Now the Big Guy. What was going through his head? Maybe the Big Guy wanted the $650,000 for himself. But that seemed to be too low a figure to risk killing a former partner. Either Big Guy was stupid and greedy, or there was something else going on. Lennon leaned toward the latter. He thought about what the Big Guy said. This is going to be an extremely disappointing day for you. That meant he had other plans for Lennon. If it was just about the money, Big Guy would have commenced torture proceedings immediately. He didn’t. He went upstairs to call somebody. Who?
When the front door upstairs squealed and sets of heavy feet trampled into what Lennon imagined to be the kitchen, the answer came to him.
Shit.
Big Guy was in bed with the Russian mob.
Russian mob wanted the money.
Russian mob also probably wanted to talk to him about the dead boys in the pipe down by the river.
That’s why he was still alive. To be tortured later.
Lennon remembered the pistol in his hand. He squeezed the grip.
“Christ on a cracker,” Saugherty mumbled from the floor. “Sounds like a platoon up there.”
Lennon tried to count footsteps, figure out how many he was dealing with, but lost track. He looked around the garage, hoping for an answer. A way out. Anything.
“I don’t mean to be a downer, Pat, but I think you’re a dead man.”
Speed Loader
PATRICK SELWAY LENNON MIGHT BE A DEAD MAN, thought Saugherty, but I’m not.
They keep underestimating you. They underestimated you right off the force, and they’re still underestimating you now. Mothers, too, of all people. Shooting him in the chest. Mothers worked with him in the Fifteenth District back in the day. Mothers always teased him about not wearing his armor. Saugherty wanted it that way—the guy who said fuck you to Level II. Saugherty secretly wore it anyway.
He had noticed an interesting side effect to a steady diet of Jack Daniel’s and pounds of bacon and beef burgers with no bun: rapid weight loss. Fucking Atkins. Amazing. Saugherty lost the fat, kept the muscle, and wore the armor without anyone knowing. Saugherty wore it all the time. It was his second skin. It was damn near a fetish, if Saugherty wanted to be honest about it. One more secret. One more way they kept underestimating him.
Mothers popped him in the chest, just like a good cop is taught to do. Center of gravity. And yeah, the blow knocked the living shit out of him. But no permanent damage. Skin badly bruised, not broken.
Saugherty had faked his writhing on the floor, but only to a degree. The shit hurt. Thankfully, Mothers didn’t go for the insurance shot. Thought one bullet was all it would take. Now Saugherty was going to find out what was really going on.
Saugherty knew the mayor-porking-the-Leon-Street-chick thing was bullshit. The mayor was straighter than a grizzly’s dick: a proud Baptist from North Philly, goo-goo eyes in love with his wife of thirty-five years. He had other shit he was involved in—namely, this cash disbursement in the neighborhood, which was a cover for some debt he owed old friends. White trim simply wasn’t one of his vices.
At the time, Saugherty hadn’t really cared. Mothers was offering decent money for a quick job, and that was that.
But now it was suddenly something else. Something worth more than $325,000.
Something that involved a large number of accomplices.
Saugherty was doubly glad he had given his gun to the mute bank robber. Originally, he had thought it was over-insurance: distract Mothers long enough to get off a clean shot of his own. That’s right. Mothers hadn’t even checked him for a weapon. His belt piece had gone to the mute guy, but Saugherty had kept a snub-nosed pistol in a short holster perched at the small of his back. Mute bank robber squeezes off a few rounds; Mothers takes one or two but returns fire, and Saugherty clips him from below. Perfect.
Now, Saugherty realized, giving up his gun to the mute was going to be essential. Let him make the first move, take the first hits. Saugherty tried to concentrate on how many footfalls he heard, how many guys were with Mothers.
If he were forced to guesstimate, he’d say three.
Hopefully, the mute could take out one, maybe two, before getting clipped himself. That left at least two for Saugherty. Not a problem, if he could surprise them. Mothers first—he was probably the most dangerous—then the others.
Saugherty reached down and wrapped his fingers around the hidden pistol.
“Hey,” he called up to the mute. “Aim for the center of gravity.”
The $650 Insult
THE TWO FATHERS SAT TOGETHER AT A BOOTH IN THE Dining Car on Frankford Avenue, near the Academy Road exit of I-95. It was early, early—nearly 8:00 A.M. It had been a long night. A flurry of phone calls that had roused them both from their beds. Another round of phone calls to get the facts straight. And finally, two more phone calls to arrange this breakfast.
“How is your Lisa?” Evsei Fieuchevsky asked.
“Fine, fine,” said his guest, Raymond Perelli. “Your boys treated her fine.”
“That’s nice to hear.”
“And … your boy?”
Fieuchevsky grimaced. “Still missing.”
“Motherfuck.”
“Yes. Mother. Fuck.”
Lisa.
Mikal.
The fathers hadn’t known about the connection between the two.
Lisa Perelli had been dating La Salle University senior Andrew Whalen for three months—ever since the end of winter break, when one of Lisa’s friends had dumped Whalen and she was there to pick up the pieces. They got along famously. Lisa already knew Andrew’s ticks; she’d heard Kimberly complain enough about them. She knew how to circumvent them, use them, fashion him into what she wanted. Mostly.
By sheer coincidence, Andrew Whalen played in a rock band with Mikal Fieuchevsky, the son of a suspected Russian mafiya vor based in Northeast Philadelphia.
The Southeastern Pennsylvania Crime Commission did not see this as sheer coincidence. They had been wiretapping Andrew Whalen’s dorm and home phone lines since January 10, 2003, when news of the Whalen-Perelli affair first made it back to headquarters. The Crime Commission saw it as a direct link between the dying Italian mob and the leaner, younger, tougher Russian mob. The relationship was a ruse, they reasoned; Whalen got his dick sucked at least three times a week (according to surveillance tapes and photos), and in exchange, acted as an intermediary between Evsei Fieuchevsky, suspected mafiya vor, and Ray Perelli, a capo with what remained of the pathetic Philly mob, passing messages and instructions and sometimes cash. Ray “Chardonnay” Perelli treated his young messenger well, the Crime Commission discovered. Aside from the cock-worship courtesy of his daughter, Whalen was treated to a vintage Yahama DX7-II to use during gigs. A birthday present.
The Crime Commission was dead wrong. Andrew Whalen was aware of Mikal’s father’s somewhat dubious background, but had no idea about Lisa. All he knew was that she was a bit possessive, yeah, but she was also the most sensual woman he’d ever been with. High maintenance, but with excellent performance. It was worth it. It kept him coming back to her. The DX7-II hadn’t hurt, either.
“Here,” Fieuchevsky said, sliding an envelope across the maroon Formica table. “This is to make up for damage we might have caused.”
Perelli smiled. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I insist.”
Perelli made a show of refusing the envelope, but took it after a few moments and slid it into his jacket pocket.