Let’s Have a Drink - The Wheelman

“HEY THERE.”

Lennon listened. “You’re the guy I’m looking for, aren’t you? The bank heister?”

Lennon listened.

“Now I know you can’t answer. Poster says you’re a mute. So what we’re going to do is this. You listen up, and then hand the phone back to my guy there. If you agree, nod your head and he’ll tell me. Okay? If not, just don’t do anything, and he’ll tell me that.”

The attendant looked bored.

Lennon listened. What the hell was this about, anyway? This wasn’t the Russian mob. At least he didn’t think it was the Russian mob. The Russians would be more pissed. The guy sounded too casual. Too relaxed. Was this an associate of the big cop?

“Okay. Here’s what I’m offering. I’ve got what you’re looking for. You let my guy there drive you out to see me, we’ll talk, and see what we can work out.”

Lennon thought about this and quickly decided that it didn’t make sense. He was looking for a Honda Prelude with $650,000 in the trunk. If the guy on the line had the car and the money, why would he be trying to work out a deal? No, he was offering something else.

“All I want is a little conversation. I’ll get you some medical attention, too—my guys say you look pretty fucked up. Get you a glass of wine, some good food, and you listen to my proposal. You don’t like it, you walk right out. I’m being straight with ya. Whaddya think?”

Lennon knew this was bullshit, but he didn’t have much choice. He was standing in a parking lot with no Honda Prelude, and no $650,000. He had nowhere to go, except a prison or a Russian mafiya torture chamber or that steel pipe down by the river. He wasn’t about to flee town screaming yet. Not without that money. There was the off chance that this dipshit knew something. And he had to know something, because he knew where to find Lennon.

“Okay. If it’s a yes, you mind handing the phone back to my guy?”

Lennon gave the phone back.

The guy on the other end said something.

“Uh, no.”

Something else.

“No, man, I don’t carry that shit.”

And something else.

“Mace, man. That’s it. I got some Mace.”

Jesus Christ, Lennon thought. How was it that, all of a sudden, his dim future seemed to lie in the hands of a Philly gangster on the phone and one desperately retarded man? Not that there was much difference between the two.

Lennon tapped the guy on the shoulder.

“Hold on,” the guy said.

Lennon lifted his Father Judge sweatshirt.

“Oh shit,” the guy said. “This guy is packing. Seriously. Like … oh man. What the fuck am I supposed … Hold on. He wants to go. So we’re like, going. See you in a few. Wait, wait, wait. Where do you live again?”