Living Expenses - The Wheelman

EVSEI HAD INSISTED ON THAT LAST BIT. PLAYING HIS son’s lame-ass song. Wilcoxson had tried to explain that Lennon wouldn’t give a shit, that Evsei should stick to the plan and make his demands as quickly as possible.

But the Mad Russian refused to bend. He had sent one of his guys into Intes Studios in the early morning hours to recover the unfinished digital recordings, and had spent some time listening through the rough tracks at home, crying and drinking Stoli and listening to portions again. This was my son, he’d said. That bank robber will hear what he destroyed. Evsei had tried to play some songs for Wilcoxson, but he had demurred, insisting that they’d better stick to their schedule, otherwise they risked losing Lennon.

Whatever.

“Let us get down to it,” Wilcoxson said from a master control booth equipped with a video monitor overlooking both the lounge and studio. “You committed a particular crime yesterday, one that resulted in the exchange of $650,000. To spare your girlfriend, you will bring that money here, and give it to Mr. Fieuchevsky.”

Wilcoxson watched Lennon’s face on the monitor carefully. He didn’t react, but he knew that inside, the guy had to be reeling. Wilcoxson badly wanted to make him flinch. Just once. Make him speak. Plead. Beg.

Instead, Lennon just stared at them.

Wilcoxson exhaled, then started speaking again. “Mr. Lennon, you don’t know—