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Meet Lennon, a mute Irish getaway driver who has fallen in with the wrong heist team on the wrong day at the wrong bank. Betrayed, his money stolen and his battered carcass left for dead, Lennon is on a one-way mission to find out who is responsible--and to get back his loot. But the robbery has sent a violent ripple effect through the streets of Philadelphia. And now a dirty cop, the Russian and Italian mobs, the mayor's hired gun, and a keyboard player in a college rock band maneuver for position as this adrenaline-fueled novel twists and turns its way toward its explosive conclusion.
One thing's for sure: This cast of characters wakes up in a much different world by novel's end--if they wake up at all.
Lennon in the face, no matter what. Next, he was going to ask about the money. “Or, we could go recover that bank money, when it’s safe, and arrange a deal. Nod once if you understand me.” Lennon nodded once. “Goody. So here’s how we’re going to—” Lennon swatted his right arm outward, his wrist catching the guy’s wrist and deflecting the Glock away, pointing it at the back windshield. But not before the guy managed to squeeze the trigger. He was fast. He must have been prepared for Lennon to
grabbed a chunky white stick of Old Spice deodorant. He placed them on the counter. The counter kid looked at him funny as he bagged the stuff. Chances were, he attended Father Judge High School. Lennon picked up the bottom of the sweatshirt and showed him the Glock tucked into the waist of his jeans. He pointed to the cash register, and then to the bag. The kid understood. He opened the register, scooped out bills, and shoved them in the bag. Next, Lennon pointed to the prepaid calling cards.
whole thing. She had been asleep on the mattress the night before when they came back in the early hours, the mystery guy and his girlfriend. Lisa thought she would just be confronting the guy, asking him what the hell he was doing here, but it didn’t turn out that way. Besides, it sounded like both of them were hurt; she could hear it in their quiet gasps and moans. When Lisa heard them walking up the carpeted staircase, the wooden floor beneath them creaking from the weight, she came to her
sparked his adolescent imagination and led him to crime encyclopedias and lurid biographies and yellowed men’s magazines he nicked from bookshops in Listowel. Lennon always knew his father was a bad guy, but Lennon’s mum never shared the details. She’d only spent a couple of weeks with him while on holiday in New York City in 1971. Freddy Selway made a few visits to see his boy later on, but only when he needed a place to hide overseas. It was during one of these visits, in 1979, that he’d
THANK YOU OH MY GENTLE JESUS HOLY FUCKING SHIT Confessions (Cont’d) … MADE THE BY-NOW FAMILIAR PANTOMIME. PEN. PAPER. Bring them to me. Saugherty was a quick study. And he seemed awfully relieved that Lennon wasn’t flipping through his precious case files any longer. Probably enough police corruption in there to make a hundred investigative journalists cream their pants. Who cared? Not Lennon. They made an odd-looking pair at the front desk: Lennon, with his beat-up face and white