Wheelman, The

one way or the other.

“Fuck her. She pistol-whipped me. And her husband killed my son. You think I give a shit about her baby?”

“She’s not married. Besides, you don’t want her. You want Lennon.”

“I want their entire families dead.”

Crazy Russian bastard. Wilcoxson looked at Katie, sprawled on his carpet, blood streaming from her nose. Even unconscious, she looked beautiful.

Wilcoxson had been in love with her since the first day Lennon had introduced them. Lennon had called her his “sister,” but Wilcoxson knew better. He’d met plenty of heisters over the years who had introduced him to many “sisters.”

He had never met anyone like Katie before. Her smile set his soul at ease. She was shorter than he preferred. Her hair was a dirty reddish-brown, a far cry from the blondes he’d enjoyed over the years. And her body wasn’t quite the proportions he usually desired—thin, wide, thin, then wider. But somehow, Katie managed to look perfect.

From the beginning, this had all been about Katie. Wilcoxson had mentored Lennon—come to think of him as something of a son—though he’d never wanted children, and still didn’t. Still, it had been nice to be able to brag about some of the jobs he’d pulled over the years. Lennon was a quick study, and loved to listen. What else could he do? Wilcoxson had recommended him to a few teams here and there, and the kid had worked out well as a wheelman.

But from the day Lennon brought Katie by to meet Wilcoxson, everything changed. He knew it’d just be a matter of time before he could take her off Lennon’s hands. Lennon was making decent coin, but he really didn’t have all that much to offer her. Not compared to what Wilcoxson had glommed over the years. He could give her the life she deserved. And frankly, Wilcoxson deserved a young woman like Katie. He had experienced enough of the chase, the drama. He wanted to take Katie and settle down. Or at least give it a run.

A few weeks ago, Katie had called him. Confided in him. Asked him what Lennon would think. She didn’t want to tell him right away; he was in the middle of planning a job in Philadelphia, and she never liked to disturb him while his brain was embroiled in a job. Wilcoxson invited Katie to dinner, and they spoke warmly, Katie confiding in Wilcoxson like a daughter would confide in her father. (Her own father, a minor armed robber, had been killed in a shoot-out in 1978.)

But as much as Wilcoxson loved that she trusted him implicitly, his heart sank.

A child.

A child would tie her to Lennon, at least for the foreseeable future.

That night, he decided that Lennon would have to be eliminated.

Around the same time, Wilcoxson had made the acquaintance of an ambitious young musician named Mikal Fieuchevsky, who also happened to be the son of a Russian mafiya vor. It was at a December “Power 100” party thrown by a local magazine, and Mikal had approached him about fund-raising. (For all the movers and shakers in the city knew, Wilcoxson was a moderately successful “financial consultant.”) Mikal was trying to complete his first album, and although his father had kicked in some money, it was nowhere near enough to do the project the way Mikal had wanted. Mikal wanted name producers, top-shelf recording gear and session players. This was going to be his statement, Mikal said, his eyes wide. No more South Jersey dives and resorts; he was going to break out huge like Springsteen or Bon Jovi, but with a modern sound. Blues, hip-hop, electronica, he went on, with Wilcoxson only half-listening. He wasn’t much of a music fan.

But later, when Katie came to him and the Lennon problem emerged, and he thought back on Mikal’s need for money, and a connection was made.

That was what Wilcoxson did best. Make connections. He’d always believed that genius was measured by the connections you could make, either in terms of information or people or financial assets.

Wilcoxson decided to sell out Lennon’s job to Mikal.

During phone calls over the next week, Wilcoxson pried small details out of Katie, and they were enough to piece together the heist. A small article in the Philadelphia Inquirer clinched it—a large amount of cash was going to be delivered to the Wachovia Bank at Seventeenth and Market in October. From there, Wilcoxson was able to figure out exactly what Lennon planned to do. (After all, he’d taught him how to do it.) He also fingered Lennon’s partners. Only a handful of pros were working the Philly scene. He approached the likely candidate, and that candidate agreed to betray his partners.

Wilcoxson told Mikal to tell his team where to be, and boom, they’d be $650,000 richer. Minus Wilcoxson’s $65,000 fee, of course. Mikal was more than happy to agree to the conditions of the deal, which included the removal of the bank robbers from the face of the earth.

Exit Patrick Selway Lennon.

Enter Wilcoxson, to pick up the pieces. He would deal with a baby just fine, if it meant having Katie. But if it were to disappear like its father, that would be just as well.

Wilcoxson watched her on the floor, bleeding.

Now to calm the crazy Russian asshole. He didn’t feel bad about Mikal getting snuffed—hey, the guy didn’t follow through on his end of the deal. The young Russian had let one of the bank robbers live, and if it was Lennon, there was more work to be done.

Besides, there was $650,000 out there waiting to be claimed.

SATURDAY p.m.

Here’s our credentials.

—HARRY PIERPONT, MEMBER OF THE DILLINGER

GANG, SHOWING A PRISON WARDEN A GUN

Smell the Roses

RAY PERELLI WAS PLEASED WITH HIMSELF. WITH ONLY word of mouth and a quick phone conversation, this bank robber guy was coming to him. Russian pricks were looking all over the city for him, and nothing. Perelli had him. Or was going to have him, in a manner of minutes.

Now. What the hell was he going to do with him?

Perelli had told the bank robber, “I’ve got what you’re looking for.” He knew the guy had to be looking for something. Otherwise, he would have lammed out of here long ago. Was it money from a recent heist? Is that what the Russians were holding over his head? Nah. Couldn’t be. Smart bank robber wouldn’t hang around for that, would he? What were the odds of recovering money from the Reds? Something else. C’mon, Ray, let’s pull an answer out of our ass.

After ninety seconds of deep thought, Perelli decided to make a phone call.

“Hello?”

“Hey, yeah, Evsei?” Perelli pronounced it evsee. This was not the correct pronunciation.

“Who is this?”

“Ray Perelli.”

“Who?”

Perelli wanted to say, Hey, fuck you, you vodka-slurping Russian cocksucker. But this was an information-gathering phone call. Insults would get him nowhere.

“We had breakfast, just a little while ago.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Perelli. Forgive me. I’ve been distracted, this business with my son.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it. I can only imagine.”