Sutton (29 page)

All at once Dahlia starts to cry.

Dahlia, honey. What’s wrong?

I know, Willie.

Know what?

I
know
.

She turns from the window. About Marcus, she says.

Ah fuck, he thinks. What about Marcus? he says.

Tears roll down her cheeks, undulating over her moles. Please, Willie. When a girl looks like me, she can’t afford to be stupid.

Willie says nothing. For the moment silence is the smartest play he can think of.

You’re going to pretend you don’t know, Dahlia says, sobbing. That Marcus, that Marcus, that Marcus is
seeing
someone.

Willie sighs with relief. Ah Dahlia, that’s ridiculous.

Then why is Marcus, a dyed-in-the-wool mope, all of a sudden so confident?

Willie thinks back. He’s lectured Marcus many times at the Automat about confidence. Whatever you do, do it from your nuts. Apparently Willie has created a monster.

Dahlia, he says, I’m sure Marcus is acting confident because he’s writing again. He told me so himself. The words are flowing. He’s not having an affair. Marcus loves you. He’s thrilled about being a new father. He’s just feeling—good. About his life. His work. You.

Dahlia wipes her eyes, looks at her belly. Really?

Yeah. Sure.

I want to believe you.

You can, you can. I never lie about love. I never even kid about it. It’s much too important.

She laughs through her tears. All right, Willie. All right. Thanks. Hearing that makes me feel better.

He goes to her, puts his hands on her shoulders. He gives her his new phone number, tells her to call him if she has any troubles or doubts. Day or night.

Marcus returns. He mixes the martinis and Willie drinks two. Then Dahlia serves the dinner. Roast pork. Dry, burnt. Willie’s glad when it’s time to go. He wants a glass of bicarbonate and his bed. He tells Marcus to walk him out, he needs a word.

At the corner he asks Marcus how much Dahlia knows about their work. Marcus looks hangdog.

Christ, Marcus. Everything?

She’s my wife, Willie.

Willie nods. Then tells Marcus about his conversation with Dahlia.

She thinks you’re cheating, Marcus. So you need to be better to her. Pay more attention to her. Especially since she knows everything about our—thing. You mustn’t give her any reason to seek revenge.

I am.

You are what?

Cheating on her.

Willie covers his eyes. Holy Mother of God.

I’ve met the love of my life, Willie. She’s from St. Louis. A true midwestern gal. Wholesome. But kind of naughty too. She likes me to spank her. Can you imagine, Willie? Spank her. She had a falling-out with her family, I guess, and she moved to the East Coast, and she was selling dances to stay afloat. Until she met me.

Willie takes off his fedora, wipes his brow.

The things she says in bed, Willie, you can’t imagine. She’s from the Soulard neighborhood. That’s one of the oldest parts of St. Louis.

Has Marcus lost his mind? Lighting a cigarette, taking the deepest possible drag, Willie stares at the tip. It looks brighter than normal, like a drop of blood.

We met at Roseland, Marcus is saying. I’ll never forget our first dance.
I’m Good For Nothing But Love
.

Again, stunningly irrelevant information. Willie and Marcus keep walking, and Marcus keeps talking. They stop under a streetlight on Seventy-Ninth. Willie feels as if he can’t take one more step. He reaches into his breast pocket, fondles the strychnine. This is all very bad news, Marcus.

Relax, Willie, I’ve got it under control.

Sure you do. Sure. Control. Look, Marcus, I don’t care who you love, or who you bed, but Dahlia must be kept happy, do you understand? Dahlia’s happiness comes first. Dahlia’s happiness is essential to our happiness. My happiness.

Marcus nods.

Keep your taxi dancer well out of sight, Willie says.

Millicent.

What?

Her name’s Millicent. I can’t wait for you to meet her.

Willie glares, flicks his cigarette into the gutter, walks off.

Days later Willie gets a call. Dahlia. She’s hyperventilating. She found a batch of letters written on Marcus’s new Underwood.

Letters? To who?

Marcus’s
whore
.

If they’re to her, how did you find them?

They’re
carbons
.

Willie puts his palm over his mouth. Carbons.

Willie, you said you never lie about love. But you did. You
lied
. You and Marcus
both
need to be in jail.

