Read The Wheelman for Free Online Page B

open. Once again, recent memories took their time returning. His aching hands felt the single bed beneath his body, and he knew he wasn’t in his own bed. He was in a small room. The pale light filtering through a window to his right revealed that much; there was a wooden dresser and a desk. A dormitory room. The name Andrew Whalen popped into Lennon’s head, then everything came rushing back.
    The steel cried out again, and something heavy thudded to the ground outside of his window.
    Lennon sat up, his deadened muscles protesting the motion, screaming for him to lie back down for another few minutes or months or years, but he had to see. He looked through the glass, which was protected by steel safety bars, and down one floor. There were three men dressed in black coats with knit black caps over their heads. One of them held a crowbar the size of an Arthurian broadsword.
    They had pried the bars off the window and were preparing to enter the room below.
    Andrew Whalen’s room. The Russians.
    Lennon had taken a chance and picked the room directly above Whalen’s. In a building like this, singles were likely to be placed on top of other singles, doubles on doubles, and so forth, so heat ducts and plumbing lined up. Whalen’s room was too risky—somebody was going to miss him soon enough and show up looking for him. Another single room was a smarter bet. People who lived in singles were either loners who went home on weekends, or seniors who had friends or girlfriends on campus elsewhere. It wasn’t Lennon’s safest move, but it was better than wandering the streets of a strange city, looking for shelter. His crew’s “safe” apartment in West Philly should be assumed compromised. There was no place else for him to go.
    Lennon watched the men enter the room. Then he heard a scream. But just for a brief second. He thought about trying to take a closer look, to see what he was up against. But he was in no condition for that. Better to stay here, regroup, rebuild, and work the problem with a fresh mind and body in the morning.
    Lennon rolled back over and went to sleep, trying hard not to think of Katie.
    Police Positive
     
    S AUGHERTY STOOD AT THE CORNER OF SEVENTEENTH and Market at 4:00 A.M., drunk off his ass, his belly full of beer and whiskey, thinking about bank robbery. I’m a bank robber, he thought to himself. Whoo-hoo-heee. I’m going to jack up this jug here, a Wachovia. Breeeeee-hawww. Where do I go afterward? If I’m a clever guy, I try to find my way out of the city without getting caught in any jams. This being Center City Philadelphia, good freakin’ luck with that.
    But the newspaper story Mothers had given him in the bar had explained that. The team was crafty—they’d set up phony window-washer horses all up the west side of Seventeenth Street, which allowed them easy access to JFK, and then to … to where? That was the $650,000 question. JFK led directly to Thirtieth Street Station and on-ramps for I-76, but that was one of the most congested points in the city. Smart guys like the Wachovia crew wouldn’t go there. But they were headed up JFK for a reason. Only a few streets lie between Seventeenth and Thirtieth—most of the streets in the Twenties were stopped because of train tracks and the river. Weehew, I’m a bank robber, where do I go?
    Saugherty looked in his wallet. He still had over $200 cash in there. Mothers had tossed him a line of credit.
    He hailed the next cab headed down Market Street. He was in no mood to sleep and no condition to drive.
    The Hookup
     
    T HE PHONE RANG. LENNON’S GUMMY EYES FLICKERED open. It took a second, but everything came back to him quickly this time. Most important, the reason for the phone ringing.
    The alarm he’d set had been tripped. Someone wanted back into the room.
    It hadn’t taken much. Lennon had scribbled a few words on a piece of paper, then taped it to the door of room 219: “Dude—I’m hooking up. Call first. PLEASE.”
    Lennon