across the country. It was like the Mafia, but not, at the same time. Just guys who knew other guys, vouching for each other. So Bling vouched for Holden, and met Wilcoxson one night for dinner at that steak joint, Smith and Wollensky, had himself a fat Montana prime rib. Wilcoxson told him he had a future. He could always spot talent, he said.
And that was it. Then nothing, for months. Bling used him for a couple of jobs, nothing big. Wilcoxson didn’t call him for shit.
Which bugged Holden.
Bling was fine, but he never tapped him for the big heists, the kind that Wilcoxson said he was ready to pull. He wanted Wilcoxson to give him something that would set him up. He was tired of kicking around his same old West Philly apartment. You didn’t see Bling around the neighborhood—Negro was out kickin’ it in resort hotels.
So when the call finally came from Wilcoxson a few weeks back, Holden said yes, not even a thought to it.
The call from Bling came the next day. Wilcoxson had vouched for
Wilcoxson told him, “Holden, I need somebody I can trust.” The implication: Bling was somebody he couldn’t trust. All Holden had to do, Wilcoxson said, was keep him posted, and then have a little patience right after the job.
A little patience, yeah. And a motherfucking neck brace.
After the Russians took Bling and Lennon away—they stripped them naked and put their corpses in body bags and everything—Holden wanted to go right after the money. His gut told him to grab it and run. Forget Wilcoxson, who had promised half of the proceeds instead of the third Bling had promised. Half, third. Why not take it all?
No. That wasn’t thinking big picture. Wilcoxson could set him up. $650,000 was nothing compared to what was in the future.
Cops watch parking lots right after, Wilcoxson explained. You don’t want to go anywhere near that car. It’ll be there. Don’t worry. Holden couldn’t help worrying. Is this how the pros really did it? Bling and Lennon didn’t seem worried. Wilcoxson didn’t seem worried. But it bugged the living shit out of Holden, leaving that kind of money behind, just sitting in a parking lot in the middle of the city.
Holden spent the rest of Friday laying low, trying to keep his mind off the car and the money. Watched a few DVDs, had some take-out sushi and some Ketel One vodka, in honor of the Russians, who were down by the river that night putting Bling and Lennon down the tube. Holden looked around his cluttered apartment—the one they had used to plan the heist—and thought about packing up his shit. Actually packed up some shit, then stopped to have some more Ketel One.
Saturday morning, hungover, he got the call from Wilcoxson. There were some “complications.”
Lennon was still alive.
“Go get the car,” Wilcoxson said. “Then call me back.”
The car meaning the money. Holden had a really bad feeling about this. They couldn’t have listened to him yesterday? Listened to how motherfucking stupid it was to leave that much money just sittin’ around in a parking lot?
Holden hopped a SEPTA green-line trolley out to Nineteenth and Market, then walked the few blocks to the lot. He walked up and down the rows, looking. He looked some more, then went back over everything again.
No car.
No car, no money.
He called Wilcoxson, who was in the middle of some weird shit, it sounded like, and told him the bad news.
“Fucking Lennon,” he said. “Okay, hang tight. I’m going to call you back.”
Twenty minutes went by before Wilcoxson called him back. “I want you to meet me at my apartment. We’re going to get our money back. Bring somebody you can trust.”
Sounded good to Holden. He just hadn’t counted on crouching down behind a sound partition for close to an hour waiting for that mute bastard.
Finally, Lennon arrived and there was some back and forth, with Wilcoxson talking to him over a speaker, his voice all modified and shit. Holden was impressed; Wilcoxson had pulled together a plan fairly quickly, even with the Russian involved. “Don’t worry about the Russian being there,” Wilcoxson had told Holden over the phone. “We’re going to take care of him today. Let him join his son.”
And now, there Lennon went, broken and gushing, out the door again, off to recover the $650,000 from wherever he’d stashed it. If he wanted to see his knocked-up ho again, he would be bringing it back here tomorrow, high noon.
Holden stood up from his hiding spot and his knees cracked. Shit. He was stiff as hell, and his neck and back still hurt from that car wreck yesterday.
He felt the pistol in the right pocket of his starter jacket. The plan was, wait for the Russian to come out of the booth, along with Wilcoxson. Then, when Wilcoxson gave the signal, he was supposed to shoot the Russian in the head. “The studio is soundproof—nobody’s going to hear a thing,” Wilcoxson had reassured him.
Here came the Russian, holding his own gun in his hands. The Russian smiled uncomfortably at Holden. Holden nodded back, careful to show no expression on his face.
“That went fairly well, didn’t it?” said Wilcoxson, who popped out of a small door to the right. “Tomorrow, Evsei, you will have your revenge, and some money to ease the pain.”
The Russian nodded. He didn’t look happy about the arrangements. Not at all. He certainly wasn’t going to be happy about what Wilcoxson had planned, either.
Then again, neither was Holden.
Why settle for $325,000? He already knew the whole deal. Lennon was bringing the cash from the Wachovia job here tomorrow, in exchange for his woman.
Holden shot the Russian in the head first.
Wilcoxson looked surprised—he hadn’t given the signal yet. But not half as surprised as when Holden pointed the gun at
There was nothing to worry about. The studio was soundproof.
I can imagine them hitting the sack after one of those robberies, just laughing their heads off and having fun.
—PSYCHOLOGIST FRANK FARLEY, ON
BANK ROBBERS CRAIG PRITCHERT
AND NOVA GUTHRIE
A doctor, with malpractice insurance problems and a suspended license, to attend to his multiple wounds.
Bottle of Jameson. Stack of frozen dinners and a small microwave.
