Wheelman, The

—J. Kingston Pierce, January Magazine

“I may have to go take back yet another online article, the one for Salon about how crime novels were bad. I give [Swierczynski] high props for avoiding the sentimental hero stuff that bugs me in so many books. The writing and the dialogue were great, the Philly details and bank-robber lore tasty.”

—Ben Yagoda,

author of The Sound on the Page: Style and Voice in Writing

“If you like the distracted, short scenes of Ken Bruen, the bizarre characters of Elmore Leonard, and can tolerate the body count of Lee Child, you’ll devour Duane Swierczynski’s book in an instant … . It’s super-duper fast noir pulp.”

—ReviewingtheEvidence.com

“Oh, what style!”

—Kirkus Reviews

“Duane Swierczynski is one of the best new things to happen to crime fiction in a long time. A kick-ass writer with wicked cool skills and the instincts of a seasoned veteran. Keep your eyes on him. He’s going places.”

—Victor Gischler, Edgar-nominated author of Suicide Squeeze

“Fast-paced.”

—Publishers Weekly

“The Wheelman is a white-knuckle thrill ride that grabs you by the throat. Unable to put down from the opening sentence to the end.” —Brian Keene, Bram Stoker Award–winning author of

Terminal and City of the Dead

“I just plowed through The Wheelman like a senior citizen crashing through a farmer’s market. I loved it. Swierczynski’s sensibility’s so black, you’d need an ultraviolet light to see it. Lennon makes Westlake’s Parker look as soft as an Easter Peep.”

—Charles Pappas, author of It’s A Bitter Little World:

The Smartest Toughest Nastiest Quotes from Film Noir

Special Thanks to …

Sunshine, for debuting it.

The Pope, for inspiring it.

Tenacious DHS, for pimping it.

Marc, for buying it, editing it, vastly improving it.

Marsha, for believing in it.

Father Luke, for blessing it.

Meredith, Parker, and Sarah, without whom there would be no “it.”

And to My Heist Crew: Robert Berkel, John Cunningham, Becki Heller, Jessie Hutcheson, and the rest of Team Minotaur. J.T., K-Buster, Kafka, and the PointBlankers. Mark “the Man” Stanton. Simon Hynd and Micky MacPherson. Gary the Hat. Loren Feldman. Jason Schwartz. Rich Rys. Paul, Hickey, B.H., Lori and my co-workers at the CP. Mike “Rego” Regan. Tony Fiorentino. Deacon Clark. Mr. Aleas. Mr. Keene. Mr. Starr. The Other Mr. Smith (Anthony Neil). The Gischler. La Salle University. Wachovia Bank. And to all of my friends and family.

About the Author

DUANE SWIERCZYNSKI IS EDITOR-IN-CHIEF OF THE Philadelphia City Paper. A receipt for This Here’s a Stick-Up, Duane’s nonfiction book on American bank robbery, was found in the getaway car of a San Francisco bandit who’d hit at least thirty California banks. Duane lives in Philadelphia. Visit his Web site at www.duaneswierczynski.com.

READ ON FOR AN EXCERPT OF

THE BLONDE

BY DUANE SWIERCZYNSKI

COMING FROM ST. MARTIN’S MINOTAUR

NOVEMBER 2006

9:13 p.m.

Liberties Bar, Philadelphia International Airport

“I POISONED YOUR DRINK.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Um, I don’t think I did.”

The blonde lifted her cosmopolitan. “Cheers.”

But Jack didn’t return the gesture. He kept a hand on his pint glass, which held the last two inches of the boilermaker he’d been nursing for the past fifteen minutes.

“Did you say you poisoned me?”

“Are you from Philadelphia?”

“What did you poison me with?”

“Can’t you be gracious and answer a girl’s question?”

Jack looked around the airport bar, which was done up like a Colonial-era public house, only with neon Coors Light signs. Instead of two more airline gates in the terminal, they’d put in a square bar, surrounded by small tables jammed up against one another. Sit at the bar and you were treated to the view of the backs of the neon signs—all black metal and tubing and dust—a dented metal ice bin, red plastic speed pourers stuck in the tops of Herradura, Absolut Citron, Dewar’s, and a plastic cocktail napkin dispenser with the logo JACK & COKE: AMERICA’S COCKTAIL.

For commuters with a long layover, this was the only place to be. What, were you going to shop for plastic Liberty Bells and Rocky T-shirts all evening? The bar was packed.

But amazingly, no one else seemed to have heard her. Not the guy in the shark-colored suit standing next to the girl. Not the bartender, with a black vest and white sleeves rolled up to the elbow.

“You’re kidding.”

“About you being from Philadelphia?”

“About you poisoning me.”