Now Bess sees Willie. She stops, lowers her bouquet. Golden flowers to match her golden-flecked eyes, which quickly fill with tears. She mouths something at Willie, he can’t be sure what.
No Willie no.
Oh Willie oh.
Go Willie. Go.
Then she presses on. She keeps walking, past Willie, past the Rockefellers, and with each step Willie feels another year clipped off his life. At the altar she turns, faces her groom. Willie bolts from the pew, up the aisle, out of the church. He doesn’t stop running until he comes to Meadowport. He sits for hours staring at the ring. He sets it on the ground, walks out.
Then he turns around, retrieves it. He slips it into his breast pocket, decides to keep it. Just in case.
Photographer: He’s asleep.
Reporter: You’re joking.
Photographer: Snoring too.
Reporter: Unbelievable.
Photographer: Willie the Actor.
Reporter: Can we please turn down this radio? I’ve got a splitting headache.
Photographer: That’s the Rolling Stones, brother.
Mick Jagger: Oh! Yeah!
Reporter: What does this song mean anyway? Why are rape and murder just a shot away?
Photographer: See there’s your problem—everything has to mean something. Where are we going again?
Reporter: Times Square. Against our will.
Photographer: Maybe we’ve been kidnapped and we just don’t know it.
Reporter: It’s entirely possible.
Photographer: Hey, did you get a load of Laura in that purple skirt the other day?
Reporter: Make your next right.
Photographer: She’s the best-looking chick at the paper, if you ask me.
Reporter: I didn’t.
Photographer: Didn’t what?
Reporter: Ask you. Turn right I said. Great. You missed the turn.
Photographer: Speaking of chicks, how’s yours?
Mick Jagger: Oh!
Reporter: I have got to turn down this music. Where’s the loudness knob?
Photographer: Fell off.
Reporter: This Polara is messed up.
Photographer: This assignment is messed up.
Reporter: May I remind you that you asked for this assignment.
Photographer: I asked for Al Capone. Not Vic Damone.
Reporter: Nice.
Photographer: Empty tunnels, murdered sheep, stories about some jive chick from the horse-and-buggy days.
Reporter: He loved her.
Photographer: Yeah.
Reporter: He’s not making my life easy, you know. It’s noon and he’s hardly said anything I can use. Chronological order kid. At least you’ve gotten some good shots. I’ve got nothing.
Photographer: All my editor really wants is Sleeping Beauty standing at the scene of the Schuster murder. Schuster, Schuster, Schuster—that’s what my editor said as I walked out the door.
Reporter: Mine too.
Photographer: You think Willie killed Arnold Schuster?
Reporter: He doesn’t seem like a killer.
Photographer: He doesn’t seem like a bank robber either—you said so yourself.
Reporter: Point taken.
Photographer: Can I turn here to get to Times Square?
Reporter: No. It’s one-way.
Photographer: Do me a favor. Get my billfold out of my bag.
Reporter: Why?
Photographer: I want to buy something in Times Square.
Reporter: What?
Photographer: Something for the lotus-eater back there.
Reporter: I can’t get your bag. He’s using it as a pillow.
Photographer: Rip Van Willie.
Reporter: He looks so peaceful.
Photographer: He’s probably dreaming about—what was her name?
Reporter: Bess.
Photographer: I thought it was Wingy.
Reporter: That was the prostitute. Must you get stoned every time we do a story together?
Photographer: I’ve got it. Why don’t we wake up Willie the Napper and tell him we’ve already been to Times Square. Tell him we’ve been to all the places on his map and now it’s time to do Schuster. He won’t even know.
Sutton: I can hear you.
ELEVEN
Willie in a suit and tie, carrying a briefcase onto the Long Island Rail Road. With all the other commuters. Except the other commuters are going to jobs, and Willie is going to case a job. February 1923.
He learned from Doc the importance of scouting targets carefully. Also, the benefits of working out of town. Unlike Doc, however, he wants to avoid large cities. In the sticks, Willie reasons, cops will be slower.
He goes on walkabouts, carrying a map, a notebook, searching for the ideal backwater. He soon stumbles on Ozone Park. The town founders hoped the name would attract city folk in search of clean air, greenswards. It also attracts Willie Sutton, because it sounds like a place founded by simpletons.
