Breakfast in Bed - The Wheelman

MONDAY A.M.

“This bank, my sister could have robbed.”
—PATRICK MICHAEL MITCHELL

* * *

THE SAD TRUTH WAS THIS: LENNON WASN’T REALLY A bank robber. Sure, he’d taken part in countless bank heists. If you had handed him an application with a box that requested previous experience, and if you could somehow persuade Lennon to fill it out, he’d write “bank robber” in that box. But technically, Lennon had never robbed a single bank. He had merely transported bank robbers from one point (right outside the bank) to another point (another vehicle, or a safe house, or an airport, or a cave in the woods) in exchange for a cut of the money. Lennon was a master getaway driver. He’d read a ton about bank robberies. But still: he was not a bank robber.

So for his first solo robbery, Lennon picked the easiest target he could think of: a bank inside a supermarket. He’d read they were the easiest. Nobody wants to shop for doughnuts and cold cuts inside something that resembles Fort Knox.

His target: a SuperFresh on South Street, a long walk from the mob’s safe house in South Philly. Lennon had stolen a car from a few blocks away, then simply driven up Ninth Street until he saw the supermarket. It was a start.

But Lennon had no intention of robbing banks for that fat Italian gobshite bastard. He just knew he had to put his hands on enough money to appease the goons left behind at the safe house, spend two dollars of it on a screwdriver, then use it to get some answers. Then collect Katie and finally get the fuck out of Philadelphia forever.

He didn’t remember anything else useful from the previous night; the second blow had knocked him out cold. The next morning, Lennon had woken up alone in the same house, in the same bedroom, on the same mattress. He had tried out his voice; he still couldn’t use it. He wondered if those drops Dovaz had used were permanent. Wouldn’t that be a scream.

On the floor next to him was a typed note that read, “Eat breakfast and get going.” There were three Nutri-Grain bars and a liter bottle of spring water. The note continued: Make your daily deposit through the mail slot at 1810 Washington Ave.”

So the bastard had been serious, after all. Rob banks, hand him the money.

That’s when he saw that the note had been resting on something else—a piece of fabric.

No, not fabric—underwear.

Katie’s.

Lennon drank some of the water—which burned the living shit out of his throat—then put the bars in his jacket pockets and left the house. He stole a car, then saw the SuperFresh a short while later. Let’s get this over with already.