Sutton

by J. R. Moehringer

  Closing Egan’s door Willie staggers down to his room, falls onto the bed, blacks out. Sunlight streaming through the dirty muslin curtains wakes him three hours later. He bolts upright, trying to remember. It all seems unreal. Egan, the portals, the ladders. Bess. He runs out to a coffee stand and buys two cups of coffee, four rolls heavy with butter, a carton of Chesterfields, and all the newspapers. Now it seems real. He and Egan are on every front page. Lawes tells the papers that the three keepers on duty during the crash-out—Wilfred Brennan, Samuel Rubin, and Philip Dengler—are fired.

  Willie lights a Chesterfield. Good luck finding new jobs, fellas. There’s a Depression on, you know.

  Willie pads down to Egan’s room, knocks.

  No answer.

  He knocks again. Egan, he whispers. Time to go.

  Nothing.

  He knocks harder.

  Silence.

  The front desk clerk, who’s just come on duty, says Mr. Garfield’s room key isn’t in its cubbyhole. He must be out.

  Out?

  Willie sits in the lobby, watching the front door. One hour. He goes back upstairs to his room, watches the street from his window. Two hours. He can actually feel his nerve endings fraying. What if Egan doesn’t come back? What if the cops have already caught him? How long can Egan hold out before he tells them where to find Willie? How long should Willie wait before bolting the Sundowner? He doesn’t want to abandon his partner, and he doesn’t want to leave behind a loose end, especially a loose end that knows so much. But Egan might be talking to the cops right now. The cops might already be on their way.

  Just before noon Willie looks out his window and sees Egan staggering up to the hotel. He runs downstairs and bull-rushes the kid.

  I told you not to leave the room.

  Hadda leave, Willie, I was gawin stir-crazy.

  You stink of gin.

  Thass a durry lie. I wiss dringin scotch.

  Egan, do you realize the chance you took?

  Din take nuttin. Needed a dring, Willie, my nerfs was shot. Thurz a cute lil joint rouna corner, come on ahl showya.

  Willie leads Egan upstairs, pours him onto his bed. Pulls up a chair and watches Egan snore. The ninth portal.

  Sutton, Reporter and Photographer stand before the Sundowner, a narrow four-story building wedged between two buildings that lean like palm trees. I can’t believe it’s still here, Sutton says.

  He peers up the steep staircase that leads to a razor-scratched, finger-smudged glass door. The same glass door he steered Egan through thirty-seven years ago.

  Back in 1932, Sutton says, a bed in this rattrap cost a dollar. Imagine? Clean sheets were an extra twenty cents. But that first night, as far as I was concerned, this was the fuckin Plaza. I never slept so sound. Then Egan gave me a scare. Went on a bender. After he came back, after I put him to bed, I heard sirens. I thought for sure he’d been made. But it was some poor girl down the hall—she slashed her wrists. So there we were, two escaped cons in a flophouse crawling with cops. It was touch and go for a few hours.

  Willie?

  Sutton turns to face Photographer. Yeah kid?

  Can you please, please take off these handcuffs?

  Oh, say, I completely forgot.

  Sutton reaches into his pocket, comes out with the key. He uncuffs Photographer.

  Hallelujah, Photographer says, rubbing his wrists.

  Yeah. Hallelujah. That’s what Willie used to say when they took off the bracelets.

  Reporter pulls the map from his breast pocket. Our next stop isn’t far from here, he says. West Fifty-Fourth.

  Former home of Chateau Madrid, Sutton says. Headquarters of Dutch Schultz—who helped me solve my Egan problem.

  After the cops carry the girl with the slashed wrists out of the Sundowner, Willie slips into her room. Just as he’d hoped, there’s makeup all over the dresser. And a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. And some bloody razors. He holds out the tail of his shirt, scoops everything into it, hurries back to his room. He sits before a mirror, using the dead girl’s peroxide to make himself blond. Next he uses her eyebrow pencil, her Pan-Cake makeup. Finally he goes down to Egan’s room and, while Egan’s passed out, shaves his head.

  Later that night Willie and Egan slip into Central Park. Egan keeps lookout while Willie digs up one of his jars. Ten grand. Willie is amazed by how much better, safer, he feels with money in his pocket. They ride the subway to the Lower East Side. At an all-night speak on Avenue A they eat their first proper meal in two days. Willie lets Egan have two shots of whiskey, to steady his nerves, but no more.

