by David Barry
But during the last week in August, as the hot summer weather became more overbearing and humid, he began to feel restless. Although he still worked hard on the hospital ward, he began to feel the stirrings of discontent. With his prison education, the Spanish, and shorthand and typing he’d learned, he felt capable of so much more than menial portering. Then, during his day off, and feeling particularly unsettled, he felt the lure of Manhattan pulling him like a magnet. He missed the sights and sounds of Broadway, Fifth Avenue and Times Square. He decided he’d risk going over on the ferry, but would give the subway a miss. But when he arrived in Manhattan and began the long walk up Broadway, he knew it was going to be too hot to continue on foot, so he bought a newspaper to duck behind, and caught the subway from Canal Street to 42nd Street. He went to see a matinee at a Broadway Theatre, and came out absently humming one of the tunes from the show. He felt he was back where he belonged. He walked about aimlessly, drifting with the crowds, staring at the shop window displays. Some expensive suits caught his eye at a gents’ clothing store, and he spent some time gazing at them, a trifle wistfully, as a part of him missed Bill Sutton, the snappy dresser.
‘Hello, Bill,’ a voice whispered close to his ear.
It put the fear of God into him. He was afraid to turn round. When he did, it took him a while to recognize the overweight, grey-haired man in stained dungarees. The last time he’d seen Tommy Kling was more than ten years ago at Eastern State Penitentiary.
‘Tommy!’ said Bill, after a pause.
They shook hands warmly. They’d been firm friends at Eastern State, until Tommy was transferred to another institution. Bill felt a great deal of affection for Tommy. The ex-convict was like Doc Tate, a man he could trust implicitly. An honorable thief.
Tommy smiled and tilted his head towards the window display. ‘Used to be quite a dresser myself. Not anymore. ‘
Bill nodded at Tommy’s working clothes. ‘So what are you up to these days?’
‘Work as a longshoreman on the West Side docks. What about yourself?’
‘You mean you haven’t read the papers?’
Tommy glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. ‘Sure. I know you broke out of Holmesburg, Bill. What I mean is: how’re you making out?’
‘Surviving,’ said Bill. ‘Always looking over my shoulder. Mind if we take a walk, Tommy? I don’t like to stay in one place for too long.’
As they walked towards West 44th, where Tommy had a room, he glanced at his watch.
‘I know it’s a bit early for dinner, Bill, but if you’d like to join me - I know this restaurant - the food is great. Cheap too. And if you ever want to get in touch, I always eat there, same time every day. An hour from now. ‘
‘If you want to leave it for another hour,’ said Bill. ‘Don’t change your habits on my account. ‘
Tommy chuckled. ‘Stomach’s already beginning to whine. ‘
Tommy’s chosen restaurant was large, stuffy and noisy, and the customers seemed to be mainly working men, shoveling gargantuan portions of food into their mouths like hungry ogres. Steam and cigarette smoke hung midway between the tables and the ceiling like a mist over a swamp, and the clatter of cutlery and the sound of raucous laughter echoed in the cavernous room like a distorted symphony. They found a table and Tommy picked up the menu. His eyes glinted hungrily, and Bill remembered their time at Eastern State Penitentiary: Tommy always had a childlike excitement in anticipation of eating. And whenever the inmates criticized the food, Tommy invariably protested that his tasted okay. Bill’s heart sank as he imagined the culinary disaster facing him.
‘They do a great stew here,’ Tommy enthused. ‘I can recommend that and the mashed potatoes. ‘
Noticing Bill’s less than enthusiastic response, he added, ‘Or maybe you’d prefer something. . . ‘
‘No, that sounds fine by me,’ Bill said to placate his old friend.
As the waitress took their order, to be on the safe side Bill buried his nose in the menu. When she’d gone, Tommy took out a pack of Chesterfields and offered one to Bill. Bill accepted it and lit up. In prison he’d given up smoking to use the tobacco as currency, instead. Now he was on the outside, he smoked occasionally. But if he needed to smoke when he was in Mary’s house, he went out into the yard.
Tommy blew a cloud of smoke upwards, then fixed Bill with an amiable gaze.
‘How much d’you need, Bill?’
‘I don’t need anything. ‘
‘The offer’s there. Need some cash, I can let you have a few hundred bucks. ‘
‘Thanks, Tommy. I appreciate it. But I’m okay right now. ‘
When the food arrived, steaming and strong smelling, piled high on the plate, Tommy’s eyes lit up and he grabbed his fork. Bill stared at the plate with apprehension.
Huge chunks of meat surrounded by a mound of overcooked, watery mashed potatoes and a portion of brightly coloured peas, filled the plate with blandness. Warily, he ate a mouthful of potatoes. Apart from starch and salt, a watery nothingness. He tried the peas. Zero taste. This was prison food.
He looked across at Tommy, who appeared to be eating heartily, and realized that the prison chow had ruined his friend’s taste-buds. But if Tommy ever ended up back inside, at least the food wouldn’t bother him.
