Wheelman, The

Lennon saw the city receding behind him and realized they were headed north. Or northeast. To the Northeast. Where this ex-cop used to live. If Katie were anywhere, she’d be south of the city, where those Italians operated.

He opened the glove compartment and a .38 snub-nosed revolver popped out. Lennon saw Saugherty’s eyes bug for a moment, but Lennon put up his palms to say, easy, now, not going for the blaster. With two fingers, he picked the gun up by the trigger guard and placed it on his lap. Then he rooted around until he found what he wanted: a pen and a stack of fast-food napkins. Well, the napkins weren’t exactly what he wanted, but it would do.

Find my sister, he wrote, and showed it to Saugherty.

“No, sorry,” the ex-cop said. “We gotta go back and get ready. We need hardware, and you need a fresh set of clothes. I need to finish my Early Times, even though the ice is probably all melted. Then we talk about the money.”

Lennon put the .38 to Saugherty’s head.

“It’s not loaded,” Saugherty said.

Lennon dry-clicked.

“See?”

Carrying Charge

WHEN THEY GOT BACK TO THE HOTEL, SAUGHERTY had to change his tighty-whiteys. He hadn’t actually known if that .38 had been loaded or unloaded; he’d borrowed the Cavalier from his bookie after his own car got torched. Could that Irish bastard tell the gun was unloaded from the weight? Who knew.

Lennon sat down in a chair by the window while Saugherty fished around in the black bag under his bed. He knew he had a spare set of clothes here somewh … yeah, here they were. Something he had filched from a drug dealer in Kensington. He threw the white bundle in Lennon’s lap.

It was a white tracksuit with gold piping. The logo on the front read, “I’m the Daddy.”

You’ve got to be fucking joking, said the look on Lennon’s face.

“Hey, least it doesn’t smell funny. Go ahead. Take a shower while you’re at it—you need one. I’ll get us some food. You want a drink?”

Lennon nodded and stood up.

“I’ve got Early Times, some fancy vodka, a bottle of Jack—”

Lennon nodded on the “Jack.”

“Jack? Coming right up. Neat or on the rocks? You’re probably a neat guy. I’ve got some liverwurst here, too. You in the mood for a sandwich? Probably. You don’t get a meal in the clink until late evening. I’ll make you one, hold the onion. You don’t need onion.”

By that time, Lennon was already in the shower.

Saugherty did some hard thinking. There were a lot of fancy ways around this; make this bank robber guy play along until he dug up the heist money. But why? Saugherty was honestly tired of thinking so damn much. His life usually ended up in shambles when he tried to get too cute. He looked over at the dresser and fished the faxed photo of the dead woman out of the pile.

The dead woman named Katie Elizabeth Selway.

No, no time to be cute. Let’s give honesty a spin, see where it takes us.

Right?

Hmm.

No.

No fucking way.

We gotta keep lying.

Saugherty pushed the faxed photo back into the stack. He scooped a handful of ice from the cooler to freshen up his Early Times, swirled it around, and drained the tumbler. Then more ice, more Early Times. He could use some coffee with this, to even things out. Food, too, though suddenly, he wasn’t in the mood for liverwurst sandwiches. Saugherty craved a Big Mac and large fries—cop food, his old drive-thru favorite. He knew he was somewhere in the twilight between a hangover and the next good hard drunk, and he had to stay there for a while. Maintain. Food would help him do that. Wait until this stuff was settled.

He needed to think.

“I’m going out for five minutes,” he called through the bathroom door. “I’d ask if you needed anything, but what would be the point, right?”

Stacks o’ Fax

LENNON SAT DOWN AT THE DESK AND IGNORED THE LIVERWURST sandwich. Instead he sipped his Jack. Not his usual drink—he enjoyed a good single malt when he was kicking back off the job. Even a little Jameson to cap off an evening. But it would do. Jack was in the same liquor family. And as far as being on or off the job, who knew? At some point he had crossed a line. The job had formally ended. This was recovery.

On the desk was a stack of file folders. Lennon took the top one and flipped it open. A police report. Interview with a suspect, a thermal fax of fingerprints, then pages of typed transcript. What was this stuff?

Saugherty was a cop—or an ex-cop. He knew that much. Was this stuff freelance? He started thumbing through the pages to kill time. A lot of stuff on drug dealers. Transcripts, evidence photos. Not just one case, either. A bunch of them, scrambled together.

There was a photo here. A guy in dreadlocks with scars all over his forehead and cheeks. Looked like Seal’s uglier cousin.

Another photo: a young woman with mousy hair and a weak chin. Even though the picture was black and white, her eyes looked like they glowed.

Another photo still: an older man. Bony and gray-haired. Looked like Terence Stamp. If Terence Stamp needed a shave and a hug.

Another photo …

Target Bag

SAUGHERTY KEYED BACK INTO THE HOTEL ROOM, mouth full OF Mickey D’s French fries, then for the second time that day nearly defiled himself.

The image before him unpacked itself in a fragmented, Dick-and-Jane style in Saugherty’s brain. See Lennon. See Lennon look at faxed crime photos. See Lennon look at dead Katie Elizabeth Selway photo.

See Lennon snap Saugherty’s neck.

The mute looked up at him. And while he didn’t smile, the way he curled his lip indicated to Saugherty that all was cool. Lennon didn’t know yet. If he had, it would have been obvious in his eyes. What’s more, Lennon would have probably gut-shot him where he stood. Saugherty would have bled to death with a face full of fries.

“Hey,” he said.

Lennon nodded, then turned back to the stack of papers.

“Got you a grilled McChicken sandwich. Figured you were into this Atkins shit, from the looks of you.”

Pause. Maybe he wasn’t Atkins after all. Maybe he should’ve bought the guy a Quarter Pounder. Or a Happy Meal.

Spin, Saugherty, Spin.

“What you’re looking at there is the sad remnants of a career in law enforcement. Yeah, it’s true. Took it right from the filing cabinets down at the roundhouse. No one cared. Everything fit into a plastic bag from Target. Walked them right out of there.”

Lennon was still flipping, idly.

“Thing is, my ex-partner was crooked. What you have in front of you there is the remnants of hundreds of