Within forty minutes they make out the lights of Manhattan. Then the Statue of Liberty glowing green and gold out in the harbor. Sutton presses his face against the window. One-armed goddess. She’s waving to him, beckoning him. Calling him home.
The plane tilts sideways and swoops toward LaGuardia. The landing is smooth. As they slow and taxi toward the terminal Reporter turns to check on Sutton. You okay, Mr. Sutton?
Let’s go again kid.
Reporter smiles.
They walk side by side across the wet, foggy tarmac to a waiting car. Sutton thinks of Bogart and Claude Rains. He’s been told he looks a little like Bogart. Reporter is talking. Mr. Sutton? Did you hear? I assume your lawyer explained all about tomorrow?
Yeah kid.
Reporter checks his watch. Actually, I should say today. It’s one in the morning.
Is it, Sutton says. Time has lost all meaning. Not that it ever had any.
You know that your lawyer has agreed to give us exclusive rights to your story. And you know that we’re hoping to visit your old stomping grounds, the scenes of your, um. Crimes.
Where are we staying tonight?
The Plaza.
Wake up in Attica, go to bed at the Plaza. Fuckin America.
But, Mr. Sutton, after we check in, I need to ask you, please, order room service, anything you like, but do not leave the hotel.
Sutton looks at Reporter. The kid’s not yet twenty-five, Sutton guesses, but he’s dressed like an old codger. Fur-collared trench coat, dark brown suit, cashmere scarf, cap-toed brown lace-ups. He’s dressed, Sutton thinks, like a damn banker.
My editors, Mr. Sutton. They’re determined that we have you to ourselves the first day. That means we can’t have anyone quoting you or shooting your picture. So we can’t let anyone know where you are.
In other words, kid, I’m your prisoner.
Reporter gives a nervous laugh. Oh ho, I wouldn’t say that.
But I’m in your custody.
Just for one day, Mr. Sutton.
TWO
Daylight fills the suite.
Sutton sits in a wingback chair, watching the other wingback chair and the king-size bed come into view. He hasn’t slept. It’s been five hours since he and Reporter checked in and he’s nodded off a few times in this chair but that’s all. He lights a cigarette, the last one in the pack. Good thing he ordered two more packs from room service. Good thing they had his brand. He can’t smoke anything but Chesterfields. He always, always had a footlocker of Chesterfields in his cell. He washes down the smoke with the ice-cold champagne he also ordered. He puts the cigarette in his mouth and holds the white envelope to the daylight. He still hasn’t opened it. He won’t let himself until he’s ready, until the time is right, even though that means he might not live to open it.
His body is doing everything the doctor warned him it would do in the final stages. The vise feeling in the small of his back. The toes and legs going numb. Claudication, the doctor called it. At first you’ll have trouble walking, Willie. Then you’ll simply stop.
Stop what, Doc?
Stop everything, Willie—you’ll just stop.
So he’s going to die today. Within a few hours, maybe before noon, certainly before darkness falls. He knows it in the same way he used to know things in the old days, the way he used to know if a guy was right or a rat. He’s given death the slip a hundred times, but not today. He invited death in with that suicide note. Once you let death in, it doesn’t always leave.
He turns the envelope slowly, shakes it like a match he’s trying to extinguish. He sees the one sheet of loose-leaf inside, covered in Donald’s scrawl. He sees Bess’s name, or thinks he does. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s seen Bess when she wasn’t there. Has she already heard about his release? He pictures Bess standing before him. Conjures her. It’s easier to conjure her in a suite at the Plaza than in a cell at Attica. Ah Bess, he whispers. I can’t die before I see you, my heart’s darling. I can’t.
A faint knock makes him jump. He slips the white envelope into his breast pocket, hobbles to the door.
Reporter. His dark brown hair is wet, neatly parted, and his face, freshly scrubbed, is pink and white. From the neck up he’s the color of Neapolitan ice cream. He’s wearing another banker suit and the same fur-collared trench coat. In one hand he’s carrying a big lawyerly briefcase, in the other a paper box filled with bagels and coffee.
