Easy Breakage - The Wheelman

LENNON WRESTLED THE WHEEL TO THE LEFT AND APPLIED pressure to the brake pedal. The Acura spun forty-five degrees, give or take a degree, so that it faced the wrong way on Seventeenth Street.

“Jesus fuck yo!” yelled Holden in the back.

“Hey,” said Bling. “Brother knows what he’s doin’.”

Brother knew exactly what he was doing. He just didn’t know how he was going to do it. The trick was shooting across Market Street in one piece. Lennon knew he had a fifty-fifty shot at a green light, which would make everything easy. A red light would be tricky.

Predictably, the light was red.

Lennon rationalized it. Only sixty feet across. Just sixty measly feet of Frogger. Lennon looked at Bling and nodded, then turned back and pushed down on the accelerator. The Acura jumped forward and raced through the first thirty feet. An SUV tried to cut him off from the last thirty, but Lennon swerved to the left, then cut back to the right and sailed through a parking meter and the traffic pole, directly onto the sidewalk, smashing through the first wooden horse they’d set up. He crashed the Acura through the rest of the window-washing gear—which had been loosened to ensure easy breakage—clear through to JFK Boulevard. Better the gear than innocent people. One hit-and-run victim was enough for one morning.

“Now that’s how you do it,” Bling said.

Lennon shot him a glance, then spun left onto JFK and raced forward all the way up to Twentieth Street, weaving in and out of cabs and Mercedes and Chevy Cavaliers. He pressed two fingers to his neck, feeling for the carotid artery. This was his favorite way to gauge stress. He was doing okay, all things considered.

Another rearview check: no flashers. Five blocks away from the bank and nothing. The first five blocks were always the hardest. Lennon took a hard right onto Twentieth Street, going north, then a quick left down a tiny side street that ran parallel to JFK.

Now here’s where Philadelphia geography gets interesting. Even after ripping out the Chinese Wall, some bits of the old city remained. Tiny streets and alleys that used to run through the industrial blocks sat right next to the new thoroughfares. One of those alleys was the key to the getaway plan.

The alley Lennon took was wide enough for a car, and led downhill. Right next to it, JFK continued at a level elevation and then turned into a small bridge that ran over the Schuylkill River and directly to the front doors of Thirtieth Street Station. This side alley dipped down to river level. Nobody ever drove on this tiny street.

No sirens yet. Anywhere. A good sign.

The Acura sailed down the side street, crossed Twenty-first Street, then continued to Twenty-second. Lennon made a quick right, then a quick left, and pulled into the parking lot. By this time, Bling and Holden had stripped out of their jerseys and windbreakers and shiny pants and tucked them, along with their guns, into an oversized plastic shopping bag. All Lennon had to do was slip off the window-cleaning uniform, which he handed back to Bling, who tucked it away.

The lot was a park-it-yourself deal. They pulled into a spot, gathered up everything out of the car, then walked over to the second car: a 1998 Honda Prelude. They tucked the plastic bag with their clothes in the trunk next to the canvas bag with the $650,000, tossed the keys in, and slammed the lid shut. Then they calmly walked back to Twenty-second Street to the third car—a Subaru Forester—which was parked on the street. There were still fifteen minutes left on the meter.

Lennon took the keys from his inner suit jacket pocket and pressed the orange button. The security system disengaged with a loud thew-WEEP WEEP. He pressed the blue button, and the locks popped. They climbed in, just three business guys carpooling to a meeting in the city.

Except they weren’t headed for the city. The gang was headed for Philadelphia International Airport, where they’d take separate flights to different resort hotels in various parts of the world. Holden was headed for a place in Amsterdam. Bling was looking forward to some time on the Left Coast—Seattle. And Lennon was headed for Puerto Rico, to the El Conquistador Hotel and Casino and to Katie, who would be waiting there for him. The $650,000 would stay parked in the trunk of the Prelude. It was a long-term parking lot.

In the first meeting, Holden had had a problem with that part of the caper. “You mean we’re going to let it just sit there? What if someone boosts the car?”

“Someone boosts that shit,” Bling said, “that’s fate. We move on.”

“You got to be fucking kidding me.”

“It’s the safest thing. Trust me—you don’t want to be caught with one buck from Wachovia on you. You get nabbed, they ain’t got nothing.”

“Shit,” Holden said. “Someone’s gonna boost it.”

“Nobody’s going to boost it.”

Hopefully, nobody was going to boost it.

Lennon pulled the Forester out onto the street, drove up to the parkway, then hooked a right around the art museum and caught Kelly Drive. He had spent a lot of time mapping out this part of the getaway. Lights—only three between the art museum and I-76—were timed; curves studied; proper m.p.h. noted. This was the tiny bit of science involved in Lennon’s job. After a few trial runs, Lennon knew that when the light at Fairmount Avenue and Kelly Drive flicked green, he had three seconds to achieve a speed of 38 m.p.h., which would take him to the I-76 entrance without interruption. Lennon was impressed with the city planners; they had obviously taken time to craft this roadway. On some roads, he had to slow down/speed up for particular stretches. Not Kelly Drive. Lennon practically fell in love.

Past the art museum, past Boathouse Row, then deep into Kelly Drive, Lennon finally felt his stomach muscles unclench. The needle of the Subaru was firmly pointed at 38. The rest of the getaway was academic. There was nothing in the car to incriminate them; there were no obstacles between their car and the interstate out of town to the airport.

Lennon smoothly took a curve, looking at the geese assembled by the side of the river. They’d been here a few weeks before, when he’d been scouting the job. A few of them honked. Goozles. That’s what Katie called them. Something from her childhood. The goozles honked and suddenly fluttered their wings in near-panic.

And that’s when Black Death came racing at them.

A van, with reinforced steel crash bumpers, rocketing out of the side of the road. Smacking right into Lennon’s car. Driver’s side.

The Subaru flipped at least six times. Lennon lost count after the first two.

His first thought: Grab the gun.

His second thought: I don’t have a gun.

They were all headed for the airport. He was headed for Puerto Rico. And Katie.

Glass shattered around his head, beads grinding into his scalp. The engine whined and complained and finally settled into a low hum.

Lennon had a limited view out of his side window. Grass—some burned, some green. Shoes. Walking toward the car.

There was a dull roaring sound. Lennon could smell his own burning clothes. The last thing he heard was himself, trying to scream.