The Wheelman by Duane Swierczynski

hell was this about, anyway? This wasn’t the Russian mob. At least he didn’t think it was the Russian mob. The Russians would be more pissed. The guy sounded too casual. Too relaxed. Was this an associate of the big cop?
    “Okay. Here’s what I’m offering. I’ve got what you’re looking for. You let my guy there drive you out to see me, we’ll talk, and see what we can work out.”
    Lennon thought about this and quickly decided that it didn’t make sense. He was looking for a Honda Prelude with $650,000 in the trunk. If the guy on the line had the car and the money, why would he be trying to work out a deal? No, he was offering something else.
    “All I want is a little conversation. I’ll get you some medical attention, too—my guys say you look pretty fucked up. Get you a glass of wine, some good food, and you listen to my proposal. You don’t like it, you walk right out. I’m being straight with ya. Whaddya think?”
    Lennon knew this was bullshit, but he didn’t have much choice. He was standing in a parking lot with no Honda Prelude, and no $650,000. He had nowhere to go, except a prison or a Russian mafiya torture chamber or that steel pipe down by the river. He wasn’t about to flee town screaming yet. Not without that money. There was the off chance that this dipshit knew something. And he had to know something, because he knew where to find Lennon.
    “Okay. If it’s a yes, you mind handing the phone back to my guy?”
    Lennon gave the phone back.
    The guy on the other end said something.
    “Uh, no.”
    Something else.
    “No, man, I don’t carry that shit.”
    And something else.
    “Mace, man. That’s it. I got some Mace.”
    Jesus Christ, Lennon thought. How was it that, all of a sudden, his dim future seemed to lie in the hands of a Philly gangster on the phone and one desperately retarded man? Not that there was much difference between the two.
    Lennon tapped the guy on the shoulder.
    “Hold on,” the guy said.
    Lennon lifted his Father Judge sweatshirt.
    “Oh shit,” the guy said. “This guy is packing. Seriously. Like … oh man. What the fuck am I supposed … Hold on. He wants to go. So we’re like, going. See you in a few. Wait, wait, wait. Where do you live again?”
    Power 100 Party
     
    T HERE WAS A SMALL KNOCK. BEFORE WILCOXSON could stand, Fieuchevsky was up and answering the door.
    Katie’s face appeared in the doorway. She registered surprise when she saw Fieuchevsky, even more so when the Russian punched her in the face. Katie’s body flopped against the wall, then slid sideways down to the carpet. Fieuchevsky slammed the door shut, then grabbed Katie by the wrists and dragged her into the living room.
    “Jesus, Evsei. What are you doing?”
    “This bitch pistol-whipped me in my own home. I’m giving her a taste.”
    “You can’t do that.”
    Fieuchevsky looked at Wilcoxson. “Oh, I can’t?”
    “She’s pregnant,” Wilcoxson said. “A fall like that, she could lose the baby.” Not that Wilcoxson really cared, one way or the other.
    “Fuck her. She pistol-whipped me. And her husband killed my son. You think I give a shit about her baby?”
    “She’s not married. Besides, you don’t want her. You want Lennon.”
    “I want their entire families dead.”
    Crazy Russian bastard. Wilcoxson looked at Katie, sprawled on his carpet, blood streaming from her nose. Even unconscious, she looked beautiful.
    Wilcoxson had been in love with her since the first day Lennon had introduced them. Lennon had called her his “sister,” but Wilcoxson knew better. He’d met plenty of heisters over the years who had introduced him to many “sisters.”
    He had never met anyone like Katie before. Her smile set his soul at ease. She was shorter than he preferred. Her hair was a dirty reddish-brown, a far cry from the blondes he’d enjoyed over the years. And her body wasn’t quite the proportions he usually desired—thin, wide, thin, then wider. But somehow, Katie managed