The House on Oregon Avenue - The Wheelman

SATURDAY P.M. [LATER]

“I can imagine them hitting the sack after one of those robberies, just laughing their heads off and having fun.”
—PSYCHOLOGIST FRANK FARLEY, ON BANK ROBBERS CRAIG PRITCHERT AND NOVA GUTHRIE

* * *

ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, IT WAS QUITE A BARGAIN: An empty row house in South Philly.

A doctor, with malpractice insurance problems and a suspended license, to attend to his multiple wounds.

Bottle of Jameson. Stack of frozen dinners and a small microwave.

Bottle of aspirin.

Plastic digital alarm clock.

Two pistols—both .38 Sig Sauers.

Six boxes of ammunition.

Price tag: $325,000.

Lennon had returned to Dominick’s restaurant that afternoon and put forth a straightforward business proposition, in writing: He needed food, shelter, and medical attention. In return, Perelli would receive $325,000, half of the proceeds from the Wachovia job, upon its recovery. He wrote that the Russians had his girlfriend, and that they demanded the money from the Wachovia heist or they were going to execute her. And their unborn child. Perelli was a father; Lennon didn’t think it would hurt to play on the man’s familial sympathies. He added that he had a plan to recover the bank loot, as well as bury the Russians. All he needed was time to recover and heal.

And think about his familial sympathies later.

Perelli agreed.

Perelli not only agreed, but had insisted on the suit, too. He got off on the whole idea of Lennon as a heister under his employ.

“A bank robber can’t be running around in a Father fuckin’ Judge sweatshirt, for fuck’s sake,” he’d said. “Did Machine Gun Kelly wear a sweatshirt? Did Johnny Dillinger?”

So when Perelli dispatched the unlicensed sawbones, he also sent along a guy to take Lennon’s measurements. The suit would be ready in a couple of hours, Perelli promised.

Lennon didn’t really care about the suit. He cared about getting Katie back, getting the money back, and getting the fuck out of Philadelphia. Then he would think about this baby thing. It was too much right now. In the meantime, he ate, he drank enough to dull the pain, he rested. He woke up when the doctor arrived, and tried not to cry out when the doc mauled sensitive parts. Listened to him tsk-tsk, then resume work. Cautioned Lennon against drinking. Whatever. Then the doctor scribbled his pager number on a blue napkin and left. Lennon drank more Jameson’s and fell back asleep.

The doorbell rang. It was a young kid, delivering the suit. A black Ermenegildo Zegna, from a shop called Boyd’s on Chestnut Street. Included was a dark blue Stacy Adams dress shirt, black socks with dark blue clocks on them, and a pair of black Giorgio Brutini shoes with a single strap buckle. Perelli had also thrown in a pair of sunglasses—Dior Homme by Hedi Slimane. The only items not plucked directly from the pages of British GQ were some undergarments by Hanes. Jesus fuck, tighty-whiteys. They must have been a personal favorite of Perelli’s.

Lennon took a slow, wince-inducing shower. His face was tragic-looking; in places, it had the pattern of a tie-dyed shirt in blacks and purples and blues. But he was pleasantly surprised to find that all of the clothes fit perfectly. Even the tighty-whiteys. He dressed himself, even putting on the Giorgio Brutinis. He loaded the Sig Sauers, then put one in each jacket pocket. He pressed two fingers against his carotid artery.

Then he lay down on top of the single mattress sitting in the middle of the empty master bedroom, and closed his eyes.

A few fevered hours later, his eyes popped open.

Three seconds later, the alarm went off. He was already dressed.

It was time to go.