  Why are we in this part of town? Egan says.

  I read once that cops don’t like to come down here. Too many gypsies. So it’s the ideal place for what we need to do.

  After dinner they roam the dark streets and back alleys, looking in the windows of parked cars. At last they find a Chrysler with keys in the ignition. A fat woman in a quilted housecoat, sitting on a fire escape, smokes a clay pipe and eyes them. When she goes inside they jump into the Chevy and speed away.

  Shifting into third gear, flying up East River Drive, Willie tells Egan it’s time for them to go their separate ways. Where’s that brother of yours?

  Egan gives Willie an address in Hell’s Kitchen. Willie zooms over to Tenth, weaving in and out of traffic, swings a right, spots the number on a mailbox. A two-family house, a Christmas wreath on the left door. He parks, almost knocking over a trash can.

  Stay out of sight, he tells Egan. Stay off the sauce. I’ll be in touch.

  Willie keeps the motor running while Egan walks to the front door, the door without a wreath, and knocks. A ginger-haired man opens. He and Egan exchange a few calm words. The ginger-haired man then pushes Egan aside and comes running down the walk, yelling at Willie: Would you mind telling me what you think you’re doing?

  Keep your voice down, mister. I’m dropping off your brother.

  The hell you are. I’d sooner you took a shit on my doorstep.

  Egan comes down the walk, hands on his head. My own brother, he wails.

  Shut up, the brother and Willie both tell Egan.

  The brother bends at the waist, squints through the car window at Willie. Mr. Sutton I assume? Nice to meet you. I’ve followed your exploits with some admiration. Fecking banks. But you may not leave this sot on my hands. Off you go.

  Willie stares straight ahead. Sorry, friend. I’ve gone as far as I can with him.

  I’m afraid you’ve got a little farther to go, friend. Or else I’ll give the cops your license plate and whereabouts, and I’ll do it with a clear conscience, I can promise you that.

  Willie, still staring straight ahead, thinks. Then nods. Egan gets back in the car.

  Willie speeds away.

  Guess you’re stuck with me, Egan says.

  You must have other family, Egan. How about your parents?

  Ma died giving birth to me.

  Uh-huh. Dad?

  Whoever he was, he ran off years ago.

  Any more siblings?

  Five brothers.

  Any of them local?

  Let’s see. There’s Charlie. He’s a bum, but he’ll take me in. Bang a right at the corner.

  Charlie the Bum meets them at the curb. Clearly he’s had a phone call from the previous brother. He holds out his hand like a traffic cop. He’s not accepting delivery either. He turns the hand over, palm to the sky. He’s a little short of cash and he’s hoping Willie Sutton, the famous bank robber, can float him a loan. Or else he’ll be forced to call the cops. Now. Willie gives him five hundred bucks, speeds away.

  Egan cradles his head. Willie considers slowing the car, kicking Egan out. But he can’t help feeling for a guy shunned by his brothers. Name another brother, Willie says.

  Egan thinks. Sean, he says. Yeah. Sean. He’s probably forgiven me for that thing that time.

  Sean lives on the other side of town. Willie cuts through Central Park, past a large Hooverville. More than a tent city,
it’s a tent metropolis, with streets, neighborhoods, dogs, cats. And it’s not just hoboes living in this Hooverville. There are whole families. Good families. Willie brakes. He and Egan both stare. Fuckin Hoover, Willie says.

  Yeah, Egan says.

  Pig-face. Pawn of Rockefeller. Lackey to all those Wall Street boys. Did you know old Herbert was a millionaire before he was thirty?

  Really? Is that a fact? Herbert Who?

  They come at last to Sean’s house, a handsome brownstone. Sparkling clean front stoop, trim red window boxes with orange geraniums surviving the winter. Sean, apparently, is the most successful of the Egans. This time Willie and Egan are met at the curb by Sean’s wife. She says she’d sooner take in a wild dog, oozing with rabies, before she’d take in this sorry excuse for a brother-in-law.

  She screams at Willie: He was fine where he was. We had a shindig the night he got convicted. Why did you help him break out?