Morning, Mr. Sutton.
Merry Christmas kid.
Were you on the phone?
No.
I thought I heard voices.
Nah.
Reporter smiles. His teeth look twice as Pepsodenty. Good, he says.
Sutton still can’t remember Reporter’s name, or which newspaper he works for, and it feels too late to ask. He also doesn’t care. He steps aside. Reporter walks to a desk by the window, sets down the paper box.
I got cream, sugar, I didn’t know how you take it.
Sutton shuts the door, follows Reporter into the suite. Are we not going down to the restaurant kid?
Sorry, Mr. Sutton, the restaurant is much too public. You’re a very famous man this morning.
I’ve been famous all my life kid.
But today, Mr. Sutton, you’re the most famous man in New York. Producers, directors, screenwriters, ghostwriters, publishers, they’re all staking out my newspaper. Word is out that we’ve got you. Merv Griffin phoned the city desk twice this morning. Johnny Carson’s people left four messages at my home. We can’t take a chance of someone in the restaurant spotting you. I can just see some waiter phoning the Times and saying: For fifty bucks I’ll tell you where Willie Sutton is having breakfast. My editor would skin me alive.
Now at least Sutton knows Reporter doesn’t work for the Times.
Reporter clicks open his briefcase, removes a stack of newspapers. He holds one before Sutton. On the front page is Sutton’s face. Above it is a Man-Walks-on-Moon-size headline: SANTA SPRINGS WILLIE SUTTON.
Sutton takes the newspaper, holds it at arm’s length, frowns. Santa, he says. Jesus, I’ll never understand all the good press that guy gets. A chubby second-story man. What, breaking and entering isn’t against the law if you wear a red velvet suit?
He looks to Reporter for confirmation. Reporter shrugs. I’m Jewish, Mr. Sutton.
Oh.
Sutton can hear it in Reporter’s voice, the kid is waiting for him to say, Call me Willie. It’s on the tip of Sutton’s tongue, but he can’t. He likes the deference. Feels good. Sutton doesn’t remember the last time someone, besides a judge, called him Mr. Sutton. He returns to the wingback chair. Reporter, carrying his paper cup of coffee, sits in the other wingback, peels off the plastic lid, takes a sip. Now he leans forward eagerly. So, Mr. Sutton—how does it feel to be famous?
I don’t think you heard me kid. I’ve been famous all my life.
Arguably you’ve been infamous.
That seems like splitting hairs.
What I’m saying is, you’re a living legend.
Please kid.
You’re an icon.
Nah.
Oh yes, Mr. Sutton. That’s why my editors are so keen for this story. In the page one meeting yesterday, a senior editor said you’ve achieved a kind of mythic status.
Sutton opens his eyes wide. Boy, you newspapermen love myths, don’t you?
Pardon?
Selling myths, that’s what you fellas do. The front page, the sports page, the financial pages—all myths.
Well, I don’t think—
I used to buy in too. When I was a kid. I used to lap it all up. Not just newspapers either—comic books, Horatio Alger, the Bible, the whole American Dream. That’s what got me so mixed up in the first place. Fuckin myths.
I think maybe I haven’t had enough coffee.
Try some champagne.
No. Thank you. Mr. Sutton, all I’m saying is, America loves a bank robber.
Really. America has a funny way of showin
g it. I’ve spent half my life locked up.
Take your famous line. There’s a reason that line has become part of the culture.
Sutton stubs out his cigarette, shoots two plumes of smoke through his nostrils. Because the nostrils are different sizes, the plumes are different sizes. It’s always bothered Sutton.
Which line is that kid?
You know.
Sutton makes his face a blank. He can’t help having fun with this kid.
Mr. Sutton, surely you remember. When you were asked why you robbed banks? You said: That’s where the money was.
Right, right. I remember now. Except I never said it.
Reporter’s face falls.
One of your colleagues invented that line kid. Put my name to it.
Oh no.
Like I said. Myths. All my life, if reporters weren’t making me out to be worse than I am, they were making me out to be better.
Wow. That makes me embarrassed for my profession.
