Wheelman, The

he gave a shit. The bus wound its way around rough-looking streets, which quickly turned into trees and dark fields. A passing sign read ST. NEUMANN. Lennon stood up and the bus driver let him off in front of a three-story gray slab of a building.

The front entrance was guarded by two turnstiles and a sleepy-eyed student hunched over a thick literature anthology. No campus guards anywhere. Lennon slid the ID card through the turnstile; it clicked. The student didn’t look up. Past the lobby was a main hallway, and tacked to one of the bulletin boards was a directory.

A. Whalen was in Room 119. The hallways were deserted. After all, it was a Friday night in March. School was more than two months under way, and so were the parties. The room Lennon wanted had a push-button combination lock on it. Lennon lifted his foot—clad in one of Andy’s Sketcher boots—and pounded the door to the right of the lock. The door opened. Lennon didn’t bother to turn on the lights, or check the phone machine, or undress. He flopped onto the bed and closed his eyes.

The Mayor Dreams of Holmesburg

MCGLINCHEY’S WAS DRAPED IN HUGE PLUMES OF gray- tinged smoke, which was to be expected. It was 10 P.M. on a Friday.

“What’s this?”

“Take a look.” Mothers slid a sheet across the black Formica table.

Wanted by the FBI

Identification Order No. 744 565 D

Patrick Selway Lennon

With aliases: P.S. Lennon, Pat Lenin, Pete Thompson, Lawson Sel-way, Charles Banks, Ray Williams, “Len.”

Description

Born August 22, 1972, in Listowel, Ireland. Five feet eight inches tall, 170 pounds, with dark brown hair and blue eyes. Occupations: cook, laborer, clerk, writer. Scars and marks: one and half-inch horizontal scar on back of left hand, three-inch scar on throat, brown birthmark on right hip. Due to a throat wound suffered during a previous bank robbery attempt, Lennon is unable to speak.

Caution

Lennon is probably armed and should be considered extremely dangerous.

It was an FBI Wanted poster, freshly printed from the Internet, and Saugherty noticed that the date on it was tomorrow. The lieutenant was giving him advance copy. Saugherty read it. “This is the guy from the bank heist this morning?”

“One of them, yeah.” Mothers had a swallow of porter beer.

“I thought they were all black guys.”

“No, just one of them—Harrison Crosby. His partner was one of those Eminem wannabes, name of Holden Richards. And the getaway driver was this mick—Lennon.”

“Well, I hope the FBI catches them soon,” Saugherty said. “Golly, do I miss police work. Frankly, I don’t know how you can stand it. You want another beer? I’m thinking about one of those Memphis Dogs, too.”

“Yeah, I’ll have another. Stay away from those dogs, though. I’ve been coming here since those little colon bombs were only a quarter a piece, and I still regret every single one I ever ate. There’s something else about this guy Lennon.”

“What’s that?”

“You know that girl who got smacked by the getaway car?”

“Yeah. She okay?”

“She’ll recover.”

“And the baby?”

“Not a scratch. But the girl is somebody important.”

“To who?”

“To the mayor.”

“Who is she?”

“A political operative. Lives in Holmesburg, over on Leon Street.”

“I’m guessing he values her oral presentations.”

“To the tune of $20,000. Just for bringing this asshole down. Word went out this evening at the roundhouse. I thought you might be interested, seeing how you were looking to put a deck on the back of your house.”

“Nah, I’m past the deck thing. Now I’m thinking, feng shui. My whole house is out of spiritual alignment.”

“Costs a lot of money to realign your spirit.”

“Wait. It’s not called spirit; some other word. Chi. That’s it. My chi.”

“Chi whiz,” Mothers said. “So, Paul—can I tell the mayor you’ll be investigating this case on a freelance basis?”

“You can tell the mayor that I’m a big fan of Holmesburg, and that I’m always looking out for its residents.”

“The mayor will be pleased.”

“Patrick Lennon will not,” Saugherty said.

A swallow later: “The mayor doesn’t want him alive, does he?”

Funicular

THE CONQUISTADOR’S INTERNET ACCESS WAS DOWN. Katie had to hire a driver to take her to a nearby Internet cafe to check the Philly news—no mean feat. It wasn’t until late before the Inquirer posted the story. Bank robbery. Suspects still at large. $650,000 stolen. Promising leads, and the FBI promising a swift resolution. Which was complete bullshit. The FBI had no idea.

But then again, where was Patrick?

He hadn’t told her the exact flight number into Puerto Rico; instead, he said, she should enjoy the resort and casino and the swimming pool and room service until he got there. Warm sun, instead of crisp Pocono mountain air. Katie had rented one of the exclusive guest cottages down the mountain from the main hotel and casino. To get to your room, you had to ride a cable car the resort called a funicular. She must have ridden the funicular a dozen times, up and down, up and down, admiring the clear blue ocean views and lush foliage that draped the mountains, and then in the dark, the boat lights that shimmered in the distance. She kept hoping she’d see Patrick walk across the casino floor and smile at her, and she’d know everything had gone okay. And then she’d take Patrick’s hand and lead him back down the funicular—she’d probably joke about how many times she had ridden the fucking thing, and that it almost made her queasy, but that of course, hah hah hah, wasn’t the only reason she was queasy. She’d lead him into their guest cottage, then uncork the bottle of Vueve Clicquot she’d prepared for the occasion, and then when he was relaxed enough …

… and then what?

Katie didn’t know.

How do you put something like this?

She couldn’t read the novel she’d packed—some Lorene Cary book about Philadelphia during the Civil War. It was the book that the whole city of Philadelphia was supposed to be reading at the same time. But she couldn’t keep her mind on it. And she couldn’t check the Internet without having to hire a cab, and she’d already done that in the past forty-five minutes.