The Second Fax - The Wheelman
By Duane Swierczynski
“LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE ALREADY,” HIS SOURCE whined.
“Come on. One lousy photo.”
“What, are you whacking off to crime photos over there? It’s just some stupid asshole who tried to knock over a bank with a phony beeper and a napkin from McDonald’s. Happens every day. Read all about it in tomorrow’s Daily News.”
“Come on. One lousy fuckin’ photo, Jonsey.”
“Am I bent over a desk? Are you tickling my colon, you asshole?”
“Come on.”
“You’re a son of a bitch, Saugherty.”
“I know, I know. You need the fax number again?”
A few minutes later, Saugherty knew that the Philadelphia Police Department had captured Patrick Selway Lennon, only they didn’t know it yet—unless the cops involved in Saturday night’s shoot-out happened to drop by the holding cell. Not likely. The buzzword on the Philly P.D.: understaffed, overwhelmed. The mayor had just whacked 1,400 jobs—among them, cops and firemen—from the city payrolls the previous winter. They made the best of what they had. The Wanted posters from Saturday night hadn’t even circulated, and the fingerprint hit wouldn’t come back for about an hour. If they could get to it.
Which gave him about an hour.
Shit. He’d barely recovered from the shock of the first fax and gotten another few sips of Early Times in when the scanner said something about a 211 down on South Street. Which made no sense whatsoever, but the last place Saugherty had seen Lennon had been only a few blocks south of South, at the Italian joint. So it did make a kind of cockeyed sense. Plus, his gut twitched the same way it had before. This was something.
He’d have to leave this tumbler of Early Times behind. Breakfast would have to wait.
Saugherty hopped in his borrowed car and drove down Cottman, hooked a left onto Princeton, hopped on I-95, and hoped the morning traffic snarls had figured themselves out. The roundhouse was all the way downtown, and he couldn’t be late. He had another quick stop first. He had a bag to pick up.