  He helped me.

  And why is he bald?

  It’s a long story.

  Well you’re stuck with him. May God have mercy on you.

  Sutton stands outside the former location of Chateau Madrid, now an Indian restaurant. What’s that smell? he says.

  Curry, Photographer says, rummaging in his cloth purse. And vomit.

  Amazing, Sutton says, how certain parts of New York smell just like prison.

  And what’s the significance of this little corner of heaven, Willie?

  Let’s go in that bar and I’ll tell you.

  Reporter and Photographer look. A bar they hadn’t noticed.

  Jimmy’s? Oh, Mr. Sutton, that place looks—awful.

  It’s seen better days. But I told you, Willie needs a hair of the dog and this joint meets my number one requirement for a bar.

  What’s that?

  It’s open.

  Willie pulls into the alley behind Chateau Madrid. He and Egan slip through a side door, through the kitchen, into a dark barroom. A hanging lamp glows above the bar, where a bartender in a white shirt, with green sleeve garters, leans over a newspaper.

  Willie clears his throat. The bartender looks up.

  I’d like to see Dutch Schultz, Willie says.

  He’s out.

  Bo Weinberg then?

  Bo know you?

  No.

  Then he’s out too.

  I’m Willie Sutton.

  Yeah right.

  Willie steps into the light, pulling Egan by the elbow. The bartender looks at them, then at the front page. Then again at them. His eyes grow wide—a blond Willie Sutton and a bald Johnny Egan. Well if that don’t beat all, he says.

  Bartender slips through a hidden door in the bar back and returns moments later with Bo. Willie has never met Bo, but he’s seen his mug shot in the papers many times and he knows the man’s reputation. The most feared killer in New York. Bo took out Legs Diamond just last year.

  What mug shots and reputation don’t convey, can’t convey, is Bo’s size. Every bit of Bo is big. His head, his hands, his lips—even his chin is an overgrown bulb of flesh. Willie can’t imagine how he shaves that thing. Bo motions for Willie to come back to the office. Willie feels his feet moving involuntarily. He tells Egan to stay.

  The office is the size of a corner booth at the Silver Slipper. A large English desk barely leaves room for a hat rack and filing cabinet. Bo now sits behind the desk. You take a big chance, he says. Coming here. Heart of midtown. Some balls.

  Dutch once said I should look him up if I’m ever in trouble. I’m in trouble.

  So I hear. What do you need? Money?

  No.

  What then?

  I need you to take something off my hands. Something that’s slowing me down.

  Willie jerks his head toward the barroom. Bo’s eyebrows rise. You’re joking.

  I wish I was. He’s a drunkard and possibly a mental case. His family wants no part of him and I’m starting to understand why.

  This is your sales pitch?

  I can’t take him with me, but I can’t leave him on the street. I need to deposit him with someone I can trust, someone who’ll keep an eye on him, give him a job, a meal, maybe a smack when he needs it.

  Why not ask for the moon?

  I don’t need the moon. I need this.

  Bo turns in his chair, stares at a wall calendar. The last page of 1932. It’s curled up at the corner.

  Dutch has friends on the police force, you know.

  I’ve heard.

  Some of these friends—they work at 240 Centre.

  Oh?

  One night Dutch and I were making our monthly payoffs, and these friends mentioned that they happened to be at Centre Street when none other than Willie Sutton was brought in. What a pounding this Sutton took, these friends tell us—anyone else would have ratted out Dutch. Now these friends are no fans of Willie Sutton. These friends are on the job and do not like people impersonating cops. Still, after witnessing this beating, and briefly participating in it, these friends spoke of Sutton with what can only be called respect.

  Willie’s eyes water with pride. He worries that his makeup will run.

  Bo takes a deep breath, lets it out fast as if blowing out a candle. Leave the kid, he says. Be on your way. Debts are debts and Dutch always pays his.

  Willie nods, turns to go.

  But Sutton.

  Willie stops.

  Let this be hello and goodbye.

  Sutton looks down the barroom. Ten stools with red leatherette tops, two of them occupied by bearded men, their arms folded on the bar, their heads on their arms. They look as if they’re playing hide-and-seek. The bartender, apparently, is It. He hides at the far end of the bar, reading the newspaper. He looks up, sees Sutton and Reporter and Photographer, frowns. He slides down the bar, past the sleeping regulars, sets out three napkins. What’ll you have?