Jail? Dahlia, honey, what’re you saying? You’re jumping to conclusions. Let’s talk this over. I can explain.

So explain.

Not on the phone. Meet me at the Childs restaurant in the Ansonia. Believe me, things are not what they seem. One hour. Childs. Please?

She hangs up without answering.

He arrives early. Dahlia is already there. She’s sitting at a small table in the back, next to the kitchen, wearing a dreadful dress and a felt skullcap that looks like a leather football helmet. Willie kisses her on the cheek, drops his hat on the table. He orders a slice of pie and a cup of coffee for each of them, sits directly across from her.

How you feeling, Dahlia?

Baby’s kicking like crazy this morning. Like he’s trying to get out.

Know just how he feels, Willie thinks. Now, Dahlia, he says, those letters.

The waitress brings their pie and coffee. He waits for her to go away.

Yes? Dahlia says.

It’s so simple, Dahlia. The novel, Dahlia. Marcus’s novel.

The novel.

Sure. Those letters are from Marcus’s novel. Obviously it’s a novel in the form of letters. They call it an epistolary novel.

Oh
please
.

Sure, sure, those letters are nothing more than passages from a work in progress. It’s laughable, really. I can understand why you thought—

But he
signed
them, Willie. With his own name.

Well, fine, Marcus has probably taken some true incidents from his romantic past, old affairs and so forth, and twisted them into a mix of fact and fiction. Writers do it all the time.

You’re saying there’s no taxi dancer named Millicent? From Soulard?

Willie eats a forkful of pie. Of course there’s a Millicent, he says. But she doesn’t come from Soulard. She comes from the fevered mind of Marcus Bassett. Your husband. Father of your unborn child.

He goes on at length about Marcus’s literary aspirations, about how much words and books mean to Marcus, to both of them. He talks about bumping into Marcus on the steps of the library, about how they both took refuge there in bad times. The more credible he sounds, the more despicable he feels. He was telling the truth the other night when he said that he never lies about love. He feels something in his throat, his gut, something he hasn’t felt in a long time. Conscience, remorse, guilt, he doesn’t have a word for it.

You swear, Dahlia says. You swear to me that those letters are fiction.

I swear.

Because if you’re lying—a second time—after swearing you never would—I’d actually enjoy turning you in.

Turning me—what are you saying, Dahlia?

I know what you and Marcus have been up to
.

Honey, please, keep your voice down.

Your—spree!

Sssh.

Willie is wearing a high stiff collar and a flowered necktie and he feels them both getting tighter. He looks nervously around the restaurant. People are staring. He leans across the table. My hand to almighty God, he whispers, Marcus is not cheating on you.

Dahlia fishes a tissue from her purse. She touches the tissue to her nose, then wads it into a ball, as if she wants to throw it at Willie. From his breast pocket Willie removes his linen handkerchief, extends it to her. She takes it, dabs her eyes. Her face softens. I’m sorry for that outburst, she says.

They sit in silence for several minutes. Abruptly she stands. Her chair scrapes, almost tips over. Thanks for meeting me, Willie.

Don’t go. Finish your pie.

No. Thank you. I’ve taken up too much of your time already. I know you don’t have much—time.

Willie hesitates, stands. Dahlia kisses him on the cheek, walks out. Willie sits back down, asks for the check. He eats another forkful of pie and the restaurant goes sideways. Four, six, eight cops come banging out of the kitchen, knocking Willie out of his chair. They pin him to the linoleum floor, cuff him. There isn’t time to go for the strychnine. He hopes poor Marcus has time to go for his.

Photographer aims a finger gun at Sutton. What a trip, Willie. It just hit me, I think. You, about our age, packing heat, knocking over banks, jewelry stores. What a trip
.

Shit, Reporter says
.

What?

Over there. Channel 11
.

A camera truck slams to a stop across the street. A young man with a tall Afro leaps out and sprints toward them, a TV camera on his shoulder. Reporter pushes Sutton into the backseat of the Polara and he and Photographer jump into the front seat. As they roar away Sutton looks out the back window: The young man is standing where they were standing, holding his camera like a suitcase, cursing and huffing like a man who just missed a train
.

Photographer and Reporter howl, slap palms
. That
was
close,
Reporter says
.

How the hell did Channel 11 find us?