He strolls Main Street. Soda fountain, cigar store, coffee stand. He buys a cup of coffee and sits on a bench, admiring the old enamel factory with the brick clock tower. It bongs every half hour. Residents don’t seem to hear. They seem out of it, their heads in the clouds. In the ozone.
He finds his way to First National Bank of Ozone Park, stands in line. When he gets to the teller’s cage he slides a dollar under the bars, asks for change. The teller has buckteeth, a cowlick, a necktie covered with Old Glories. A brass nameplate on his shirt: GUS. While Teller roots in his drawer, Willie pockets the bank’s fountain pen, looks around. He peers at the safe behind Teller. A music box would be harder to open.
Best of all, First National is next door to a dilapidated movie theater. Willie buys a ticket for the matinee. During the car chase he slips down the back stairs. Just as he hoped, the bank and theater share a basement.
Later that day he and Eddie journey into the wilds of New Jersey. They buy a powerful torch, extra-large oxygen tanks, helmets.
While doing all this legwork and procurement, Eddie says they need a quick score. To keep the cash rolling in. To stay sharp. He suggests a jewelry shop in Times Square, next door to the Astor Hotel.
Sutton stands on a pedestrian island, looking up. This is Times Square? Where are all the fuckin signs? Where are the lights?
They took a lot of them down, Reporter says. The economy.
What a damn shame, Sutton says. This used to be one of the most magical places on earth. Right there was the BOND Clothing sign. All over the world people knew that sign. BOND—in big red letters. When you came to Times Square from another borough, or from Timbuktu, you could count on the trolley cars looking like great big loaves of bread, and the BOND sign being—right—there. And above it were two giant statues. Five stories tall. Like two Statues of Liberty. Nude Man, Nude Woman. The prudes got all lathered up about those statues. And between them was a huge waterfall, modeled on Niagara Falls. And right over there was the Wrigley sign. All different colored fish—green, blue, pink—and above them was a beautiful mermaid. She looked like Bess. A neon Bess. Imagine kid? And right there was the Camel sign. Blowing smoke rings. When there was no wind, the ring would keep its O shape all the way across Broadway. Christ almighty, Times Square was my everything. I came here to think, to meditate, to get my bearings. When I was young I’d come here and look at the lights and say to myself: I’ve got to be a part of this. If I don’t find some way to become a part of this, my life will mean nothing. When I was older, and lonelier, I’d come here to dance.
Dance?
Sutton rises on his toes, slides his hips. I was quite a hoofer. Back when I had two good stems. And there were a hundred places within a few blocks of here where you could give a girl a nickel and twirl her across the floor. Ten cents, you could feel her up. A dollar—well. You know. They called them taxi girls, because you rented them.
He turns in a circle, sees a marquee that reads: SEX. A woman totters past it. She wears red plastic pa
nts, chunky platform heels, a purple wig. Ah, he says, some things haven’t changed.
He walks toward her.
Hey, Mr. Sutton, we really shouldn’t—oh boy.
Hello, the woman says to Sutton.
Hello.
You looking for a date?
You’re working on Christmas?
Is it Christmas?
That’s what all the papers say.
Well. What of it. People get horny on Christmas. Fact, Christmas is the horniest holiday.
Is that so? I would have thought July Fourth.
Hubby tells wifey he’s running out for eggnog. I’m eggnog.
I’m Willie.
He reaches out his hand. She stares at it.
What’s the going rate, Eggnog?
Eggnog steps back so abruptly on her heels that she almost tips over. Hold up, she says. Hold up, hold up—you Willie Sutton!
That’s right.
Willie the Actor!
Yes mam.
I just read about you. You got out yesterday. Now what? You want a little Eggnog?
No, thank you, sweetheart, I was just curious. I had a friend once in your profession. And I used to spend a lot of time with a few—girls—here in Times Square.
Damn. Willie Sutton. You was one badass.
Still am.
What you doing in Times Square?
Reporter steps forward, clears his throat. Sutton wheels, grins. Actually, he says, I’m giving this boy a tour of my life. The scenes of my highs and lows, my heists.
