Sutton (20 page)

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 pants, 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.