Carrying Charge - The Wheelman

WHEN THEY GOT BACK TO THE HOTEL, SAUGHERTY had to change his tighty-whiteys. He hadn’t actually known if that .38 had been loaded or unloaded; he’d borrowed the Cavalier from his bookie after his own car got torched. Could that Irish bastard tell the gun was unloaded from the weight? Who knew.

Lennon sat down in a chair by the window while Saugherty fished around in the black bag under his bed. He knew he had a spare set of clothes here somewh … yeah, here they were. Something he had filched from a drug dealer in Kensington. He threw the white bundle in Lennon’s lap.

It was a white tracksuit with gold piping. The logo on the front read, “I’m the Daddy.”

You’ve got to be fucking joking, said the look on Lennon’s face.

“Hey, least it doesn’t smell funny. Go ahead. Take a shower while you’re at it—you need one. I’ll get us some food. You want a drink?”

Lennon nodded and stood up.

“I’ve got Early Times, some fancy vodka, a bottle of Jack—”

Lennon nodded on the “Jack.”

“Jack? Coming right up. Neat or on the rocks? You’re probably a neat guy. I’ve got some liverwurst here, too. You in the mood for a sandwich? Probably. You don’t get a meal in the clink until late evening. I’ll make you one, hold the onion. You don’t need onion.”

By that time, Lennon was already in the shower.

Saugherty did some hard thinking. There were a lot of fancy ways around this; make this bank robber guy play along until he dug up the heist money. But why? Saugherty was honestly tired of thinking so damn much. His life usually ended up in shambles when he tried to get too cute. He looked over at the dresser and fished the faxed photo of the dead woman out of the pile.

The dead woman named Katie Elizabeth Selway.

No, no time to be cute. Let’s give honesty a spin, see where it takes us.

Right?

Hmm.

No.

No fucking way.

We gotta keep lying.

Saugherty pushed the faxed photo back into the stack. He scooped a handful of ice from the cooler to freshen up his Early Times, swirled it around, and drained the tumbler. Then more ice, more Early Times. He could use some coffee with this, to even things out. Food, too, though suddenly, he wasn’t in the mood for liverwurst sandwiches. Saugherty craved a Big Mac and large fries—cop food, his old drive-thru favorite. He knew he was somewhere in the twilight between a hangover and the next good hard drunk, and he had to stay there for a while. Maintain. Food would help him do that. Wait until this stuff was settled.

He needed to think.

“I’m going out for five minutes,” he called through the bathroom door. “I’d ask if you needed anything, but what would be the point, right?”