The Wheelman Read Online Free PDF

know what had happened. Ordinarily, Lennon would be sick that she’d be worried sick. But he couldn’t do that now. He had to rest and heal. Then think.
    The Benjamin Franklin Bridge spat Lennon out just above Old City Philadelphia, a former slum that had been rehabbed in time for the 1976 bicentennial celebrations and was now enjoying a turn-of-the-century renaissance of hip restaurants, bars, coffee shops, and art galleries. Lennon didn’t care about any of that right now. He was consulting the Philly map he’d stored in his brain. There was supposed to be a subway terminus at Second and Market, which he could take to City Hall and transfer to another subway line, which in turn would spit him out in the north part of the city, near La Salle University.
    Once he found Second Street, the rest was easy. Lennon hopped the turnstile just as a steel train rocketed into the station. The Market-Frankford El. He boarded it, avoided all stares, and rode it thirteen blocks to City Hall, where there was the free transfer—exactly as the maps had said—into an even grimier subway line. The printed map on the train wall told him that the correct stop for La Salle was Olney, just a few stops from the end of the line.
    He emerged from the station and saw a white and blue painted bus with a thick “L” painted on the side. Campus bus. Lennon showed Andy’s ID card to the driver, who gave him a funny look but didn’t say anything. Like he gave a shit. The bus wound its way around rough-looking streets, which quickly turned into trees and dark fields. A passing sign read ST. NEUMANN. Lennon stood up and the bus driver let him off in front of a three-story gray slab of a building.
    The front entrance was guarded by two turnstiles and a sleepy-eyed student hunched over a thick literature anthology. No campus guards anywhere. Lennon slid the ID card through the turnstile; it clicked. The student didn’t look up. Past the lobby was a main hallway, and tacked to one of the bulletin boards was a directory.
    A. Whalen was in Room 119. The hallways were deserted. After all, it was a Friday night in March. School was more than two months under way, and so were the parties. The room Lennon wanted had a push-button combination lock on it. Lennon lifted his foot—clad in one of Andy’s Sketcher boots—and pounded the door to the right of the lock. The door opened. Lennon didn’t bother to turn on the lights, or check the phone machine, or undress. He flopped onto the bed and closed his eyes.
    The Mayor Dreams of Holmesburg
     
    M CGLINCHEY’S WAS DRAPED IN HUGE PLUMES OF gray-tinged smoke, which was to be expected. It was 10 P.M. on a Friday.
    “What’s this?”
    “Take a look.” Mothers slid a sheet across the black Formica table.

    Wanted by the FBI
    Identification Order No. 744 565 D
     
    Patrick Selway Lennon
    With aliases: P.S. Lennon, Pat Lenin, Pete Thompson, Lawson Sel-way, Charles Banks, Ray Williams, “Len.”
     
    Description
    Born August 22, 1972, in Listowel, Ireland. Five feet eight inches tall, 170 pounds, with dark brown hair and blue eyes. Occupations: cook, laborer, clerk, writer. Scars and marks: one and half-inch horizontal scar on back of left hand, three-inch scar on throat, brown birthmark on right hip. Due to a throat wound suffered during a previous bank robbery attempt, Lennon is unable to speak.
     
    Caution
    Lennon is probably armed and should be considered extremely dangerous.
     

    It was an FBI Wanted poster, freshly printed from the Internet, and Saugherty noticed that the date on it was tomorrow. The lieutenant was giving him advance copy. Saugherty read it. “This is the guy from the bank heist this morning?”
    “One of them, yeah.” Mothers had a swallow of porter beer.
    “I thought they were all black guys.”
    “No, just one of them—Harrison Crosby. His partner was one of those Eminem wannabes, name of Holden Richards. And the getaway driver was this mick—Lennon.”
    “Well, I hope the