The other troubling possibility, of course, was that Katie was part of this whole setup, and was using herself as bait to lure Lennon out in the open so that he could be killed.
Either way, not cheery thoughts.
Neither was the fact that the Italian gangster back there had pretty much handed him a gun and told him to go kill a bunch of Russians. Likely, enemies in some Philadelphia turf war. Lennon didn’t want to be in the middle of that shit.
Now, standing in the bright sun that baked Delaware Avenue, Lennon had nothing but these thoughts … and two loaded guns. If this were an action thriller, Lennon supposed he would also happen to be a master burglar, and would know how to sneak into virtually any building. But Lennon was not a burglar—he was a getaway driver. The studio looked huge, and probably had a dozen side entrances, but Lennon had no idea how to navigate any of them. He didn’t know any Vietnam-style diversionary tactics.
Lennon pressed two fingers to his neck.
Ah, fuck it, he thought.
He pressed the buzzer next to the tag marked INTES STUDIOS.
The intercom crackled. “Yes?”
“Yo,” Lennon said, in his best Philly accent. “We gotcher guy out heah.”
“Yes, bring him in, please. Down the hall, to your right.” There was a sharp buzz, and a lock mechanism opened.
Okay then.
Plastic signs directed Lennon through a lobby, down a slender hallway, to the right, and to another right. The doors marked INTES were already propped open with wooden shims. Inside was a lounge, and beyond that, a window-paneled recording studio.
Lennon had both guns in his hands and was ready to start blasting at will. But he wasn’t ready for what awaited him inside the studio.
There was only one guy, standing inside a glass recording booth. A tall, swarthy man with gray hair slicked back on his thick skull, pointing a shotgun at him.
There was a tiny static pop, and a voice came over the speakers.
It wasn’t the guy standing there. The voice was distorted, warped. Its owner was nowhere in sight.
Lennon aimed his guns at the man in front of him anyway. Even though it was an awful shot, going through glass. These Russians probably planned it that way. He didn’t have much of a chance of hitting him, not with shattering glass knocking his bullets out of line. And long before that, the man could easily pull his trigger and spray Lennon with a cone-shaped burst. Not to mention there were probably other gunmen hidden around the room, keeping their sights trained on him. It was a turkey shoot. Lennon was the turkey.
That voice. Even with the distortion, Lennon could tell it wasn’t Russian. The diction was too clean. It also had a nagging familiarity. Lennon recognized not the tone, but the way this guy put words together. He couldn’t quite place it.
Lennon darted his eyes around the studio, looking for a mirror that could be two-way. The speaker was watching him. Waiting for reactions.
A what?
There was a click, a slight hiss over the speakers, and then a man coughing. “Okay,” the voice, presumably on a tape, said. “‘Life,’ take five.” A run of guitar notes, then silence, then loud strumming at a march tempo, almost like a funeral dirge. A minor chord. After two bars, a fuzzy bass and a muted drum machine kicked in. Then vocals:
The song continued, but the volume dropped low, so that it played over the background.
The song continued beneath the speaker’s voice, almost as if a bizarre spoken-word segment had been appended to the middle of the recording.
Lennon stared at the quiet Russian through the glass. From the sound of that piece of shite, he thought, it’s probably better he stays missing.
But the Mad Russian refused to bend. He had sent one of his guys into Intes Studios in the early morning hours to recover the unfinished digital recordings, and had spent some time listening through the rough tracks at home, crying and drinking Stoli and listening to portions again. This was my son, he’d said. That bank robber will hear what he destroyed. Evsei had tried to play some songs for Wilcoxson, but he had demurred, insisting that they’d better stick to their schedule, otherwise they risked losing Lennon.
Whatever.
Wilcoxson watched Lennon’s face on the monitor carefully. He didn’t react, but he knew that inside, the guy had to be reeling. Wilcoxson badly wanted to make him flinch. Just once. Make him speak. Plead. Beg.
Instead, Lennon just stared at them.
Wilcoxson exhaled, then started speaking again.
Condition. Hmmm.
Lennon lowered his left pistol slightly, then looked. There was a white plastic wand resting on top of a pillow. Careful to keep his right hand aimed at the Russian—useless gesture as it was—Lennon tucked his other pistol in his waistband and slowly walked to the couch. He picked up the object. It looked like a thermometer case, with a