Chapter Twenty Five
September,1949
Bill had two weeks’ vacation, and during the first week he used the time to improve Mary Corbett’s house. As well as painting the outside of the house, he waterproofed the cellar and put up shelves. At the weekend, he went into St. George and bought himself a second-hand typewriter, then sat at home, listening to the radio, copying the programs in shorthand. Later, he typed them out as quickly as he could, testing his speed. When Mary came home from the Saturday shift, she was curious and wanted to know the reason for this seemingly pointless industry. He explained how he was trying to improve his shorthand and typing.
‘Bill,’ she said, ‘you seem to me to be much too clever to work as a hospital porter. ‘
‘Well. . . ‘ he began tentatively, wondering how she would take the news. ‘For some time now I’ve been thinking of handing in my notice.’
At first she frowned, then she saw the mischievous glint in his eye, and her face relaxed into a shy smile.
‘Are you looking for a better job?’
He nodded and grinned. ‘I’ll quit at the end of October. But I’ll start looking for a job right away. ‘
She gave a little whoop of delight. ‘Oh, Bill, I’m so pleased. I really am. I’m sure you’ll have no difficulty in finding a decent job. And I’m sure Farm Colony will give you excellent references. First thing Monday morning I’ll ask the supervisor to provide you with references. Then you’ll be able to make a start on Tuesday. ‘
Mary’s excitement on his behalf was infectious, and optimism swelled inside him like an orchestral crescendo. For the first time in years his self-esteem had shot up. People like Mary and the staff at Farm Colony believed in him, and he knew he couldn’t let them down. To repay them for their belief in his dedication, he had no alternative but to adjust to a life of honest toil. Here was an opportunity to make something of his life. A clean slate. And this time he’d have legitimate references to show any prospective employer.
But by Tuesday afternoon, after slogging round at least half-a-dozen employment agencies, his optimism gave way to a stunned disbelief. Every clerk at every employment agency expressed dismay when he told them his age. At fifty he was too old. Of course, he could have lied, but there didn’t seem much point. He had to face it, he looked his age. Maybe even older. For three days he applied for dozens of jobs at dozens of agencies. But it was the same story wherever he went. They didn’t hold out much hope. Always a polite dismissal: ‘We’ll keep you on our list just in case something comes up. ‘
; Towards the end of the week, the disappointment lay like a stone in his stomach, and his neck ached from where he’d slept awkwardly the night before. Tired and thirsty, after a morning of further rejection, he found himself shambling along 47th Street in Sunnyside, Long Island. He passed the Manufacturers’ Hanover Trust Company Bank and automatically reconnoitered the building, assessed the condition of the roof, weighed up the alarm system, calculated the risks involved. He counted how many people went in and out, saw how busy it was, and walked inside. It was instinct, the way he could photograph everything inside the bank, and remember every detail. The temptation to hit this bank was so stimulating, he began to feel like a different person. Whereas a few minutes ago he had suffered the shoulder-aching depression of a defeated man, now he experienced the challenging surge of power that came from knowing he could successfully rob this bank if he had to.
But he still had other options. And he owed it to Mary’s faith in him to go straight. Shrugging off the temptation to steal, he left the Manufacturers’ Hanover Trust Bank and headed for Prospect Park, Brooklyn.
He carried the jar of money in a brown paper shopping bag, on top of which was a loaf of pumpernickel and some cans of soup. As soon as he got home, he left the soup and pumpernickel on the work surface in the kitchen, and went downstairs to the cellar. He took the mud and clay covered jar from the paper bag, wiped it clean, and tried to unscrew the lid. It wouldn’t budge. He dashed upstairs and ran the jar under the hot tap for several minutes.
He had to hurry. Mary was due back any minute now.
He took a deep breath, braced himself and twisted the lid. The veins on his neck bulged with the strain, and just as he thought he might have to smash the jar, the lid rotated sharply. He rushed back to the cellar, unscrewed the top of the jar, turned it upside down and shook the money out. The bundles that plopped onto the workbench were stuck together and discolored. Years of wet weather had somehow penetrated the jar and the banknotes were ruined. He pried apart some of the bills on the outside of a bundle. Many were useless, but the outer layers had protected the notes in the middle. With some care, attention and infinite patience, maybe he could salvage them.
Hearing footsteps in the hallway, he grabbed the banknotes and stuffed them at the back of the cupboard where all the painting and decorating materials were stored. Then he dashed upstairs. Mary was already at the kitchen sink, filling the kettle.
As he entered, she threw him a sympathetic smile over her shoulder.
‘How did it go today?’ she asked.
‘Still the same old story. Man of my age. Hard to place. Of course, with my Farm Colony references they could find me employment in any New York hospital. But that’s not what I want. ‘
‘What are you going to do, Bill?’
‘I might go into business for myself. Open a small luncheonette or diner. ‘
‘Wouldn’t that be rather costly?’
I’ve saved most of my wages. And I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned it before: I’ve got a relative in Buffalo who’s well-heeled - quite wealthy in fact - he might loan me an interest free sum. ‘
‘That’s wonderful news. Oh Bill! I’m so pleased for you,’ said Mary, breathless with excitement.
Her enthusiasm for his advancement was touching, and he almost felt guilty about lying. But he had no choice. He was still a man on the run, constantly looking over his shoulder, scared of that look of recognition. A man who still owed the state a great deal of his time.
