The Bitter Taste of Blood - The Wheelman

EVSEI FIEUCHEVSKY WAS NOT HAVING A GOOD MORNING. First, the news of his son. Involved with bank robbers, and now dead? How could his son do this? What had Mikal been thinking? Then the embarrassing mistake with the daughter of the fat Italian. Then finally, the arrival of the crazy bitch with a pistol, breaking into his home in Morrell Park and threatening his life unless he told her what they did with the bank robber.

The bank robber who had probably murdered his son.

Thank God his Dimitra wasn’t alive to see his shame.

During the assault, Fieuchevsky had merely held his tongue. He had decided to show patience with the crazy bitch. Let her rant and rave and spit and threaten. It did not matter. Soon, his employees—the ones who found Mikal’s truck—would arrive. Within thirty minutes, the crazy bitch would be dangling from the end of a meat hook in his garage, begging for a merciful conclusion to the proceedings.

But then the bitch actually paused to answer her cell phone, and without warning, beat Fieuchevsky into unconsciousness.

This was madness.

Madness, too, that his tan Naugahyde couch was streaked with his own blood. The crazy bitch had beaten him about the face, then wiped the blood clean on his furniture. His $4,000 set. Like it was Kleenex.

Fieuchevsky couldn’t decide who he’d enjoy seeing tortured more—the bank robber, or his crazy bitch.

He’d savor both.

Then, a name popped into his head. An outsider, who knew this sort of thing. A friend his son had once mentioned. “This finance guy I met, Dad? He used to rob banks. Just keep that bit on the Q.T.—he don’t like anybody knowing.”

Fieuchevsky picked up the phone.