No, Lennon headed east. Big surprise. The question now was: downtown Philly, near the scene of the crime, or right to the airport and up and out of here?
Well, Lennon wasn’t headed out of town on what he had on him, unless he had stashed a getaway bag in an airport locker. Saugherty had given him a thorough field stripping, and the guy didn’t have a dime on him. His little convenience store stickup couldn’t have netted him more than fifty dollars. Read the signs on the door. They’re telling the truth. Yeah, the only thing he stole from that 7-Eleven, as far as Saugherty could tell, was a bunch of calling cards and beef jerky.
Breakfast of champions. Although Saugherty wouldn’t have passed up a few sticks of beef right now. He was starving—the last thing he’d eaten were those fucking Memphis Dogs.
As predicted, Lennon took an exit that spat him out downtown. Saugherty almost lost him—Lennon took another sudden exit on the right, to Twenty-third Street.
Damn. The guy was returning to the scene of the crime.
The Bitter Taste of Blood
EVSEI FIEUCHEVSKY WAS NOT HAVING A GOOD MORNING. First, the news of his son. Involved with bank robbers, and now dead? How could his son do this? What had Mikal been thinking? Then the embarrassing mistake with the daughter of the fat Italian. Then finally, the arrival of the crazy bitch with a pistol, breaking into his home in Morrell Park and threatening his life unless he told her what they did with the bank robber.
The bank robber who had probably murdered his son.
Thank God his Dimitra wasn’t alive to see his shame.
During the assault, Fieuchevsky had merely held his tongue. He had decided to show patience with the crazy bitch. Let her rant and rave and spit and threaten. It did not matter. Soon, his employees—the ones who found Mikal’s truck—would arrive. Within thirty minutes, the crazy bitch would be dangling from the end of a meat hook in his garage, begging for a merciful conclusion to the proceedings.
But then the bitch actually paused to answer her cell phone, and without warning, beat Fieuchevsky into unconsciousness.
This was madness.
Madness, too, that his tan Naugahyde couch was streaked with his own blood. The crazy bitch had beaten him about the face, then wiped the blood clean on his furniture. His $4,000 set. Like it was Kleenex.
Fieuchevsky couldn’t decide who he’d enjoy seeing tortured more—the bank robber, or his crazy bitch.
He’d savor both.
Then, a name popped into his head. An outsider, who knew this sort of thing. A friend his son had once mentioned. “This finance guy I met, Dad? He used to rob banks. Just keep that bit on the Q.T.—he don’t like anybody knowing.”
Fieuchevsky picked up the phone.
Prelude
LENNON PARKED ON ARCH STREET, TWO BLOCKS AWAY from the lot. This Chevy sucked—he was glad to be ditching it. It could stay in Philadelphia and the two could rot together. From what he’d seen on the drive down, the city was already halfway there.
Call him bitter.
The moment he saw the Honda Prelude he could breathe again. Not that he was worried he wouldn’t—the only other two people who knew about the location and make and model of the car were both dead, decomposing in a tube down by the river. No, it was about reassurance on a cosmic level. That everything he touched didn’t necessarily have to turn to shit.
His shoulder was really worrying him now. It smelled funny, like Chinese food left on a kitchen counter too long. That meant infection. That meant trouble, unless he found a doctor who could prescribe antibiotics soon. The wound had pretty much closed and caked on itself; his shoulder would never be perfect, but at least he wasn’t bleeding out. On his personal pyramid of woes, the shoulder was the apex. That was followed by existential worries, of double crosses and bad luck and everything else mental. Below that was a thick base of bruises and contusions and cuts and sprains and everything else. Lennon had a feeling that if you were to remove every broken/ailing part of his body, all he’d have left would be two eyeballs and a spleen. Maybe not even the spleen.
But everything would heal. Money would help. Money and a plane ticket and a room at a resort hotel and a friendly doctor and good food and rest and music. That was it. And still a half a million left to live on. Spent frugally, that money could last Lennon until he was forty years old. Katie, too.
If Katie was still in the picture.
Lennon turned the corner, spied the lot. There was an attendant in the booth, but he was too engrossed in something perched in his lap. Not many cars were parked here on a Saturday morning, despite this being a long-term lot. This vaguely worried Lennon. He’d imagined more cars, burying the Prelude in a sea of pricier, sleeker cars with a higher street value.
He walked down the second row, where they’d left it. Nothing yet. It was probably down farther.
The row ended. Nothing.
Had to be the third row.
Halfway down the third row, the attendant took an interest in Lennon.
Lennon pressed two fingers to his neck, feeling for the carotid artery.
Steady now.
Steady.
On.
An Interlude in Nausea
KATIE THOUGHT BACK ON HER VISIT TO MORRELL PARK. It could have been handled better. Michael would definitely not have approved. Neither would Patrick.
Then again, Patrick was probably no longer alive, so what did it matter?
Unless that was him calling. And he was hiding out somewhere.
There was only one way to find out. Katie pulled her rented car over to the side of Grant Avenue and dialed Henry. On her public cell, not the emergency one. Her stomach did flip-flops, but she kept it together by breathing oxygen. Oxygen dispelled the nausea, if she tried hard enough.
“Hello?”
“Did you call me about twenty minutes ago?”
“No. But wait—don’t go. Let me get rid of this other line.”
Click.
Shit. Katie didn’t know what she was hoping to hear. That Henry had called, or that he hadn’t. If he really hadn’t, Patrick was somewhere. But then why didn’t he leave a message?
Because the stubborn bastard never left a message. It was against his religion.
Katie felt her stomach roil again, and she concentrated on breathing.
The line clicked back.
“Katie, where are you?”
She ignored the question. “Someone called me twenty minutes ago. On the other line. Only two people have that number. You and Patrick.”
“So then he’s fine. Tell me where you are, and I’ll send a car for you.”
“No. Help me think. Where would Patrick be?”
“I’m no good thinking over the phone,” he said. “You know that.”
“What good are you at all?”
Damnit, Patrick. Call again. Let me know what’s going on. Tell me I just didn’t pistol-whip a Russian gangster for no good reason.
“Look, girlie. I’ve had enough abuse for one morning. You know where I am. You want me to help you figure this out, stop by. And let me just add that since you’ve gotten knocked up, you’ve been nothing but moody.”