Chapter Twenty Six
November, 1949
THE MANUFACTURERS’ HANOVER TRUST. THE MANUFACTURERS’ HANOVER TRUST kept repeating itself like a litany. He couldn’t get it out of his head. Like a neon sign in his brain. Or a catchy tune playing the same simple bars over and over. Three times he’d been back to Sunnyside in October, thoroughly cased the bank building and had learned everything there was to know about it. If ever he’d seen a vulnerable bank before, this was it. The money was there for the taking.
It was bitterly cold, and the wind blew right through his layers of clothing and chilled his bones. He didn’t dare stand opposite the bank for much longer, in case he drew attention to himself. He walked on, and couldn’t resist looking back over his shoulder. The bank had become an obsession. At night he lay awake, and in his mind’s eye he could see the bank staff arriving. He knew them all by sight, could picture what they were wearing, knew all their routines and habits.
As he walked back towards the El, he thought about Mary, and how happy he was in her house. And the way he was respected at work. These things had to count for something. But he was starting to experience conflicting emotions now. Although he still worked hard, and still devoted much of his time to the ‘guests’ at Farm Colony, his esteem sank under the burden of this treadmill existence. He resented this unskilled service, knowing he was capable of so much more. Only now it was too late. He was stuck with it. Either he could end his days in the routine drudgery of unskilled labor, or rob the Manufacturers’ Hanover Trust and do what he should have done back in 1933 - head for California or Mexico and start a new life.
Now even his relationship with Mary was tenuous. The more he got to know her, the more he realized how one-sided it was. He could never be open with her, as she could with him. Whenever she asked him about his past, he had to lie, and this troubled him. He desperately wanted to lead a normal life. Her brothers, their wives and their children, whenever they visited her, were kind and pleasant to him, but he was always an outsider, and however much he conversed with them, it was always in general terms, for he could reveal very little about himself.
Feeling despondent, and a trifle confused about his purpose in life now, he caught the El and headed for Manhattan, where he was due to meet with Tommy Kling, and another ex-con by the name of John Altieri, who was looking to pull off a bank job.
As he waited for them in a bar on Columbus Avenue, he tried to read the daily paper but his attention span was diminished by the conflict raging inside him. He desperately wanted to stay on the straight and narrow path, but at the same time he could feel the Sunnyside bank calling out to him like a Siren.
Loud talk at the bar about a football game interrupted his thoughts, and he knew they were talking about one of the main stories of the day, about the Army beating the Navy thirty-eight to nil in front of almost a quarter of a million people, including President Truman. This news, which was today’s talk of the town, had escaped Bill’s attention as he struggled to come to terms with why he was meeting another crook.
Because he didn’t like drinking too much, Bill tried to make his beer last by sipping it ever so slowly. He realized it could make him the focus of the bartender’s interest, so he was relieved when Tommy and Altieri arrived. They joined him at his table and he ordered two more beers. As soon as they’d been served, Altieri got straight down to business.
‘The joint we’ve cased is a big bank in Newark,’ he said. ‘It’s a cinch, this one. A cinch. ‘
Although he’d met him only once before, Bill was fascinated by the sibilance in Altieri’s voice, making him sound slightly effeminate. However, his looks were from the tough-guy school, dark and brooding, shifty eyes and a thin scar that ran from a corner of his mouth to his cheekbone.
‘How many staff?’ Bill said.
Altieri hesitated before speaking. He knew what Bill was driving at.
‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I’ve got some real good men on this job. ‘
‘That wasn’t the question, John. How many staff at this bank?’
‘Seventeen,’ Altieri replied after another slight hesitation.
‘I know what you’re thinking, Bill,’ said Tommy Kling. ‘Lot of staff are hard to keep in order. That’s why John plans on using at least five men on this job. John, you, me and two other guys. ‘
Altieri, who’d been staring intently at Bill,
clicked his fingers.
‘It’s been bothering me since the first time we met. Now I know where I’ve seen you before. You’re Willie the Actor. ‘
Bill didn’t like what he was hearing. He didn’t altogether trust Altieri, although Tommy assured him he was a regular guy.
‘Sure,’ Bill said, lowering his voice. ‘And I’ve spent twenty years of my life behind bars. Not exactly a success. Why would you want to work with someone like me?’
Bill had already made his mind up that he wasn’t going to work with Altieri. But he needed some sort of trade-off, in case the ex-con felt bitter about being turned down.
Before Altieri could reply, Bill said, ‘Look, I’ve got this bank I’ve been casing, over in Sunnyside. Less than half the staff of your Newark Bank. Three men could take it easily. And Sunnyside’s a prosperous area. How about it?’
Altieri glanced at Tommy for his opinion.
‘Believe me,’ said Tommy. ‘Bill knows his stuff. ‘
‘Why don’t we go back to Tommy’s room?’ Bill suggested. ‘I can take you through every detail of the Sunnyside bank. But one thing I want you to understand. I won’t be in on the job. ‘
‘Why would you go to all this trouble, casing the joint and everything, just to hand over details like this?’