Paterfamilias - The Wheelman

“SO WHO’S THE FATHER?”

“Mary, Mother of God,” she said, sighing.

“You’re not gonna tell me?”

“Yes, I’m going to tell you. But this isn’t how I’d planned it.”

“Ah. Right. Puerto Rico. He supposed to meet us there?”

“He’s there right now.”

“And why aren’t you there now?”

“I got worried.”

Lennon leaned his head back against the wall and shut his eyes. Katie was a few feet away, reclining on the mattress.

He didn’t want to say it, but he’d told her a million times: no matter what, even if I’m arrested, don’t come looking for me. I can take care of myself. That was Rule Number One. That had always been Rule Number One, ever since Lennon had reunited with his sister, and confessed to her what he did for a living. But Katie wasn’t much for rules.

“Do I know him?”

“No … not really.”

“So I fookin’ do know him. What’s his name?”

“Oh, Patrick.”

“His first name, at least.”

“You know, this really isn’t the way I imagined this. I had Vueve Clicquot. I had reservations. I had it perfectly planned.”

“Yeah, so did I.”

They sat there in silence. Mulling things over. Waiting for the doctor to arrive. Sunlight was starting to creep around the cheap fabric window shades.

“I’m going to have to find that money,” Lennon said, at long last.

“Why?”

“You’re going to need a crib.”

“Michael has … shit.”

“Michael? Fucking Michael who?”

Lennon spun through his mental Rolodex of pro heisters, but nothing came to mind. Common enough name, Michael. But he really didn’t know any. At least, he hadn’t worked with any Michaels in the past few years. Had he? Unless it was that … nah. Couldn’t be.

“Okay. Last name.”

“Never you mind. Keep your mind on the money. You hate being distracted in the middle of a job, remember?”

“Too fookin’ late for that.”

“Come on, Patrick. Don’t be a shithead. We can just walk away. Last time I balanced the checkbook, we were doing okay. This money was for the future.”

“I have more immediate needs.”

“Like what?”

“Like I need $350,000 to pay for this house and torn-up suit I’m wearing.”

“It’s a nice suit, but I think you paid too much for the house.”

Lennon chuckled, in spite of himself. It broke the dam. He could be himself with his sister. She was the only person in the world he felt comfortable around.

So he told her everything that had happened since Friday morning—the double cross, the attempted burial at the pipe down by the river, the dorm, the car theft, the rogue cop, the gunshot wound, the threats, the black guys with guns, the burning house, the 7-Eleven heist, the parking lot, the meeting with the junior-grade Mafioso, the deal, the trip to Wilcoxson’s condo … .

Lennon lapsed into Gaelic every so often, but Katie understood enough to follow. She had grown up in the U.S., and had a faint New England accent. Lennon had spent most of his time in Listowel, and then Dublin, before emigrating to the U.S., mostly to find his sister. Their parents had died years before.

“If you want the money, there’s one thing you have to do.”

“What’s that?” Lennon asked.

“Go back to the pipe, and see who’s buried there.”

“You’re thinking of Bling.”

“I’m thinking of Bling.”

Lennon sighed. “I’m not sure what I want more—to find his body, or not to find his body.”

“I think you want to find his body.”

That’s when the doorbell rang. Dr. Bartholomew Dovaz was back for the second time in a twelve-hour period.

“I’ll get it,” Lennon said. “But as soon as he leaves, you’re telling me which Michael defiled you.”