“I know, I know. You need the fax number again?”
A few minutes later, Saugherty knew that the Philadelphia Police Department had captured Patrick Selway Lennon, only they didn’t know it yet—unless the cops involved in Saturday night’s shoot-out happened to drop by the holding cell. Not likely. The buzzword on the Philly P.D.: understaffed, overwhelmed. The mayor had just whacked 1,400 jobs—among them, cops and firemen—from the city payrolls the previous winter. They made the best of what they had. The Wanted posters from Saturday night hadn’t even circulated, and the fingerprint hit wouldn’t come back for about an hour. If they could get to it.
Which gave him about an hour.
Shit. He’d barely recovered from the shock of the first fax and gotten another few sips of Early Times in when the scanner said something about a 211 down on South Street. Which made no sense whatsoever, but the last place Saugherty had seen Lennon had been only a few blocks south of South, at the Italian joint. So it did make a kind of cockeyed sense. Plus, his gut twitched the same way it had before. This was something.
He’d have to leave this tumbler of Early Times behind. Breakfast would have to wait.
Saugherty hopped in his borrowed car and drove down Cottman, hooked a left onto Princeton, hopped on I- 95, and hoped the morning traffic snarls had figured themselves out. The roundhouse was all the way downtown, and he couldn’t be late. He had another quick stop first. He had a bag to pick up.
To a few, it’ll be grief
To the law, a relief
But it’s death for Bonnie and Clyde.
—BONNIE PARKER
“
Saugherty had tap-danced like Fred Astaire on uppers to get inside this interrogation room. And this mick bastard was still playing the Shields and Darnell shit.
“Just say hi, you asshole. We don’t have time for this.”
The bank robber stared at him, his eyes opened wide, as if he was trying to mentally communicate with Saugherty. His hands were cuffed behind his back, looped through the chair. Go ahead and threaten to detonate a bomb in the U.S., see what happens. Saugherty still couldn’t believe he was in here.
Now the guy was trying to mouth something.
“I can’t read lips, so quit it. Do-you-know-where-the-money-is?”
The guy sighed.
Saugherty wanted to crawl up the side of the room and shit nickels. But then he stopped. Had he made a mistake? Was it possible the guy didn’t actually speak before firing that gun and blowing up Saugherty’s garage? Did he imagine the whole thing? No. He had heard it. That Irish brogue, the word “arsehole,” as if asshole needed the extra consonant. So what was going on here?
“Let me make it plain. I-know-where-your-sister-is.”
The bank robber’s eyes snapped to attention.
“Yeah, I know she’s your sister. Katie Selway. I know she got caught up in this whole thing, and I know she’s in trouble. And I can help you get to her.”
Of course, Saugherty was completely fumbling around this one. And he had left out an important detail or two, but that could be ironed out later.
“That got your attention, didn’t it?”
The guy nodded. Slightly. As if to say, go on.
“I need to know you’re going to help me out at the end of this, then. We need to recover that money, and then I’ll help you recover your sister. Do we have an agreement?”
Lennon, the bank robber, actually seemed to be thinking it over. He knew where the money was, alright.
He nodded again. Just once.
“You know, we have the most revealing conversations, you and I,” Saugherty said. “I love that about us. In this business, it’s really hard to meet people you feel a connection with. Do you feel the same way? Okay. Get ready.”
The two men sat there in the soft pink room with the wire mesh on the opaque windows, getting ready.
“It’s about to go off.”
Silence.
“What’s about to go off, you ask? The suitcase nuke I put in a locker over at the bus station at Tenth and Filbert. Let’s go.”
Lennon needed to reach Katie if he did nothing else on this earth before he left it. So let the ex-cop’s greed lead the way. Lennon didn’t know where the Wachovia money was any more than he knew the location of the Holy Fucking Grail. But this ex-cop, Saugherty, didn’t need to know that yet. And dealing with one ex-cop was better than a stationhouse full of full-time police officers.
Besides, an extra man would come in handy when he went to the drop-off point and made those Italian fucks tell him about Katie. He could always just tell … or write, that is … Saugherty that this mob capo, Perelli, had the money. And they had to go through Perelli to get it back. Problem solved. Saugherty could be dealt with later.
Amazingly, no one gave a fuck when they just walked out the front door. Saugherty fed them some bullshit about “transferring the prisoner,” and that was it. No fuss, no muss. No one had identified him as the same guy who was taking shots at some cops over at Rittenhouse Square two nights before. Nobody blinked. Was this city for real? This guy Saugherty just flashed some old piece of plastic ID and they were out of there. Into a car. A blue Chevrolet Cavalier. They both climbed in without a word. Saugherty took them up one street, then turned right, blurring past some brick buildings with historical designations on them, then they were on I-95, headed north. America.
“Okay, you’re officially sprung. You can cut the shit and start talking.”
Oh Jesus. Here we go again.
“Look, you mick bastard. I know you can speak. I heard you. Right before you blew up my fucking house. You said something about arseholes. Which I really fucking love. The extra ‘r’ in there. Why not just say asshole? No fucking idea.”
Lennon, of course, said nothing. He couldn’t. Not that this cop would understand that. Just let him keep flapping his gums. It was more time to figure out a next move.
“Still the tough guy, eh? Look, really, cut it the fuck out. We need each other, otherwise you wouldn’t even be here. Here’s the deal. I’m taking us up to my hotel room. Now don’t get that look on your face. I’m not a fag. You’re not my type, anyway. I like men who can moan when I fuck them up the ass. Most you could do is scratch on the mattress. And frankly, that wouldn’t do it for me. It’s all about the audio.”
The white lane markers whizzed by at seventy miles per hour.
“Christ, you’re a humorless fuck.”