We all pay for the sins of our colleagues.
Well, Mr. Sutton, rest assured, I won’t be putting any words in your mouth today.
Sutton cocks his head. How old are you kid?
Me? I’ll be twenty-three in February.
Young.
I guess. Relatively.
If Willie’s such a hot ticket, like you say, how come your bosses sent a cub to be my chaperone?
Um.
You draw this assignment because you’re Jewish? No one else in the city room wanted to work Christmas?
Reporter sighs. I won’t lie to you, Mr. Sutton. That might be the case.
Sutton gives Reporter a long slow once-over. He misjudged this kid. Reporter isn’t a Boy Scout, Sutton decides. He’s an Eagle Scout. And an altar boy. Or whatever the Jewish equivalent might be.
Reporter looks at his watch. Speaking of the assignment, Mr. Sutton. We should probably get going.
Sutton stands, checks his breast pocket. He pulls out the white envelope, puts it back. Then he pulls out a tourist map of New York City—he had the front desk send it up with the Chesterfields and the champagne. He’s marked it with red numbers, red lines and arrows. He hands it to Reporter.
What’s this, Mr. Sutton?
You said you wanted the nickel tour of my life. There it is. I mapped it all out.
All these places?
Yeah. And they’re numbered. Chronological order.
So these are the scenes of all your crimes?
And other key events. All the crossroads of my life.
Reporter moves his finger from number to number. Crossroads, he says. I see.
Problem?
No, no. It’s just. It looks as if we double back several times. Maybe there’s a more direct route?
We have to do it in chronological order. Or else the story won’t make sense.
To whom?
You. Me. Whoever. I can’t tell you about Bess before I tell you about Eddie. I can’t tell you about Mrs. Adams before I tell you about Bess.
Who?
See what I mean?
Right. No. But, Mr. Sutton, I just don’t know if we’ll have time for all of this.
It’s all of this or none of this.
Reporter laughs, but it sounds like a sob. The thing is, Mr. Sutton, your lawyer. Made a deal with my newspaper.
That was her deal. This is Willie’s deal.
Reporter takes a sip of coffee. Sutton watches him hunch deep into his fur-collared trench coat, thinking out his next move. Fear and anxiety are written in big crayoned letters across the pink-and-white face.
Take it easy kid. We don’t have to get out of the car at each stop and have a picnic. Some of them we can just cruise by. So Willie can eyeball the place. Get the lay of the land.
But my editors, Mr. Sutton. My editors make the rules and—
Sutton grunts. Not for me they don’t. Look, kid, this isn’t a negotiation. If my map doesn’t work for you, no sweat, we’ll just go our separate ways. I’m more than happy to stay in this nice room, read a book, order a club sandwich.
Checkout is at noon.
I checked out early from three escape-proof prisons, I think I can figure out how to swing a late check-out at one cream puff hotel.
But—
Maybe I’ll even make a few phone calls. Is the Times listed?
Reporter takes another sip of coffee, blanches as if it’s straight scotch. Mr. Sutton, it’s just that this, your map, appears to be more story than we can accommodate.
Why not wait to hear the story before you say that?
Also, if we could just go to certain places first. Like the scene of Arnold Schuster’s murder.
Sure, and once you’ve got me at the Schuster scene, you don’t need me anymore, and then I don’t get my ride to all the other places. I know how you newspaper guys operate.
Mr. Sutton, I wouldn’t do that, you can trust me.
Trust you? Kid don’t make me laugh. It hurts my leg when I laugh. Schuster comes last. End of story. Are you in or out?
But Mr. Sutton—
In or out kid.
Sutton’s voice is suddenly an octave deeper. With a serrated edge. The change stuns Reporter, who puts a finger on the dimple in his chin and presses several times, as if it’s an emergency button.
Sutton takes a hard step toward Reporter. He concentrates on assuming an at-ease posture while also conveying an air of total control. He used to do this with bank managers. Especially the ones who claimed not to remember the combination to the safe.
