I.P.B. - The Wheelman

THE MOMENT RAY “CHARDONNAY” PERELLI LEFT THE Dining Car, he called his lawyer, Donovan Platt.

“How do I find somebody?”

“It would help if you could be a little more specific, Ray.”

“I need to find a bank robber.”

“A specific one, or any old bank robber?”

“Specific one.”

Pause. “This guy do the Wachovia job yesterday?”

“Yeah.”

Platt whistled. “What, are you trying to earn your Boy Scout merit badge thirty years too late?”

“Fuck you, you bagadonuts.”

“Hey, calm down. You know what—don’t tell me why. Who am I to ask why, right? You want to find this guy, try the usual places.”

“Like where?”

“These pro heist guys are predictable. If he’s still in the city, it’s because the money is still in the city. Try long-term parking lots, bus station lockers, storage joints. If he’s trying to get out of the city, he’ll be at the airport—which makes him a bit easier to track—or driving, which makes it impossible. While these guys are predictable, they’re not easy to track down. The whole point is to blend into the background and slip out as quickly as possible.”

“Wait, wait. Parking lots, bus stations, you said?”

“Yeah, Ray. Anyplace where you can hide stuff without raising eyebrows.”

“Okay. Thanks, Don.”

“Can I ask … geez, should I even ask?”

“Ask what?”

“Ask what you need a bank robber for.”

“Don’t ask, Don. Catch ya later.”

The Italian mob in Philadelphia was dealt a series of death blows in the early 1980s, but hung on through that decade and most of the decade after. Then right before 9/11, a blistering series of federal indictments destroyed the remaining leadership.

Within months, nine players and associates were shipped off to various federal lockups across the country to eat shitty food and work menial jobs that paid thirty-five cents an hour.

Within a few years, all that remained of the Philly mob was a motley collection of mid-level capos who wanted to rule what remained and small-time hoods who fancied themselves gangsters. They had the suits, but none of the muscle to fill them out. They had the small-time scams, but none of the brains to make them mean anything.

All that remained of the Philadelphia mob, actually, was a fairly efficient communication system, older and more secure than Ma Bell. The old guys, the new guys, the mid-level guys, they all talked. That’s all there was to do. Talk.

So when Ray Perelli decided to put out an APB on the bank robber the Russians wanted so badly, it didn’t take long for the word to get out. Especially because it involved the Russians. And shoving it up their vodka-drinking asses.

Within fifty minutes, Perelli received word that a strange guy was poking around a long-term parking lot down beneath the JFK overpass near Twenty-second Street. Perelli called the attendant, who was a cousin of a friend of his next-door neighbor, working his way through his sophomore year at Tyler Art School. What tipped the attendant off was the fact that the guy didn’t talk—didn’t the heister lose his voice? Perelli promised the guy next semester’s art books if he could keep the guy there in the lot. “How am I supposed to do that?” the attendant asked.

Jesus, Perelli thought. Kids don’t want to work for shit these days. “Put him on the phone,” he said.

Which is how Perelli found the bank robber that the Russians couldn’t. The Russians didn’t know the city. They hadn’t been here long enough.

Fuck those Russians, Perelli thought. Fuck them up their stupid asses.