I-95 - The Wheelman

THE EX-COP WAS A LUNATIC LOSER. BUT THEN AGAIN, Lennon had been sitting in a cell, plotting an escape, a way out, a way back to Katie, and he’d come up with nothing better.

Lennon needed to reach Katie if he did nothing else on this earth before he left it. So let the ex-cop’s greed lead the way. Lennon didn’t know where the Wachovia money was any more than he knew the location of the Holy Fucking Grail. But this ex-cop, Saugherty, didn’t need to know that yet. And dealing with one ex-cop was better than a stationhouse full of full-time police officers.

Besides, an extra man would come in handy when he went to the drop-off point and made those Italian fucks tell him about Katie. He could always just tell … or write, that is … Saugherty that this mob capo, Perelli, had the money. And they had to go through Perelli to get it back. Problem solved. Saugherty could be dealt with later.

Amazingly, no one gave a fuck when they just walked out the front door. Saugherty fed them some bullshit about “transferring the prisoner,” and that was it. No fuss, no muss. No one had identified him as the same guy who was taking shots at some cops over at Rittenhouse Square two nights before. Nobody blinked. Was this city for real? This guy Saugherty just flashed some old piece of plastic ID and they were out of there. Into a car. A blue Chevrolet Cavalier. They both climbed in without a word. Saugherty took them up one street, then turned right, blurring past some brick buildings with historical designations on them, then they were on I-95, headed north. America.

“Okay, you’re officially sprung. You can cut the shit and start talking.”

Oh Jesus. Here we go again.

“Look, you mick bastard. I know you can speak. I heard you. Right before you blew up my fucking house. You said something about arseholes. Which I really fucking love. The extra ‘r’ in there. Why not just say asshole? No fucking idea.”

Lennon, of course, said nothing. He couldn’t. Not that this cop would understand that. Just let him keep flapping his gums. It was more time to figure out a next move.

“Still the tough guy, eh? Look, really, cut it the fuck out. We need each other, otherwise you wouldn’t even be here. Here’s the deal. I’m taking us up to my hotel room. Now don’t get that look on your face. I’m not a fag. You’re not my type, anyway. I like men who can moan when I fuck them up the ass. Most you could do is scratch on the mattress. And frankly, that wouldn’t do it for me. It’s all about the audio.”

The white lane markers whizzed by at seventy miles per hour.

“Christ, you’re a humorless fuck.”

Lennon saw the city receding behind him and realized they were headed north. Or northeast. To the Northeast. Where this ex-cop used to live. If Katie were anywhere, she’d be south of the city, where those Italians operated.

He opened the glove compartment and a .38 snub-nosed revolver popped out. Lennon saw Saugherty’s eyes bug for a moment, but Lennon put up his palms to say, easy, now, not going for the blaster. With two fingers, he picked the gun up by the trigger guard and placed it on his lap. Then he rooted around until he found what he wanted: a pen and a stack of fast-food napkins. Well, the napkins weren’t exactly what he wanted, but it would do.

Find my sister, he wrote, and showed it to Saugherty.

“No, sorry,” the ex-cop said. “We gotta go back and get ready. We need hardware, and you need a fresh set of clothes. I need to finish my Early Times, even though the ice is probably all melted. Then we talk about the money.”

Lennon put the .38 to Saugherty’s head.

“It’s not loaded,” Saugherty said.

Lennon dry-clicked.

“See?”