Bottle of aspirin.
Plastic digital alarm clock.
Two pistols—both .38 Sig Sauers.
Six boxes of ammunition.
Price tag: $325,000.
Lennon had returned to Dominick’s restaurant that afternoon and put forth a straightforward business proposition, in writing: He needed food, shelter, and medical attention. In return, Perelli would receive $325,000, half of the proceeds from the Wachovia job, upon its recovery. He wrote that the Russians had his girlfriend, and that they demanded the money from the Wachovia heist or they were going to execute her. And their unborn child. Perelli was a father; Lennon didn’t think it would hurt to play on the man’s familial sympathies. He added that he had a plan to recover the bank loot, as well as bury the Russians. All he needed was time to recover and heal.
And think about his familial sympathies later.
Perelli agreed.
Perelli not only agreed, but had insisted on the suit, too. He got off on the whole idea of Lennon as a heister under his employ.
“A bank robber can’t be running around in a Father fuckin’ Judge sweatshirt, for fuck’s sake,” he’d said. “Did Machine Gun Kelly wear a sweatshirt? Did Johnny Dillinger?”
So when Perelli dispatched the unlicensed sawbones, he also sent along a guy to take Lennon’s measurements. The suit would be ready in a couple of hours, Perelli promised.
Lennon didn’t really care about the suit. He cared about getting Katie back, getting the money back, and getting the fuck out of Philadelphia. Then he would think about this baby thing. It was too much right now. In the meantime, he ate, he drank enough to dull the pain, he rested. He woke up when the doctor arrived, and tried not to cry out when the doc mauled sensitive parts. Listened to him
The doorbell rang. It was a young kid, delivering the suit. A black Ermenegildo Zegna, from a shop called Boyd’s on Chestnut Street. Included was a dark blue Stacy Adams dress shirt, black socks with dark blue clocks on them, and a pair of black Giorgio Brutini shoes with a single strap buckle. Perelli had also thrown in a pair of sunglasses—Dior Homme by Hedi Slimane. The only items not plucked directly from the pages of British
Lennon took a slow, wince-inducing shower. His face was tragic-looking; in places, it had the pattern of a tie-dyed shirt in blacks and purples and blues. But he was pleasantly surprised to find that all of the clothes fit perfectly. Even the tighty-whiteys. He dressed himself, even putting on the Giorgio Brutinis. He loaded the Sig Sauers, then put one in each jacket pocket. He pressed two fingers against his carotid artery.
Then he lay down on top of the single mattress sitting in the middle of the empty master bedroom, and closed his eyes.
A few fevered hours later, his eyes popped open.
Three seconds later, the alarm went off. He was already dressed.
It was time to go.
But here they were, trying to fit another tourist attraction along the cramped waterfront. A children’s museum.
Boy, would the kids be surprised to discover what Uncle Holden was dumping down their drainage pipe.
First down, the Russian. Let him and his kid have a happy reunion together. The Russian’s head remained remarkably intact, despite the point-blank shot to his face. The bullet entered his forehead, then exploded on its way out of the skull. The back of his head was shit, but his sturdy good looks would be preserved for the ages. As he let go of the Russian’s ankles, Holden wondered if he and his boy would end up cheek to cheek in the pipe, and what future archeologists would make of that.
Next up: Wilcoxson. Bank robber extraordinaire. His face hadn’t fared as well. Holden had popped a cap straight on, and Wilcoxson’s face was pretty much ripped off, leaving a mess of pulp behind. He screamed for a while, his legs flailing around like he was riding an invisible bicycle. Thank God for the soundproofing, huh? Eventually, the fury died, and so did Wilcoxson.
At the time, Holden had been tempted to go back and pop a cap in the bitch, too, just to get it over with. Lennon would show up tomorrow with the $650,000 no matter what, and then Holden would kill him. Right now, she was stashed at Wilcoxson’s Ritten-house Square pad, with his cousin Derek keeping an eye on her. Wilcoxson had agreed to that plan, but he’d also seemed nervous about letting some other dude hang with her while she was handcuffed to a pole. Like he was her man, or something. Something hinky was up there.
Holden thought about it for a while, then realized there really was no good reason to keep her alive. He picked up his cell and dialed Derek.
Of course, why would he tell her?
She was here to pick up Andrew’s things. This house on Oregon Avenue was one of many that her father owned. It was the one she had used during the past six weeks. Her and Andrew.
Lisa hated Andrew’s dorm room—it was like a shoebox, only with worse interior design. Andrew, meanwhile, hated camping out on the couch at Lisa’s father’s place in South Philly. Andrew never said why until one day, a month and a half ago, when he finally broke down and admitted the truth: he couldn’t use the bathroom at her father’s house. Not the way he usually did in the mornings. Andrew veiled it in all kinds of cute terms—I’m a regular guy, I need to read in the morning—but Lisa knew what he was talking about. Funny thing was, Lisa was the same way. That’s why she hated crashing at the dorms. She just couldn’t feel comfortable getting up, walking down a hallway past a bunch of strange doors with strange boys behind them, walking up two flights of stairs, then using the common women’s bathroom. She wasn’t used to that sort of thing. That’s why she never chose to live on campus in the first place.
The only solution: Dad’s Oregon Avenue rental property, complete with one and a half baths. A full bathroom upstairs, and another smaller one on the first floor.
It was like playing house, only without the risk. Andrew had some minor things there—an Aerobed, a stack of paperback books, extra contact lenses, and a cardboard box with underwear, deodorant, a toothbrush, and a huge tube of Crest. Lisa brought candles and stored jug bottles of Pinot Grigio in the fridge, and stacked some of her unmentionables neatly in the master bedroom closet.
Her dad didn’t know they stayed there; Lisa had filched the keys one night.
The same keys that were in her hand now, still halfway jammed into the front-door lock.
Lisa listened.
Somebody was definitely here. Upstairs.
She closed the door behind her and locked it.
