Two Guns - The Wheelman

LENNON WAS LED THROUGH THE RESTAURANT AND hallway and kitchen to a back office. A heavyset man wearing a crisp white button-down shirt was sitting behind an empty desk. This wasn’t the man’s usual desk. He was just borrowing it. “You’re Lennon,” he said. “I can tell by the face. Man, you look bad. Have a seat. You want something to drink? There’s a pen and paper there. Write down what you want.” The parking attendant left without a word.

Lennon sat down, but he didn’t pick up the pen. He waited.

“Really. Go ahead. Anything you want. They’ve got a fully stocked bar here.”

He picked up the pen and the legal pad beneath it. He scribbled a few words on the surface, then flipped the pad to show his host: THE MONEY?

The guy smiled. “I’ll tell you right now, I don’t have your money. Did I give you the impression I had your money? I don’t think I did.”

In some ways, this was a relief. The $650,000 was still out there somewhere. Lennon scribbled some more. He turned the pad over.

ICE WATER. CHICKEN BREAST.

“That’s more like it. Get some food in your belly. If you don’t mind me saying, I’m assuming you don’t always look like a bum. Or smell like one.”

The guy picked up a phone, punched in three buttons, said “Come here,” then gave a teenaged boy in a white coat Lennon’s order. The guy specified Boar’s Head chicken breast, then turned his attention back to Lennon.

“You know, my daughter gave me a book last Christmas. What the hell was it called? Something like Outlaw Heroes of the 1930s. Guys in there were Dillinger, Baby Face, Pretty Boy, the Barkers, Al Karpis, all those guys. I like how it was titled ‘Heroes.’ Ever see it?”

Lennon had. He was a voracious reader of true crime and history—that’s how he had spent his wasted winter. Catching up on his reading, both crime stuff and a stack of science fiction novels. (Katie liked the sci-fi, too—Dick, Bester, Sturgeon—so they traded paperbacks back and forth at a feverish pace.) Outlaw Heroes was okay; nothing special. He remembered flipping through it on a lazy December afternoon. The guy clearly cribbed most of his stuff from other histories.

Lennon didn’t write anything on the pad. He preferred to listen. Sooner or later, this guy was going to get to the point.

“Okay. Maybe you don’t read much. You’re busy. I’ll get to the point. The Russian mob has your girlfriend. Intes Studios, down on Delaware Avenue. Suite 117.”

Lennon stared at him. Girlfriend?

“I can tell by your look that you might doubt me. Well, they told me to tell you to smell the roses. That make any sense? That’s supposed to be proof.”

Fucking hell.

These bastards had Katie.

“Smell the roses” was one of their in-jokes from years ago. One Christmas, Lennnon found himself at one of Katie’s girlfriend’s houses for a holiday party. There was a big guy there. Named Joe. Joe was a bit of an idiot. Physical trainer from Florida. He spotted Lennon in a corner and took it upon himself to bring Lennon out of his shell. (Lennon was actually embroiled in a getaway plan, spinning the details and arrangements around in his head. He always did his best thinking in large groups, while nobody paid attention to him.) After a few awkward attempts at small talk, the guy grabbed Lennon by his shoulders and shook him. “C’mon, man, open up and live! You gotta smell the roses, dude!” From that point on, “smell the roses” had cropped up in countless conversations. It became shorthand for people who didn’t understand The Life. It became shorthand for pretty much anybody who annoyed Katie and Lennon.

That meant Katie was here, in Philadelphia. And with some associates of the man behind this desk. Against her will, or perhaps otherwise. This didn’t make sense yet.

Then again, nothing from the past twenty-four hours made sense.

The guy opened a desk drawer and pulled out a revolver. A black .38 with rubber handgrips. He popped open the chamber, placed it on the desk, then slid it across to Lennon. A box of bullets followed.

“They’re expecting me to hand-deliver you,” the guy said. “But I figure you can deliver yourself. Am I right?”

Lennon took the gun and bullets, waiting for the punch line. There had to be something else.

“Drink your ice water, eat your chicken, then go do what you have to. When it’s done, feel free to come back here. I might have something else for you.”

Lennon balanced the gun and box in his lap, then scribbled a hasty question. YOUR PROPOSAL?

The guy read it and smirked. “Nah, no proposal. I changed my mind.”

Lennon stood up, gun and box in his hands.

“Don’t you want to wait for your food? No, I guess you wouldn’t. Tell you what. I’ll have ’em save it for you. Come on back later. Bring your woman. We’ll have dinner. Then we can talk. Maybe there’s some business opportunities for you in Philadelphia.”

Lennon left the office, but he still heard the guy talking behind him.

“Hey—you might want to use the back entrance. My guy said somebody followed you from the parking lot.”