  Jameson, Sutton says. Neat.

  Nothing for me, Reporter says.

  I’d love a Jameson, says Photographer, still rubbing his wrists. He sets his cloth purse on the bar.

  Sutton looks down the bar at the sleeping men. I remember, he says, in the Depression of ’14, thousands of men with no jobs, no homes, moved into saloons. The saloon owners begged the cops to roust them, but the cops wouldn’t. Better the saloons, cops figured, than the streets.

  Reporter opens his notebook, uncaps his pen. Um, Mr. Sutton, back to the escape. You and Egan went to the Sundowner, then came here—or near here. Why?

  I had to get clear of Egan. He was dead weight, slowing me down. So I dropped him with Bo Weinberg, right-hand man of Dutch.

  Bartender stops pouring the Jameson, looks up. Say now. Are you Willie Sutton?

  I am.

  Holy shit. Willie the Actor?

  Yeah.

  Put her there pal.

  Sutton shakes Bartender’s hand. This your place?

  Sure. O’Keefe’s the name. James O’Keefe. At your service. What brings you in, friend?

  I’m giving these boys the nickel tour. Meet Good Cop and Bad Cop.

  Reporter and Photographer wave limply.

  Merry Christmas, Bartender says. Now how does my gin mill feature in the life and times of Willie the Actor?

  I used to frequent a place next door.

  Chateau Madrid. The Dutchman’s place. Of course. Willie the Goddamn Actor. What an honor. This round’s on the house.

  In that case, friend, start pouring the second round. And won’t you join us?

  Twist my arm.

  Reporter rubs his eyes wearily, flips through his files. Mr. Sutton? You were saying? Egan?

  Sutton clinks glasses with Photographer and Bartender. To freedom, Sutton says. Fáilte abhaile, Bartender says. They throw down the whiskey. Photographer smacks his palm on the bar. Holy shit, he says. Who drinks this stuff?

  Half of Brooklyn, Sutton says. All of Ireland—including newborns.

  Mr. Sutton? Reporter says.

  Yeah, kid, yeah.

  Egan? Bo Wei
nberg?

  Right. So I dropped Egan with Bo, hereabouts, and then I skipped town.

  And what happened to Egan?

  Two months later he was dead.

  Dead?

  Shot in a speak not far from here. Strange. The Times said he had a coat check in his pocket—the number thirteen on it. Egan told me once that thirteen was his unlucky number. I guess he wasn’t kidding. Come to think of it, I dropped him off on this block—the thirteenth of December.

  Who shot him?

  The cops never made an arrest.

  Reporter closes his notebook, narrows his eyes. That sure worked out well for you, Mr. Sutton. Your dead weight suddenly turns up—dead.

  Kid you are sounding more like a cop every minute.

  It just seems very convenient.

  What can I say? I was the kiss of death in 1932. Bo Weinberg also died not long after he met me.

  Who killed Bo?

  Bugsy Siegel, Bartender says.

  Sutton nods. Dutch put out the contract, but Bugsy did the hit.

  How come?

  Dutch got wind that Bo was a rat.

  Willie drives to Philadelphia, parks the stolen Chrysler under a bridge. He takes off the license plates, sets the car ablaze, then walks. And walks. He stops at a sign: TO LET. He asks for a room, tells the landlady his name is James Clayton. The address is 4039 Chestnut Street.

  At a corner market he stocks up. Canned tuna, chocolate bars, cigarettes, coffee. He swings by the local bookstore, buys a few bestsellers, a few Russian novels. Bolts the door to his room and waits.

  After three days, a soft knock. He slides back the Judas hole. He throws open the door. What the hell kept you, he says.

  Came as soon as I got your message.

  Eddie drops a heavy duffel and stands before Willie, arms outstretched. They hug, clap each other hard on the back. Willie pulls Eddie into his room, locks the door. Let me look at you, he says.

  The years of prison and unemployment have chipped away at Eddie. His face is leaner, harder. His blue eyes are washed out, his blond hair is going thin. He notices changes in Willie too, of course. He points at Willie’s blond locks. What the?