I’m working the same street Willie the Actor worked? Aint that something?
Sutton points. I actually pulled a job on that corner over there, he says.
Eggnog and Reporter look.
Stride Rite Shoes? Eggnog says.
Nah. The Astor Hotel used to be there. Next door was a jewelry store. They kept the good stuff in the front window.
So do I, Eggnog says.
They were just asking for it.
So am I, she says.
We smashed the window. Tire irons. Made off with a sack of diamond watches. Easy score.
You fence it? Eggnog asks.
Sutton nods.
How much?
Ten grand. Give or take.
You know how many Shriners I got to make happy for ten grand?
I shudder to think.
Who was your off?
Dutch Schultz.
Reporter coughs. The—Dutch Schultz?
Dutch owned a speak not far from here, Sutton says. They all talk about how ugly Dutch was, but he was no Monk Eastman. To me he looked sort of dapper. Like a British lord. Of course, he had the most horrible little claw hands. And an ugly heart. Dutch invented the gonorrhea rubout.
Eggnog’s eyes grow wide. The what?
Dutch would get a bandage infected with gonorrhea and tape it over a guy’s eyes. Make him blind. He was one mean SOB, but for some reason he liked me.
Eggnog points. Who this?
Photographer, carrying a brown bag, is running toward them from Forty-Third Street. He reaches them out of breath, hands the bag to Sutton. Little gift for you, Willie. Merry Christmas.
Sutton opens the bag, pulls out a pair of fur-lined handcuffs. Bracelets, he says, laughing.
So you won’t feel so quote unquote naked, Photographer says. Try them on.
I’ll wait till we get in the car.
So long as I get a shot of you wearing them.
Okay, Sutton says. Sure thing.
Eggnog looks at Photographer. She looks at Reporter, Sutton, the handcuffs. She holds up one finger. Hn, hn, hn, she says, walking away slowly. Willie Sutton into some kinky shit.
Willie and Eddie stand outside a back door of the Loews theater in Ozone Park, a cold rainy night. Late.
You ready? Willie says.
Eddie nods.
Willie slides the tension wrench in the keyway, then the hook pick. Just the way Doc taught him. The lock pops. Eddie lugs the torches down the stairs, into the theater basement, along with the hoods and tanks, while Willie grabs the sawhorses.
Beneath the bank lobby they slap together a crude platform. Willie, hooded, climbs on, fires the torch. He trains the violet flame on the ceiling. Right away he knows he’s miscalculated. An article in Popular Mechanics said concrete melts like butter under the newest acetylenes, but not this concrete. After two hours he’s not halfway through and his arms are killing him. Eddie takes a turn. They trade, back and forth, until finally they’ve cut a hole big enough for them to wriggle through.
Standing inside the bank at last, they hear the clock tower on top of the enamel factory bonging seven times. The guard will be here in half an hour. There isn’t enough time to tackle the safe. Willie presses his palms against the safe door. They’ve come so far. They’re so damn close. On the other side of this door lies fifty thousand, maybe seventy-five.
They put on their topcoats and fedoras, walk out into the pouring rain. They leave everything—torch, platform, oxygen tanks. They can’t carry all that gear through the streets in the daylight. But it’s not a problem. They used gloves. No fingerprints.
For weeks they lie low, reading every word of the newspapers. They can find no mention of a break-in at First National in Ozone Park. Maybe the bank is keeping the story under wraps, Eddie says. Maybe they don’t want to scare off customers. Maybe, Willie says, maybe.
Eddie suggests they go out, blow off steam. We need a break, he says.
A ball game, Willie says.
A beautiful new ballpark has just opened in the Bronx. The whole city is talking about it.
Swell idea, Eddie says. You’re always thinkin, Sutty.
It’s April 24, 1923.
Sutton looks up at the CANADIAN CLUB sign, above the fluttering COCA-COLA sign. He looks at the theater where he used to see silent films. It’s now showing a twin bill: Daniel Bone and Davy Cock It.
