Read Online The Wheelman by Duane Swierczynski - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Duane Swierczynski
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near the Academy Road exit of I-95. It was early, early—nearly 8:00 A.M. It had been a long night. A flurry of phone calls that had roused them both from their beds. Another round of phone calls to get the facts straight. And finally, two more phone calls to arrange this breakfast.
“How is your Lisa?” Evsei Fieuchevsky asked.
“Fine, fine,” said his guest, Raymond Perelli. “Your boys treated her fine.”
“That’s nice to hear.”
“And … your boy?”
Fieuchevsky grimaced. “Still missing.”
“Motherfuck.”
“Yes. Mother. Fuck.”
Lisa.
Mikal.
The fathers hadn’t known about the connection between the two.
Lisa Perelli had been dating La Salle University senior Andrew Whalen for three months—ever since the end of winter break, when one of Lisa’s friends had dumped Whalen and she was there to pick up the pieces. They got along famously. Lisa already knew Andrew’s ticks; she’d heard Kimberly complain enough about them. She knew how to circumvent them, use them, fashion him into what she wanted. Mostly.
By sheer coincidence, Andrew Whalen played in a rock band with Mikal Fieuchevsky, the son of a suspected Russian mafiya vor based in Northeast Philadelphia.
The Southeastern Pennsylvania Crime Commission did not see this as sheer coincidence. They had been wiretapping Andrew Whalen’s dorm and home phone lines since January 10, 2003, when news of the Whalen-Perelli affair first made it back to headquarters. The Crime Commission saw it as a direct link between the dying Italian mob and the leaner, younger, tougher Russian mob. The relationship was a ruse, they reasoned; Whalen got his dick sucked at least three times a week (according to surveillance tapes and photos), and in exchange, acted as an intermediary between Evsei Fieuchevsky, suspected mafiya vor, and Ray Perelli, a capo with what remained of the pathetic Philly mob, passing messages and instructions and sometimes cash. Ray “Chardonnay” Perelli treated his young messenger well, the Crime Commission discovered. Aside from the cock-worship courtesy of his daughter, Whalen was treated to a vintage Yahama DX7-II to use during gigs. A birthday present.
The Crime Commission was dead wrong. Andrew Whalen was aware of Mikal’s father’s somewhat dubious background, but had no idea about Lisa. All he knew was that she was a bit possessive, yeah, but she was also the most sensual woman he’d ever been with. High maintenance, but with excellent performance. It was worth it. It kept him coming back to her. The DX7-II hadn’t hurt, either.
“Here,” Fieuchevsky said, sliding an envelope across the maroon Formica table. “This is to make up for damage we might have caused.”
Perelli smiled. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I insist.”
Perelli made a show of refusing the envelope, but took it after a few moments and slid it into his jacket pocket.
“There anything I can do for you?”
Now it was Fieuchevsky’s turn to lay on the fake warm smile. “No, no. Our business is done. Enjoy your chipped beef.”
“Hey, I wanna help.”
This dance continued throughout Perelli’s chipped beef—or, as he liked to call it, “shit on a shingle”—and Fieuchevsky’s tomato omelet and three orders of bacon and Stoli on the rocks. It was awkward and ingratiating and cautious. It finally wound down to a graceful conclusion when Fieuchevsky slid an FBI Wanted poster, folded in threes, across the table.
“If you, or any of your people, have occasion to see this man,” he explained, “I would be most appreciative to have a word with him first.”
Perelli took the poster and slid it into his pocket. “I’d be delighted.”
Fieuchevsky thought, Slovenly dago bastard couldn’t find his cock under rolls of his meatball fat.
Perelli thought, Russian pricks are losing it. Time to get back into the game.
A cell phone chirped. It was Fieuchevsky’s. He listened, then told Perelli that he had to be going. Perelli suddenly
“How is your Lisa?” Evsei Fieuchevsky asked.
“Fine, fine,” said his guest, Raymond Perelli. “Your boys treated her fine.”
“That’s nice to hear.”
“And … your boy?”
Fieuchevsky grimaced. “Still missing.”
“Motherfuck.”
“Yes. Mother. Fuck.”
Lisa.
Mikal.
The fathers hadn’t known about the connection between the two.
Lisa Perelli had been dating La Salle University senior Andrew Whalen for three months—ever since the end of winter break, when one of Lisa’s friends had dumped Whalen and she was there to pick up the pieces. They got along famously. Lisa already knew Andrew’s ticks; she’d heard Kimberly complain enough about them. She knew how to circumvent them, use them, fashion him into what she wanted. Mostly.
By sheer coincidence, Andrew Whalen played in a rock band with Mikal Fieuchevsky, the son of a suspected Russian mafiya vor based in Northeast Philadelphia.
The Southeastern Pennsylvania Crime Commission did not see this as sheer coincidence. They had been wiretapping Andrew Whalen’s dorm and home phone lines since January 10, 2003, when news of the Whalen-Perelli affair first made it back to headquarters. The Crime Commission saw it as a direct link between the dying Italian mob and the leaner, younger, tougher Russian mob. The relationship was a ruse, they reasoned; Whalen got his dick sucked at least three times a week (according to surveillance tapes and photos), and in exchange, acted as an intermediary between Evsei Fieuchevsky, suspected mafiya vor, and Ray Perelli, a capo with what remained of the pathetic Philly mob, passing messages and instructions and sometimes cash. Ray “Chardonnay” Perelli treated his young messenger well, the Crime Commission discovered. Aside from the cock-worship courtesy of his daughter, Whalen was treated to a vintage Yahama DX7-II to use during gigs. A birthday present.
The Crime Commission was dead wrong. Andrew Whalen was aware of Mikal’s father’s somewhat dubious background, but had no idea about Lisa. All he knew was that she was a bit possessive, yeah, but she was also the most sensual woman he’d ever been with. High maintenance, but with excellent performance. It was worth it. It kept him coming back to her. The DX7-II hadn’t hurt, either.
“Here,” Fieuchevsky said, sliding an envelope across the maroon Formica table. “This is to make up for damage we might have caused.”
Perelli smiled. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I insist.”
Perelli made a show of refusing the envelope, but took it after a few moments and slid it into his jacket pocket.
“There anything I can do for you?”
Now it was Fieuchevsky’s turn to lay on the fake warm smile. “No, no. Our business is done. Enjoy your chipped beef.”
“Hey, I wanna help.”
This dance continued throughout Perelli’s chipped beef—or, as he liked to call it, “shit on a shingle”—and Fieuchevsky’s tomato omelet and three orders of bacon and Stoli on the rocks. It was awkward and ingratiating and cautious. It finally wound down to a graceful conclusion when Fieuchevsky slid an FBI Wanted poster, folded in threes, across the table.
“If you, or any of your people, have occasion to see this man,” he explained, “I would be most appreciative to have a word with him first.”
Perelli took the poster and slid it into his pocket. “I’d be delighted.”
Fieuchevsky thought, Slovenly dago bastard couldn’t find his cock under rolls of his meatball fat.
Perelli thought, Russian pricks are losing it. Time to get back into the game.
A cell phone chirped. It was Fieuchevsky’s. He listened, then told Perelli that he had to be going. Perelli suddenly
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