I’m sure they were just driving along. Crime of opportunity
.

If my editor sees Willie Sutton on TV—

Relax. The guy didn’t get off a shot. He never even turned on his light
.

Reporter glances over his shoulder. I hope I didn’t hurt you back there, Mr. Sutton
.

Nah kid. Nah. Felt like we were dancing. And it was a good lid-lifter for our next stop
.

FIFTEEN

Willie lies on the backseat, hands cuffed behind his back. Two enormous cops fill up the front seat. The big one at the wheel chews an unlit cigar, the bigger one riding shotgun crams four sticks of Juicy Fruit into a freakishly small mouth. We got your partner, Bigger Cop says over his shoulder. Case you was wonderin.

I don’t have any partner, Willie says.

You don’t know John Marcus Bassett? Big Cop says.

Never heard of him.

His wife’s the homely gal you was just havin pie and coffee with.

You don’t say.

And Bassett sure as hell knows you. He’s givin detectives your autobiography right this minute.

Then he’s deranged. I tell you we’ve never met.

That’s why you was with his wife.

She told me she was single.

You mean to say you were
makin
that broad.

That a crime?

Could be. Did you get a look atter?

She’s a good person.

She looks like Lon Chaney. And she’s in a family way.

That mean she’s off the market?

Big Cop laughs, removes his unlit cigar, turns to Bigger Cop. This guy’s a riot.

They pull up to 240 Centre Street, a French Baroque palace with statues and columns and a great big dome on top. Like some kind of Cop Vatican, Willie thinks, looking over the building. Popes and cops—they certainly think a lot of themselves.

On either side of the front door is a white stone lion. Ah the library—what Willie wouldn’t give to be there right now. Just inside the front door a dozen cops in blue greatcoats stand around a high wooden desk. They greet Big Cop and Bigger Cop and congratulate them on the nice collar. One eyes Willie. Hope you enjoy your stay at the Centre Street Arms, he says—you probably won’t need a wake-up call. They all roar with laughter, the fattest one haw-hawing so hard that he gets winded.

Big Cop and Bigger Cop drag Sutton into a blindingly bright room and stand him on a stage along with six other men. Heistmen, petermen, yeggs—Willie’s colleagues. A group of civilians walks in. Bank employees. Willie recognizes them. They stand downstage, squinting up at him. He slouches, averts his eyes.

Sorry, they tell Big Cop and Bigger Cop. None of these men looks familiar.

Willie’s costumes, his makeup and mustaches, it all worked.

Now in walks Porter.

Recognize any of these men? Bigger Cop says, inserting another stick of Juicy Fruit.

Porter scans the group, left to right. Yes.

Go on up and place your hand on the shoulder of any man you recognize.

Porter walks onstage, stands before each man. Making a little show of it. At last he comes to Willie. He stands with his nose inches from Willie’s. Willie can smell his bay rum. Also the Stroganoff he had for lunch. Porter looks straight into Willie’s eyes, three seconds. Four. He sets his hand on Willie’s shoulder, turns to the cops. This man, he says. Then he turns away from the cops and cracks a smile only Willie can see. Name’s Charlie, he says. Robber.

Big Cop and Bigger Cop take Willie into a side room with one metal table, one metal chair. Bigger Cop cuffs Willie’s wrists behind his back. Big Cop pushes Willie into the chair. They stand on either side of him.

Bassett sang, Bigger Cop says.

I keep telling you, Willie says, I don’t know who that is.

Bassett confessed to everythin, Big Cop says. He’d confess to working with Sacco and Vanzetti if we lettim, so it’s over, Sutton, help yourself.

Bigger Cop rattles off details only Marcus could know. Banks, costumes, exact dollar amounts. Also, a complete inventory of Rosenthal and Sons. Willie shudders. Poor Marcus. They must have given him some beating.

Big Cop mentions the sixty thousand Willie got for Rosenthal and Sons, but he doesn’t mention Dutch, because Willie never told Marcus about Dutch. Thank God. It’s Dutch the cops want, Willie can tell. They have a suspicion. There aren’t too many off men in New York who could handle that size haul. They scent big game, and they think Willie can lead them to it.

Sorry fellas, Willie says. There must be come confusion. Marcus is a writer. He must have told you the plot of the novel he’s working on.