He looks at the headlines scrolling around the building to his right. He reads them aloud. POPE CALLS FOR WORLD PEACE IN XMAS MASS … Good luck with that … NIXON TO CUT FUNDING FOR NASA … Sure, that figures, what’s NASA ever done for us? … TRIAL OF CHICAGO SEVEN RIOTERS WHO DISRUPTED DEMO CONVENTION RECESSES UNTIL MONDAY … Just delaying the inevitable.
Mr. Sutton, at the risk of being redundant, can we please move on to our next stop? The New York Times is right over there. It’s a miracle we haven’t been spotted yet.
BANK ROBBER WILLIE THE ACTOR SUTTON FREE AFTER 17 YEARS … Hey! HEY! That’s me! Can you beat that? I’m famous.
You’ve been famous all your life, Mr. Sutton.
Touché kid.
A Chesterfield dangling from the corner of his mouth, the bag of handcuffs tucked under his arm, Sutton flips up the fur collar of Reporter’s trench coat and walks off, a new bounce in his hobbled step.
Where to? Photographer calls after him.
The Bronx, Sutton says.
Oh good, Reporter says. I can just see tomorrow’s zipper headline. JOURNALISTS SLAIN IN XMAS MUGGING.
Yankee Stadium is packed. It’s a special occasion and every man dresses accordingly—finest suit, sharpest necktie, best boater. Willie has chosen a yellow linen three-piece with a lavender four-in-hand, Eddie a gray tweed with a lime-green tie. Each of them wears a white hat with a wide black band. Eddie’s cost four hundred dollars.
They splurge on premium seats, third base side. The guy in the parking lot wants two hundred bucks. Pricey, but what choice do we have, Eddie says. We can’t sit with the bleacher bugs.
The seats are three rows from President Warren G. Harding, whose box is draped with red, white and blue. Eddie cranes his neck. He doesn’t like Harding, a hypocrite, a connoisseur of women and whiskey despite his wife and Prohibition. He doesn’t like that Harding is tight with Rockefeller. Nor does Willie. Before the first pitch Harding tries to shake hands with New York’s young star, Babe Ruth. Eddie howls as Harding mugs for the cameras and Ruth pointedly doesn’t.
Would you get a load o
f that, Sutty. Rich as Croesus and Ruth’s still a Democrat. Mark me down for a Ruth fan.
A boy in a white paper hat comes down the aisle selling Cracker Jacks. Eddie hails him, buys two boxes, hands one to Willie. Aint this the life, Sutty? Only thing that could make it better—a couple of ice-cold beers. Goddamn Prohibition. I think I hate the Drys worse than the Dagos.
In the bottom of the fifth Ruth whipsaws a speedball high into the spring sky. For a moment it hovers like a second moon. Then it descends swiftly and lands with a plonk against a right-field seat, near the Edison Cement Sign.
That swing! Eddie says. Mother of God, Sutty, the violence in that swing.
Willie and Eddie are lifelong fans of the Brooklyn Robins, but they can’t deny that this Ruth fella is the genuine article. As Ruth saunters around third base, Willie and Eddie stand and respectfully applaud. They’re close enough to see the seams in Ruth’s socks, the stains in his flannel jersey, the pores in his nose. Willie can’t take his eyes off that nose. It’s wider than Willie’s, double wide, which makes Willie double fond of Ruth.
The crowd is quieting down, settling back into their seats. Wally Pipp is striding to the plate. Willie feels a hard tap on his shoulder. Leaning over him are two Ruth-size men.
You Sutton?
Sutton who?
This Wilson?
And who might you be?
Come with us.
Where to?
We’ll ask the questions, Skeezix.
Look, mister, we paid good money for these seats.
You wouldn’t know good money if it bit you on the ass.
Who are you to be saying—?
The men grab Willie by the lapels and lift him out of his seat. They do the same with Eddie. Fans gawk. Photographers kneeling around home plate turn and look to see what the commotion is about. Pipp calls time, watches as the men push Willie and Eddie up the ramp. Holding on to his box of Cracker Jacks, Willie reaches into his pocket, palms Bess’s diamond ring, then digs into the Cracker Jacks as if for one more handful—and stuffs the ring deep down in the box.
Just outside Gate 4, before the men throw him into the backseat of their car, Willie tosses the box in the trash.
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