You seem smart for a cub, kid, so let’s not bullshit each other. Let’s put our cards on the table. We both know you only want a story. Sure, it’s an important story for you, your career, your newspaper, whatever, but it’s still just a story. Next week you’ll be on to the next story and next month you won’t even remember Willie. What I’m after is my story, the only story that counts with me. Think about it. I’m free. Free—for the first time in seventeen years. Naturally I want to go back, retrace my steps, see where it all went sideways, and I need to do it my way, which is the only way I know how to do things. And I need to do it right now, kid, because I don’t know how much time I’ve got left. My leg, which is thoroughly rat-fucked, tells me not much. You can be my wheelman or not. It’s your call. But you need to decide. Now.
I won’t be your wheelman.
Fine. No hard feelings.
We’re meeting a shooter. He’ll be driving.
A what?
A photog. Sorry—photographer. In fact he’s probably downstairs by now.
So you’re in?
You give me no choice, Mr. Sutton.
Say it.
Say what?
Say you’re in.
Why?
In the old days, before I’d go on a job with a guy, I always needed to hear him say he was in. So there’d be no misunderstandings later.
Reporter takes a gulp of coffee. Mr. Sutton, is this really—
Say it.
I’m in, I’m in.
Sutton steps on the elevator, cursing under his breath. Why did he stay up all night? Why did he drink all that whiskey with Donald? And all that champagne this morning? And what the hell is wrong with this elevator? He was already feeling unsteady on his feet, but this sudden free fall to the lobby, like a space capsule plunging to earth, is giving him vertigo. In the old days elevators were manageably, comfortably slow. Like people.
With a ping and a thud the elevator lands. The doors clatter open. Reporter, not noticing Sutton’s pained expression, looks left and right, making sure no other reporters are lurking behind the lobby’s palm trees. He takes Sutton by the elbow and guides him past the front desk and past the concierge and through the revolving door. There, directly in front of the Plaza, stands a 1968 burnt sienna Dodge Polara, smoke gushing like tap water from its tailpipe.
This your car kid?
No. It’s one of the newspaper’s radio cars.
Looks like a cop car.
It�
��s a converted cop car, actually.
Reporter opens the passenger door. He and Sutton look in. A large man sits behind the wheel. He’s roughly Reporter’s age, twenty something, but he wears a fringed buckskin jacket that makes him look like a five-year-old playing cowboys and Indians. No, with his shoulder-length hair and Fu Manchu mustache he looks like a grown man pretending to be a five-year-old playing cowboys and Indians. Under the buckskin jacket he’s wearing a ski sweater, and around his neck a knitted scarf the colors of a barber pole, all of which spoil whatever Western look he was going for. He smiles. Bad teeth. Nice smile, but bad teeth. The exact opposite of Reporter’s teeth. And they’re as big as they are bad. His eyes are big too, and flaming red, like cherry Life Savers. Sutton would kill for a Life Saver right now.
Mr. Sutton, Reporter says. I’d like you to meet the best shooter at the paper. The best.
Reporter says the photographer’s name but Sutton doesn’t catch it. Merry Christmas, Sutton says, reaching into the car and shaking Photographer’s hand.
Back at you, brother.
Sutton climbs into the backseat, which is covered with stuff. A cloth purse. A leather camera bag. A pink bakery box. A stack of newspapers and magazines, including last week’s Life. Manson glares at Sutton. Sutton flips Manson over.
Maybe you’d be more comfortable up front, Reporter says.
Nah, Sutton says. I always ride in the rumble.
Reporter smiles. Okay, Mr. Sutton. I’m happy to ride shotgun.
Sutton shakes his head. Riding shotgun—civilians use the term so blithely. He’s actually driven countless times with men riding shotgun, holding shotguns. There was nothing blithe about it.
Photographer squints at Sutton in the rearview. Hey, Willie, man, I’ve just got to say, it’s a trip to meet you, brother. I mean, Willie the Actor—holy shit, this is like meeting Dillinger.
Ah well, Sutton says, Dillinger killed people, so.
Or Jesse James.
Again—killed.
Or Al Capone.
A pattern seems to be developing, Sutton mumbles.
Sutton Page 3