Somebody tapped him on the shoulder.
“Hey, buddy—what you lookin’ at over there?”
Saugherty turned to face the guy standing to his right. The man was big and pasty, with oversized tortoiseshell glasses and a bushy black moustache.
Saugherty opened his mouth to speak, but he didn’t have the chance to answer the question. A fist smashed his nose, and then another hit the back of his head as he slid off of the stool. Saugherty held up a hand to protest, but somebody grabbed it by the wrist, then snapped his forearm in half.
After that, he lost track of the fists and shoes.
A Killing in the Sun
THE CONVERTED WAREHOUSE SEEMED DESERTED—NO lights on in the windows, no cars in the small parking lot to the left. But Lennon knew the place had to be lousy with Russians. Especially after this morning. They were probably lined up, waiting to take turns. Russian brothers, friends, fathers. With guns. Knives. Probably chainsaws and rabid attack dogs, too.
And Katie.
How did they find her so quickly? Or put the two of them together, for that matter? Next to no one knew anything about Lennon’s family. Bling knew, but Bling was dead. The Russians had worked the network fast. That, or Katie had somehow heard the heist had gone wrong, and somehow figured out that the Russians were behind it, and went looking for payback, and now this. But that was a lot of somehows and maybes.
The other troubling possibility, of course, was that Katie was part of this whole setup, and was using herself as bait to lure Lennon out in the open so that he could be killed.
Either way, not cheery thoughts.
Neither was the fact that the Italian gangster back there had pretty much handed him a gun and told him to go kill a bunch of Russians. Likely, enemies in some Philadelphia turf war. Lennon didn’t want to be in the middle of that shit.
Now, standing in the bright sun that baked Delaware Avenue, Lennon had nothing but these thoughts … and two loaded guns. If this were an action thriller, Lennon supposed he would also happen to be a master burglar, and would know how to sneak into virtually any building. But Lennon was not a burglar—he was a getaway driver. The studio looked huge, and probably had a dozen side entrances, but Lennon had no idea how to navigate any of them. He didn’t know any Vietnam-style diversionary tactics.
Lennon pressed two fingers to his neck.
Ah, fuck it, he thought.
He pressed the buzzer next to the tag marked INTES STUDIOS.
The intercom crackled. “Yes?”
“Yo,” Lennon said, in his best Philly accent. “We gotcher guy out heah.”
“Yes, bring him in, please. Down the hall, to your right.” There was a sharp buzz, and a lock mechanism opened.
Okay then.
Plastic signs directed Lennon through a lobby, down a slender hallway, to the right, and to another right. The doors marked INTES were already propped open with wooden shims. Inside was a lounge, and beyond that, a window-paneled recording studio.
Lennon had both guns in his hands and was ready to start blasting at will. But he wasn’t ready for what awaited him inside the studio.
There was only one guy, standing inside a glass recording booth. A tall, swarthy man with gray hair slicked back on his thick skull, pointing a shotgun at him.
There was a tiny static pop, and a voice came over the speakers.
“Hello, Mr. Lennon.”
It wasn’t the guy standing there. The voice was distorted, warped. Its owner was nowhere in sight.
Lennon aimed his guns at the man in front of him anyway. Even though it was an awful shot, going through glass. These Russians probably planned it that way. He didn’t have much of a chance of hitting him, not with shattering glass knocking his bullets out of line. And long before that, the man could easily pull his trigger and spray Lennon with a cone-shaped burst. Not to mention there were probably other gunmen hidden around the room, keeping their sights trained on him. It was a turkey shoot. Lennon was the turkey.
“We work for Evsei Fieuchevsky. His son, Mikal, is missing. You were one of the last people to see him.”
That voice. Even with the distortion, Lennon could tell it wasn’t Russian. The diction was too clean. It also had a nagging familiarity. Lennon recognized not the tone, but the way this guy put words together. He couldn’t quite place it.
“Mr. Fieuchevsky has your girlfriend at another location. He very badly wants his son back.”
Lennon darted his eyes around the studio, looking for a mirror that could be two-way. The speaker was watching him. Waiting for reactions.
“Before we discuss terms, Mr. Fieuchevksy would like to play something for you. A love song.”
A what?
There was a click, a slight hiss over the speakers, and then a man coughing. “Okay,” the voice, presumably on a tape, said. “‘Life,’ take five.” A run of guitar notes, then silence, then loud strumming at a march tempo, almost like a funeral dirge. A minor chord. After two bars, a fuzzy bass and a muted drum machine kicked in. Then vocals:
I can see the writing on the wall
When I hear you coming down the hall
Have you finished all that you’ve begun?
I can feel my life coming undone
The song continued, but the volume dropped low, so that it played over the background.
“That song, ‘Life Come Undone,’ was written and performed by Mikal Fieuchevsky. It was one of many tracks from the album he had been recording during the past few weeks.”
The song continued beneath the speaker’s voice, almost as if a bizarre spoken-word segment had been appended to the middle of the recording.
“You see, Mr. Lennon, Mikal isn’t just this man’s son. He’s the future of rock music. And you’d better pray to God he is alive and well.”
Lennon stared at the quiet Russian through the glass. From the sound of that piece of shite, he thought, it’s probably better he stays missing.
Living Expenses
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.