it impossible. While these guys are predictable, they’re not easy to track down. The whole point is to blend into the background and slip out as quickly as possible.”
“Wait, wait. Parking lots, bus stations, you said?”
“Yeah, Ray. Anyplace where you can hide stuff without raising eyebrows.”
“Okay. Thanks, Don.”
“Can I ask … geez, should I even ask?”
“Ask what?”
“Ask what you need a bank robber for.”
“Don’t ask, Don. Catch ya later.”
The Italian mob in Philadelphia was dealt a series of death blows in the early 1980s, but hung on through that decade and most of the decade after. Then right before 9/11, a blistering series of federal indictments destroyed the remaining leadership.
Within months, nine players and associates were shipped off to various federal lockups across the country to eat shitty food and work menial jobs that paid thirty-five cents an hour.
Within a few years, all that remained of the Philly mob was a motley collection of mid-level capos who wanted to rule what remained and small-time hoods who fancied themselves gangsters. They had the suits, but none of the muscle to fill them out. They had the small-time scams, but none of the brains to make them mean anything.
All that remained of the Philadelphia mob, actually, was a fairly efficient communication system, older and more secure than Ma Bell. The old guys, the new guys, the mid-level guys, they all talked. That’s all there was to do. Talk.
So when Ray Perelli decided to put out an APB on the bank robber the Russians wanted so badly, it didn’t take long for the word to get out. Especially because it involved the Russians. And shoving it up their vodka-drinking asses.
Within fifty minutes, Perelli received word that a strange guy was poking around a long-term parking lot down beneath the JFK overpass near Twenty-second Street. Perelli called the attendant, who was a cousin of a friend of his next-door neighbor, working his way through his sophomore year at Tyler Art School. What tipped the attendant off was the fact that the guy didn’t talk—didn’t the heister lose his voice? Perelli promised the guy next semester’s art books if he could keep the guy there in the lot. “How am I supposed to do that?” the attendant asked.
Jesus, Perelli thought. Kids don’t want to work for shit these days. “Put him on the phone,” he said.
Which is how Perelli found the bank robber that the Russians couldn’t. The Russians didn’t know the city. They hadn’t been here long enough.
Fuck those Russians, Perelli thought. Fuck them up their stupid asses.
“
Lennon listened. “You’re the guy I’m looking for, aren’t you? The bank heister?”
Lennon listened.
“Now I know you can’t answer. Poster says you’re a mute. So what we’re going to do is this. You listen up, and then hand the phone back to my guy there. If you agree, nod your head and he’ll tell me. Okay? If not, just don’t do anything, and he’ll tell me that.”
The attendant looked bored.
Lennon listened. What the hell was this about, anyway? This wasn’t the Russian mob. At least he didn’t think it was the Russian mob. The Russians would be more pissed. The guy sounded too casual. Too relaxed. Was this an associate of the big cop?
“Okay. Here’s what I’m offering. I’ve got what you’re looking for. You let my guy there drive you out to see me, we’ll talk, and see what we can work out.”
Lennon thought about this and quickly decided that it didn’t make sense. He was looking for a Honda Prelude with $650,000 in the trunk. If the guy on the line had the car and the money, why would he be trying to work out a deal? No, he was offering something else.
“All I want is a little conversation. I’ll get you some medical attention, too—my guys say you look pretty fucked up. Get you a glass of wine, some good food, and you listen to my proposal. You don’t like it, you walk right out. I’m being straight with ya. Whaddya think?”
Lennon knew this was bullshit, but he didn’t have much choice. He was standing in a parking lot with no Honda Prelude, and no $650,000. He had nowhere to go, except a prison or a Russian
“Okay. If it’s a yes, you mind handing the phone back to my guy?”
Lennon gave the phone back.
The guy on the other end said something.
“Uh, no.”
Something else.
“No, man, I don’t carry that shit.”
And something else.
“Mace, man. That’s it. I got some Mace.”
Jesus Christ, Lennon thought. How was it that, all of a sudden, his dim future seemed to lie in the hands of a Philly gangster on the phone and one desperately retarded man? Not that there was much difference between the two.
Lennon tapped the guy on the shoulder.
“Hold on,” the guy said.
Lennon lifted his Father Judge sweatshirt.
“Oh shit,” the guy said. “This guy is packing. Seriously. Like … oh man. What the fuck am I supposed … Hold on. He wants to go. So we’re like, going. See you in a few. Wait, wait, wait. Where do you live again?”
Katie’s face appeared in the doorway. She registered surprise when she saw Fieuchevsky, even more so when the Russian punched her in the face. Katie’s body flopped against the wall, then slid sideways down to the carpet. Fieuchevsky slammed the door shut, then grabbed Katie by the wrists and dragged her into the living room.
“Jesus, Evsei. What are you doing?”
“This bitch pistol-whipped me in my own home. I’m giving her a taste.”
“You can’t do that.”
Fieuchevsky looked at Wilcoxson. “Oh, I can’t?”
“She’s pregnant,” Wilcoxson said. “A fall like that, she could lose the baby.” Not that Wilcoxson really cared,
