Disappointment City - The Wheelman

“NEVER SHOULD’VE TRUSTED THAT PRICK,” MUMBLED A voice from the floor.

The ex-cop, Saugherty, was still among the living.

“Christ, does this hurt. Least he had the courtesy to have me put down some plastic. That way, my shit won’t get messed up.” He started to chuckle, then groaned. “Ah, don’t make me laugh.”

Lennon listened. Waited.

“You still with me up there? I know you can’t talk or nothing, but how about a little cough? Maybe a grunt? A whistle? You don’t need vocal cords to whistle. Or do you?”

After some consideration, Lennon coughed.

“At long last. Real conversation. I feel like Helen Keller’s teacher.”

Lennon coughed again.

“You know, you’re one of the last great raconteurs, Pat. Brief, and to the point, but engaging nonetheless.”

Lennon coughed—impatiently this time.

“Okay, okay. I don’t know if I’m going to remain conscious much longer. I’m seeing gray splotches as it is. So, here’s the deal. I’m going to hand you my piece, and you’re going to try to shoot that double-crossing prick in the face.”

Well, now. Looks like it was going to be a disappointing day for someone else.

“You understand me? Knock on the table with your free hand. I forget which one it is from down here.”

Lennon tapped lightly with his right hand.

“Goody. Now I’m not going to try to bargain with you. I’m no fool. Just do me a favor. Man to man. You get out of this, you kill that prick, how about you let me live. Just leave me be, and I’ll forget about you.”

Whatever, Lennon thought.

“Honest. Cough if you understand. Hell, I don’t care if you lie. I just need to know you understand me. And I’m going to count on the fact that you’re a human being beneath all that.”

Lennon waited a moment or two—he sensed that Saugherty wouldn’t be satisfied unless Lennon appeared to be giving this some serious thought—then coughed.

“Enough said.”

After some grunting and mutterings, Lennon felt a smooth polymer Glock slide against his fingers. The piece thumped on the table. He reached out with his fingers and turned it around, then wrapped his hand around the grip. There.

Welcome to Disappointment City. Population: the Gobshite Bastard Upstairs.

“You got it?”

Lennon coughed.

“Okay. Good. I’m going to kiss floor for a while. Wake me up when the fun starts.”

Moments passed.

“Ah, Jesus,” Saugherty muttered. “Ah, motherfucker.”

It was a long wait. Whatever the big guy upstairs was doing, he was taking his time. Lennon badly wanted to ask Saugherty a few questions. Who was the guy? Another cop? He had the aura of cop about him. What were he and Saugherty planning to do? Probably torture the location of the $650,000 out of Lennon, split it, then get rid of him. This guy, Saugherty, didn’t have the stomach for the torture thing himself, so he called in a heavy-hitter buddy of his. Someone he thought he could trust. Someone he’d misjudged.

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.”